Heavy drops of rain crash through the thick, multi-layered canopy of the Formasia forest, transforming the ancient woodland into a wall of dark water and churning grey mud.
It is July 21, 1300. The sky above is the color of bruised iron. Water cascades off the wide oak leaves in heavy, continuous streams, hammering against iron helmets, leather jerkins, and the canvas covers of heavy supply wagons. The forest floor has turned into a brown, bubbling slurry that swallows boots up to the ankles and threatens to stall every wooden wheel attempting to pass through.
Through this torrential downpour, patrols of soldiers move in strict, disciplined formations of four. Clad in rain-slicked chainmail and blackened steel breastplates, they advance through the underbrush with deliberate, cautious steps. Each squad of four covers a ninety-degree arc, providing mutual support as their boots sink into the sodden soil. Rain streaks down the length of their weapons—sharp steel tips of long spears, heavy iron-framed crossbows wrapped in greased oilcloth, dark wooden stocks of matchlock muskets, and broad hunting knives strapped to wet leather belts. Their eyes scan every hollow trunk, every thicket of briars, and every mist-filled ravine, searching every corner of the woods surrounding Officer Watkins' main camp.
Further down the supply trail, a very different kind of labor is unfolding.
Four slave-soldiers—Aldo, Comtois, Onaga, and Hano—are tasked with the backbreaking effort of moving the central logistics convoy. Stacked high on wooden flatbed carriages are heavy, cubic wooden crates, each weighing between thirty and forty kilograms. These rough-hewn oak boxes are packed to the brim with essential war material: salted rations, dry clothing, thick wool socks, spare armor plates, iron bolts, black powder kegs, lead shot, and sealed oak casks of drinking water.
To protect the cargo from the relentless deluge, thick canvas covers are stretched taut across wooden hoops over the carriages, lashed down with heavy hemp rope. The first four carriages are pulled by sturdy draught horses, hired personally by Aldo using meticulous logbook credits, driven by a handful of soaked, miserable military conscripts.
Comtois rides along the flank of the convoy, sitting atop a small, stubborn grey donkey that trudges through the mud with its long ears flattened back against its skull. Comtois wears a rain-soaked wool cloak wrapped tight over his leather armor. In his belt sits a carved wooden practice sword, while his primary weapons—a heavy flintlock pistol tucked into an oiled holster and a long, sharp-tipped iron spear—rest across his saddlebow.
Hano and Onaga form the primary "Cargo Loading" detail alongside several conscripts, their shoulders bruised and purple from heaving thirty-kilogram crates up into the carriage beds. Their clothes are plastered to their skin with mud and sweat, their breath forming faint white plumes in the chilly summer rain.
Standing at the very front of the lead carriage, holding a wide, oil-treated wooden umbrella over his head, is Aldo. As the appointed head of the El Gante logistics unit, his title essentially means one thing: he is the man responsible for every crate, every horse, every nail, and every silver piece spent on this road.
Aldo shifts his footing, placing one muddy boot firmly on the outer wooden frame of the moving carriage. He stands tall and straight, his gaze sweeping over the convoy behind him like an admiral inspecting a fleet.
"Four cargo carriages and one passenger carriage—that's efficient and fast," Aldo says, his voice cutting through the roar of the downpour. "Ten men in the fifth carriage; if the enemy pursues, the four cargo carriages will remain intact."
Comtois wipes a streak of muddy water from his eyes with his sleeve and cup his hands around his mouth, shouting over the rhythmic splashing of hooves. "Hano! What did Aldo just say?"
Hano doesn't answer immediately; he is bent double behind the second wagon, pushing against a rear wheel with his entire body weight as it grinds out of a rut. He spits a mouthful of rainwater onto the mud and glares up toward the front.
Comtois turns his donkey toward the lead carriage, gesturing wildly with his wooden sword. "Aldo! Why do the carriages use horses while I and the guards have to use donkeys? The horses ride on corduroys while I have to walk on muddy roads!"
Aldo doesn't even turn his head. His eyes remain fixed on the winding log road ahead. "Efficiency, efficiency!" Aldo calls back coldly. "The cargo crates must be treated with care."
Hano staggers away from the wheel, resting his heavy forearms on Onaga's wet shoulder for support. His legs tremble from exertion. "What about our lives?" Hano pants, wiping his soaked brow.
Aldo glances down over his shoulder at Hano and Onaga, his expression completely blank. "If only Watkins had given me more resources and money, it would have been better; unfortunately, he didn't."
Hano lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "How harsh!"
Aldo adjusts his grip on the wooden umbrella, his eyes scanning the dense line of pine trees bordering the trail. "Come on, no goblins or communist-screaming Russians have appeared yet. Take it easy."
