The morning wind shifted violently, tearing over the crest of the lush green hill with a sudden, icy precision that set the sea of lavender and yellow daisies into a chaotic, thrashing motion. It was July 7, 1300. The sun was a blinding, white-hot coin mounted high in the Terre sky, its unyielding glare baking the damp soil and bringing a heavy, suffocating heat that made the air shimmer above the valley floor. Deep within the grass, wild crickets clicked and buzzed like frantic clockwork, their small bodies vibrating under the increasing heat of the midsummer morning. Below, the silken Thromium river cuts a dark, glassy line through the landscape, its bustling banks populated by the distant, tiny shapes of wooden cargo barges moving north of the Palantine Heilop.
Aldo stood perfectly still near the edge of the slope. His fair skin showed no trace of sweat despite the mounting heat, his well-proportioned frame balanced with mechanical grace on the uneven dirt. He reached into his high-collared red jacket with a smooth, unhurried hand and extracted a folded parchment—a letter that had arrived through a local messenger just before dawn.
His dull, dead-fish eyes scanned the elegant, sloping ink strokes with a total absence of expression, his rosy lips flat and tight.
"Isabetta de' Rossi is absent", Aldo noted mentally, his internal monologue functioning with the cold speed of a ledger. "The third day of the geographical survey is compromised due to unstated localized obligations. She pledges the eighth day as a compensatory labor unit to fulfill the seven-day contractual agreement. The delay is inefficient, but the parameters remain within the baseline margin of error."
Aldo folded the letter precisely along its original creases, sliding it back into his pocket with a dry rustle. He turned his head slowly, his vacant gaze falling upon the three other Earthlings who were lounging in the grass—all of them summoned to this alien world of Terre, bound by the invisible chains of the Mikhland Federation's military apparatus.
"Isabetta will not arrive today," Aldo announced. His voice was a flat, level drone that cut clean through the whistling wind. "She is occupied with external matters for the third day of the Gala. She will extend her service to the eighth day to complete the seven-day regional survey."
"Not coming?"
Hano Kichiro jumped up from a thick patch of clover. His agile body twitched with restless energy, his sharp, hyperactive eyes scanning the horizon instantly as if looking for a target. He kicked a loose pebble down the path, his hands—smooth as fresh sheets of paper and entirely devoid of callouses despite the brutal battles of the past months—thrust deep into his pockets. "Great. Just great. We're stuck out here under a burning sun with nothing but a mountain of brass gear and a river full of manure barges. What are we supposed to do now, stare at the grass until our eyes rot?"
Onaga Kei sighed from his perch on a nearby flat stone. His small, delicate frame looked fragile under the vast sky, his smooth, unblemished skin flushed slightly pink from the morning heat. Resting his chin on his knees, his brow furrowed into a soft, curious frown as his fingers traced the hem of his pristine tunic.
"I wonder what could possibly keep her so busy in a medieval town during the middle of a festival," Onaga murmured, his tone breathy and light. "Do you think her father's workshop had an emergency inspection from the local guild masters?"
A loud, booming laugh cut him off as Bertrand Comtois hauled his massive frame off the turf. Standing a full three inches taller than Aldo, he loomed over the smaller Onaga, stretching his broad shoulders until his smooth, unscarred arms flexed tightly against his uniform. Despite his imposing build, his wide face carried a permanently mischievous, goofy expression.
"Who cares about the guild masters?" Comtois smirked, winking down at Onaga. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated with sheer confidence. "If the girl isn't here to draw her little maps, we might as well do some real reconnaissance. I've been looking through the local trade records we seized last month. Just over the next ridge is the Pauma mine. It's got a massive silver reserve hidden deep in the rock. If we scout the location now, we know exactly where the wealth is when the system starts to crack."
Without waiting for a consensus, Comtois turned on his heel and began marching down the northern slope, his long strides tearing through the wild daisies with a careless, independent momentum.
Hano glanced at Aldo, a sharp grin breaking across his hyperactive face. "He's just going to do things his own way like always," Hano chuckled. With a sudden, spring-loaded leap, he bounded after the large youth. "Come on, Aldo! Let's see what the big ox is looking for!"