He stands proudly on the edge of the rattling wagon, his balance effortlessly adjusting to every bump and shift of the timber road, looking like a statutory monument framed by rain and trees.
Suddenly, the dense foliage at the forest edge snaps.
A massive, shadowy form bursts through the thickets of ferns. A Giant Spider, easily the size of a carriage wheel, lunges onto the embankment. Its dark, hairy limbs clatter against the wet stones, its cluster of black compound eyes gleaming through the dark sheets of rain as its dripping mandibles click violently together.
Before the beast can drop onto the lead horse, Comtois reacts. He grips his spear with his right hand and draws his heavy flintlock with his left.
"Fire!" Comtois roars.
The donkey-riding guards behind him instantly raise their matchlocks and crossbows. A sharp, thunderous volley of gunfire and snapping bowstrings cuts through the sound of the storm. Plumes of white gunpowder smoke explode into the rain, instantly flattened by the downpour. Iron bolts and lead balls slam directly into the spider's thick chitinous chest and multi-jointed legs.
The spider shrieks—a high, wet hiss—and recoils. A second volley from the guards follows immediately. Two more lead balls crush its head-segment, sending the massive arachnid collapsing onto its side, its eight long legs curling inward as it twitches in the mud.
Comtois reeins in his donkey, his face lighting up with excitement as he points his wooden sword at the twitching carcass. "Aldo! Can I run over there and loot that spider?"
Aldo stops the lead horse with a quick tug of the reins, leaning over the carriage rail to look at the fallen monster. "Either you pick it quickly or I forbid you," Aldo answers flatly.
Aldo raises a hand high above his head. "Let's stop for a moment!"
The whole caravan grinding to a halt. Wooden brakes squeal against wet wheels, and horses snort, sending clouds of steam into the rain.
Hano throws his hands up in absolute disbelief, his voice rising into a frustrated yell. "You're stopping because of a dead spider?!"
Comtois waves a dismissive hand toward Hano as he swings his leg over his donkey. "Calm down! I'll treat you to a drink with whatever we get later!"
Comtois drops off his donkey, dropping down onto all fours to keep his footing on the slippery mud slope. He scrambles up the bank, grabs the heavy, bristling leg of the dead spider, and drags the massive carcass sliding down through the mud straight to the side of Aldo's carriage. He dumps it near the rear wheel, scrambles back up the slope, jumps onto his donkey, and takes his position in line.
"Move on!" Aldo commands, tapping the horse driver's shoulder.
The caravan begins moving forward once more, its wooden wheels rolling steadily over the corduroy logs.
As the carriage moves, Aldo drops to his knees on the flatbed bed, pulling a short, razor-sharp skinning knife from his belt. His hands move with frightening, surgical speed and dexterity. With precise, practiced cuts, he slice into the spider's abdomen, pulling out long, unbroken strands of glistening raw spider silk and coiling them neatly into an oilskin pouch. Next, he inserts his blade along the joints of the thorax, peeling away broad, undamaged plates of thick chitinous shell.
Without pausing to wipe the clear, greenish fluid from his fingers, Aldo cuts into the creature's head cavity, carefully severing the optic nerves to extract all eight shiny, dark compound eyes intact. Finally, he dissects the deep internal organs, extracting the precious silk-producing glands and venom sacs without spilling a single drop of liquid onto the carriage floor. He packs each harvested component into separate leather bags, tying them with tight cord.
Once the carcass is completely stripped down to a useless, hollow husk, Aldo wipes his blade on a rag, grabs his leather pack, and stands up on the moving wagon frame.
With a powerful leap, Aldo springs off the edge of the carriage, his boots catching the thick lower branch of an oak tree. He swings himself upward, scrambling into the high tree canopy, and vanishes completely into the dense, rain-soaked foliage.
Onaga's mouth drops wide open, his eyes fixed on the empty branches where Aldo had been standing a second before.
Did he just jump into the canopy with thirty kilos of gear?
Hano stares up at the trees with a deep, heavy frown, his shoulders slumping. "Where the hell is he going now?"
High above the mud, Aldo moves like a shadow through the upper branches of the Formasia forest. He runs along thick limbs, leaps across open gaps in the canopy, and descends near a main stone road half a mile ahead.
Through the trees, a wealthy merchant caravan passes by under heavy armed guard. Aldo drops cleanly from a high branch, landing lightly on his feet right beside the lead merchant's carriage. Without missing a beat, he opens his leather pack, displaying the freshly harvested spider silk, pristine chitin plates, compound eyes, and intact venom glands.
The lead merchant's eyes widen in surprise at the quality of the raw materials. A brief, rapid negotiation takes place in low tones beneath the dripping trees. Silver coins exchange hands.
Aldo pockets a stack of thirty-cent silver coins—consisting of three crisp, ten-cent silver pieces—slaps the side of the merchant's carriage in farewell, and vaults back into the trees before the caravan's guards can even draw their weapons.
By the time the logistics convoy pulls up to the outer palisade of Officer Watkins' logistics camp in El Gante, Aldo is already standing at the gate, waiting for them with his wooden umbrella tucked neatly under his arm.
"Conscripts! Down here!" Aldo shouts, beckoning to the men. "Unload the third and fourth crates first!"
Onaga and Hano climb down from the carriages, their muscles aching, and begin hauling the heavy wooden crates off the flatbeds.
Aldo walks over to a dry shelter under a canvas awning, pulls out a piece of damp parchment and an ink horn, and rapidly writes out his logistics report for Officer Watkins.
Footsteps sound on the wet wooden duckboards behind them. Officer Watkins steps forward to inspect the incoming shipment. He wears a heavy woolen cloak over his polished steel breastplate, his sharp gaze sweeping over the stacked crates, the well-tended horses, and the exhausted conscripts.
Aldo steps up to him, extending his open right hand. Resting in his palm are thirty shiny silver coins.
Watkins stops in his tracks, staring down at the coins, then looks up at Aldo's calm, emotionless face. "How did you summon those?" Watkins asks, his brow furrowing.
"Comtois killed a Giant Spider on the road," Aldo answers plainly.
Watkins rubs his jaw, shaking his head. "You should have arrived earlier if you had just let the spider die."
Aldo holds his ground, his eyes fixed steadily on his commander. "I still arrived earlier than the deadline you set, officer. And besides, I still have thirty silver coins."
Watkins' eyes widen in genuine surprise as he looks closer at the silver. "Where did you get so much silver for just one spider?!"
"I separated the spider's meat, internal organs, eyes, silk, and glands while on the wagon," Aldo explains coolly, "and sold them to a passing merchant caravan in the canopy."
Watkins narrows his eyes, staring at Aldo with a mixture of intense irritation and profound awe. He lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose. "If you were just an average Adventurer instead of a slave-soldier... Aldo... you would be incredibly rich. You'd have enough gold to fill three vaults."
Watkins paces a slow circle around the stack of crates, shaking his head. "The Guild and the Merchants have lost someone like you... Or should I tell the PCA to set you free so you can go into business?"
Aldo doesn't flinch. "Are you angry with me? I arrived early, ensured the goods arrived safely, and generated income for myself—isn't that the exact model the PCA wants all slave-soldiers to follow? Isn't it thanks to me completing those major missions that your reputation has skyrocketed?"
Watkins stops pacing, looking at Aldo for a long moment before giving a slow, reluctant nod. "Yes... that's true. It's no wonder that a large part of my career progression comes from you and the 204th Company."
Watkins leans in slightly, his voice dropping into a quieter register. "And do you still have those books I took from the Royal Library? Have you sold them yet?"
Aldo's expression remains completely passive. "I still have them."
"Good," Watkins murmurs.
Aldo shifts his weight slightly. "And how long are you on patrol, officer?"
"We're back on August 1st," Watkins replies.
"Great!" Hano shouts from across the yard, dumping a crate of hardtack onto a wooden bench with a loud thud.
August 1st! Only ten more days of this miserable rain!
Watkins walks over to the opened crate, reaching down to pick up a piece of the military hardtack. It is a thick, rock-hard square of baked flour and salt, dense enough to break a tooth. Watkins taps it against the edge of the wooden crate; it makes a sharp, metallic clack.
He takes a small bite, his jaw working hard to crack the dense bread. He chews slowly, swallows, then takes another bite. He points the half-eaten hardtack at the rest of the supplies, looking up at Aldo with an eyebrow raised. "Are you making the whole camp eat this?"
Aldo points to a large iron cauldron hanging over a small, sheltered fire pit. "Just throw this in and make stew."
Watkins shifts his gaze, pointing his finger at a massive burlap sack overflowing with dry, light-brown legumes. "This pile of beans?"
Aldo doesn't hesitate. "Make stew."
Watkins moves down the line, pointing to a hanging carcass of salted lamb wrapped in cheesecloth. "This lamb?"
Aldo answers instantly. "Make stew."
Watkins turns around, throwing his hands up in mild exasperation. "Then why did you bring all that wheat flour and water? Are you telling us to make our own bread out here in the forest?"
Aldo steps up to the flour barrels. "Just mix the wheat flour and water, light a fire with firewood, and stuff it in. This is for soldiers to eat when they're far away on long patrols. If it's nearby, just cook stew at camp."