Onaga sighed softly, pushing himself up from the rock and fastidiously brushing the dust from his trousers before following. Aldo remained at the rear. His well-proportioned stride was steady and unhurried, his dead-fish eyes tracking the three figures ahead of him as they moved through the dense brush toward the jagged gray limestone cliffs that marked the edge of the hill.
As they trekked along the narrow, winding dirt path, the forest around them thickened. Giant, twisted oaks with dark, leather-like leaves blocked out the sun, casting long, fractured shadows across the forest floor. The ground grew damp here, smelling of rotting wood, wet moss, and something else—a faint, chemical tang that made Hano's nose twitch.
Comtois slowed his pace slightly, allowing Aldo to catch up until he was walking directly beside the red-suited commander. He nudged Aldo's shoulder with his massive elbow, his goofy face turning surprisingly intense as he leaned in.
"Hey, Aldo," Comtois whispered loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet space between the trees. "You've been quiet for three days straight. When are you going to sit down and finally write the Manifesto? We need the words, man. We need the theory written down on paper before the companies start moving."
Aldo didn't look at him. His rosy lips remained firmly closed, his dead-fish eyes fixed straight ahead on the path. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.
Hano turned around, seamlessly walking backward with effortless, agile balance as he winks at the commander. "Oh, come on, Comtois!" Hano laughed, his voice sharp and teasing. "You really think our glorious Taichou-sama is just going to scribble down a revolution manifesto while we're walking through the mud? Maybe he's composing it in his head right now! Give him some peace!"
"He's right, Comtois," Onaga chipped in from behind, a soft, amused smile playing on his delicate lips. "Aldo probably wants to format it perfectly with bullet points and three different indexes before he lets any of us read it. You can't rush a bureaucratic mastermind."
Aldo's expression remained completely frozen, his smooth skin reflecting nothing of their jests.
Then, the path snapped to a sharp bend along the cliffside. The playful Chapter banter died instantly.
The trees cleared out to reveal a deep, yawning cave entrance embedded in a dark corner of the limestone hill. The light cut thin and sharp against the mouth of the Pauma mine. The air here was instantly cold, carrying a metallic, suffocating stench of iron ore, stale sweat, and damp earth. A low, continuous draft moaned from the depths of the black tunnel, making the low brush around the entrance rattle like dry bones.
Comtois suddenly froze, his massive hand shooting out like a piston to halt Hano. His goofy smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, primitive focus.
Spread across the gravel at the entrance of the cave was the motionless body of a Federation mine guard. His iron breastplate was deeply dented, and his long spear lay cracked in half beside his limp hand. He was completely knocked unconscious, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
A few yards inside the shadows of the tunnel, a rustle of movement broke the silence.
A young woman stood over a pile of iron crates. Her hands were trembling violently as she gripped a crude, heavy iron pickaxe. The moment her eyes registered the four young men standing in the bright sunlight, a look of sheer, animalistic panic flashed across her face. With a sharp, metallic clatter, she dropped the heavy tool onto the stones and ducked behind a wooden support beam, her figure vanishing into the dark.
"Movement," Hano whispered, his voice dropping an octave, all hyperactivity vanishing into pure military conditioning.
Before they could advance, a low, collective growl echoed from the tunnel depths. Five more figures—clothed in the tattered, grey linen shifts of Earthling miners—charged out from the shadows. Their faces were smudged with black charcoal and silver dust. They raised crude iron shovels, jagged rocks, and heavy wooden wedges into a desperate, trembling defensive stance, their eyes wide with the terror of cornered beasts.
Onaga instantly leaped forward, his small hands raised high in the air. His delicate, smooth face was completely open, filled with an urgent, reassuring softness. "Wait! Stop!" Onaga cried out, his breathy voice echoing off the stone walls. "Please, don't strike! We're not bad guys! We aren't here to hurt you!"
The girl who had dropped the pickaxe slowly stepped out from behind the wooden beam. Her face was sharp, with high, prominent cheekbones that gave her a rugged, fiercely defiant appearance. Her dark brown eyes, which might have once been deeply expressive and full of life, were now entirely cold and vigilant—holding a distant, unyielding gaze that seemed to look straight through them.
She was tall, her muscular, rugged frame standing nearly eye-to-eye with Aldo. Her skin was unblemished by scars but thick with real muscle born of hard labor, contrasting sharply with the boys' flawless complexions. Her dark hair was cut short to her chin with a crude, blunt blade, the uneven strands matted with black charcoal dust so they didn't cover her fierce face.
She took three slow, deliberate steps into the dim light of the cave mouth. Her gaze swept over their immaculate red uniforms, their smooth, uncalloused hands, and their clean, healthy skin. Her lip curled into a look of deep, bitter recognition.
"Don't listen to the pretty boy!" she shouted, her voice a harsh, raspy bark that caused the miners behind her to tighten their grips on their iron wedges. "Look at their coats! Look at their hands! Earth miners, be on your guard! These aren't random travelers—they're Slave-Soldiers!"
The miners stirred, a collective gasp rippling through the dark tunnel.
"And not just any conscripts..." she spat, her eyes locking onto their lapels. "Look at the collar insignias. They're from the 204th and 205th Companies. The very same butchers who wiped out the entire rebellion of Earth proletarians in the Erikas sector!"
Onaga's stomach instantly tightened with a sickening wave of unease. His face turned incredibly pale, his delicate fingers clenching into fists against his thighs as the memory of the Erikas campaign flashed through his mind.
She knows, Onaga thought, his internal monologue twisting with a sudden, suffocating guilt. She knows exactly what the companies did in the north. The blood from that valley is still fresh, and now they look at us like we're monsters.
Hano remained completely silent, his hyperactive energy instantly freezing into a dangerous, coiled stillness. His sharp eyes fixed on the crude weapons in the miners' hands, his agile feet shifting into a perfect combat stance without a single sound. Aldo stood beside him, his dead-fish eyes vacant and blank as he began to analyze the structural dynamics of the situation, trying to comprehend the exact timeline of this localized miner resistance.
Comtois, completely unfazed by the tension, let out a cheerful chuckle and stepped right into the space between the two groups, his massive arms extended in a wide, goofy gesture of greeting. "Ah, come on, brothers and sisters!" Comtois laughs, his voice boisterous and confident. "There's no need for all this—"
Thwack!
A heavy, jagged limestone rock flew out from the darkness of the tunnel, striking Comtois square in the chest. The force of the blow cut his breath short, knocking the massive youth off his feet and sending him crashing flat onto his back against the rough gravel with a loud, dusty oof.
"Comtois!" Onaga gasped, but before anyone could move, Comtois was already rolling over.
He pushed himself up, his goofy face flushing red with an assertive, irritated anger. He pointed a thick, smooth finger at the miners, cursing loudly as he brushed the white limestone dust from his chest. "Why the hell are you all being so damn hostile?!" Comtois barked, his voice booming with absolute indignation. "We're all Earthlings here! We all came from the same damn planet!"
He stared at the girl with the high cheekbones, his eyes narrowing as a mischievous grin suddenly broke through his anger. He stood up to his full, muscular height, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"Ah ha! I see what's going on here," Comtois smirks, his tone dripping with self-satisfied deduction. "You lots were planning a full-scale mine rebellion today, weren't you? And we just happened to stumble right into your little hornets' nest and discover you. Well, don't worry your ugly heads! We won't say a single word to the Federation garrison. Let's just be friends, alright?"
The girl's expression became even more dangerously serious. Her distant, cold gaze remained locked on the four youths, her fingers slowly sliding down to the leather sheath at her waist.
With a lightning-fast, fluid motion, she drew a long, heavy hunting knife, the steel flashing with a dull, lethal gray in the cave shadow. Her shoulder dropped as she prepared to lunge straight at Comtois's throat, her body moving with the raw, desperate speed of a seasoned guerrilla.
"Get back!" she screamed, her voice cracking with pure fury.
Before her blade could even clear the air, the boys' military conditioning took over. They moved not as teenagers, but as a singular, automated machine.
Aldo's well-proportioned frame moved with incredible, silent precision. He stepped directly into her line of attack, his smooth hand shooting out like a steel clamp to intercept her wrist mid-air. Simultaneously, Hano ducked beneath her extended elbow, his agile fingers locking her arm from behind to paralyze her leverage, while Onaga grabbed her opposite shoulder, using his weight to throw her completely off balance. Comtois swept in from the side, his massive, muscular hand closing over the hilt of the hunting knife and ripping it from her grip with a single, effortless jerk.
In a fraction of a second, the three boys had her pinned flat against a wooden support beam. She was entirely immobilized, her breath coming in ragged, furious gasps as she struggled against their collective, ironclad hold.
Comtois stepped back, turning the heavy knife over in his smooth palms, a look of genuine admiration returning to his goofy face.
"Damn, this is a nice blade," Comtois complimented, running his thumb along the smooth steel. "Balanced perfectly. See? Now we really just want to be friends..."
"Let go of me, you corporate pigs!" the girl screamed, twisting violently within their grip as she looked back toward the terrified miners in the tunnel. "Run! Hide in the deep shafts! Leave me alone! Don't let them take you alive!"
Aldo bent down slightly, bringing his face down until his dull, dead-fish eyes were perfectly aligned with her distant, raging gaze. His smooth skin was mere inches from hers, his rosy lips moving with an absolute, chilling calm.
"Calm your respirations," Aldo said, his voice a level, robotic murmur. "We have no intention of reporting this structural anomaly to the Federation. We are currently executing a long-term plan for a revolution."
Comtois immediately stepped forward, thrusting the hunting knife into his own belt as he grins wildly. "That's right!" Comtois declared proudly, his voice booming. "A PROLETARIAN REVOLUTION!"
Hano let out a sharp, irritated hiss, his hand still holding her left wrist firmly. "Nobody is talking about a proletarian revolution, you idiot!" Hano barks at Comtois, his sharp eyes flashing. "Don't just make up political theory on the fly! Shut your mouth!"
Aldo ignored the bickering, his vacant gaze remaining fixed on the girl's face. "A REPUBLICAN REVOLUTION," Aldo emphasized coldly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Onaga let out a loud, colorful scoff from the side, his hand relaxing slightly on her shoulder as he rolled his eyes toward the cave ceiling. "Oh, please, Aldo," Onaga grumbles, his voice dripping with light mockery. "We haven't even agreed on whether we're establishing a democratic republic or a socialist collective yet, and you're already giving speeches to the locals. Let's handle the immediate security crisis first."
The girl's furious struggling suddenly ceased.
Her muscular frame went entirely rigid against the wooden beam, her high cheekbones twitching as she stared at the four flawless, unblemished faces before her. A look of deep, profound confusion washed over her dark eyes. The sheer absurdity of her situation—being held in an inescapable tactical hold by four bickering, immaculate children debating political theory—seemed to break her brain.
Her gaze dropped to their smooth, teenage hands.
"What..." she whispered, her raspy voice turning sharp with a sudden, trembling disbelief. "How old are you boys? How old are you even supposed to be?"
"Fourteen," Comtois said simply.
The girl's eyes widened, her gaze darting from Comtois's blankly cheerful face to Aldo's dead-fish eyes. For a second, the cave was dead silent save for the whistling wind.
Then, a sharp, breathless sound escaped her throat. It wasn't a sob; it was a laugh. A short, hollow laugh that sounded like a dry bone snapping in the wind.
"Fourteen," she echoed, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. "Fourteen years old, playing dress-up in company red, arguing over textbooks like schoolboys while you hold a knife to a dead woman's throat. A 'republican revolution'? A 'proletarian uprising'? You children don't even know what the dirt tastes like yet."
She stopped resisting completely, her muscular frame going limp as her head fell back against the wooden beam. The fire in her eyes didn't die, but it curdled into a mixture of bitter pity and ancient, heavy rage.
"You think you're masterminds because you can swing a weapon and recite political theory," she whispered, her raspy voice dropping into a cold, hollow register. "But the Federation doesn't care about your indexes or your manifestos. They break children just as easily as they break rocks. My name is Lourdes Renaud. Five years ago, when I was nineteen—after surviving three brutal winters of forced agricultural slavery on the southern estates—I spoke just like you. I had a grand plan. I led them. And I failed completely."