Watkins looks down at the mud, then back at Aldo. "Why do you keep saying to make stew?"
Aldo extends his hand, pointing toward the groups of soaked soldiers huddling under the trees. "Ah, commander, that's how we ensure proper nutrition and rations. One person per team of six cooks a hot stew for everyone."
Watkins folds his arms across his breastplate, looking at Aldo thoughtfully. "Is that what you usually do when you go on missions far away?"
Hano instantly jumps into the conversation, throwing his hands in the air with a dramatic groaning sound. "No! No! We never get hot food from Aldo when we go on missions!"
Hano walks over, miming wrapping something tightly in cloth. "Before we leave, he makes each of us take a leather bag, wrap the food in it until it's like a hard stick, and then when we're hungry on the trail, we take it out and chew on it. It's all cold! Cold as ice!"
Aldo turns his calm stare onto Hano. "Look, none of it is spoiled, and it's all completely nutritious."
"But it's cold!" Hano shouts back, rubbing his stomach.
"But I let you guys take food from the villagers," Aldo counters smoothly.
Hano snorts, rolling his eyes. "That's right! But only after selling our labor to the villagers for hours!"
Onaga steps forward, wiping mud from his chin, his tone calm and defensive. "Aldo forbids plundering and raiding the villagers. The villagers give us food and shelter willingly because of that."
Watkins listens closely, his eyes shifting between the four of them. He nods slowly at Aldo. "That's actually a good idea."
Watkins then turns his head, his eyes landing on Comtois, who is standing near the edge of the shelter, staring intently at the stack of thirty silver coins sitting on the table. "So how does Comtois in South Heilop do it?"
Comtois snaps out of his trance, looking up with a proud grin as he rests his hand on his wooden sword. "I copied Aldo!"
July 22nd arrives with no relief from the heavens.
The downpour intensifies overnight, turning the Formasia forest into a submerged world. The rain falls in thick, diagonal sheets that blind the eyes and deafen the ears with a continuous, roaring hiss.
Yet, the storm cannot stop Aldo's logistics support team.
Equipped with extra wooden umbrellas strapped directly to their carriage frames and long leather water-drips attached to the canvas roofs, the convoy pushes forward along the main arterial supply route.
Hano kneels in the knee-deep mud alongside the trail, his hands soaked red and raw as he patiently examines the damaged sections of the corduroy road. He hauls away split logs, clears blocked drainage channels, and hammers thick wooden wedges under unstable timber rails to keep the supply wagons from sinking.
Beside him, Onaga sits under the edge of a canvas cover, staring out into the grey wall of rain. His face is quiet, his mind wandering into deep, silent contemplation as he watches the water run off his boots.
A short distance away, several conscripts huddle together under a leaky lean-to, their faces pale and miserable. They groan, clutching their aching heads as they reflect bitterly on the night of heavy drinking in the lowland taverns that led them to sign the strange, official-looking enlistment papers—the very papers that resulted in them standing here, neck-deep in mud, hauling thirty-kilogram wooden boxes through a relentless storm.
Meanwhile, Comtois marches back and forth along the convoy line, his wooden sword held high, his chin thrust out against the driving rain. He ignores the cold, the mud, and the misery entirely, fully immersed in his own mind, firmly believing he has entered his ultimate "Grindset Arc."
July 23rd brings a dramatic shift.
By early morning, the heavy storm clouds disperse, blowing away to reveal a brilliant, clear blue sky overhead. Bright sunlight streams through the wet forest canopy, illuminating millions of water droplets hanging from the leaves like diamonds.
The forest floor, however, remains a maze of deep, stagnant mud puddles and waterlogged trenches. And with the warm sun coming out, the forest wakes up—bringing with it thousands of giant forest leeches that squirm out of the wet leaf litter and pool in the warm mud.
While the rest of the camp rests, Aldo is already hard at work. Armed with a pair of wooden tweezers and several glass jars, he walks along the edges of the puddles, systematically gathering every leech he can find, packing them tightly into preservation jars for future medical sales.
Hano sits on an overturned supply crate, his hands clasped together in front of his face, his eyes closed as he fervently prays to any deity listening for August 1st to arrive as quickly as possible.
A few yards away, Comtois leaps over a wide mud puddle, shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Hoocha!" Comtois yells, swinging his iron-tipped spear in wild, sweeping arcs through the air, piercing squirming leeches on the ground with surgical precision, fully imagining himself as an legendary, epic hero slaying terrible monsters in a vast, untamed wilderness.
The sun climbs higher into the clear blue sky above the Formasia forest, casting long, sharp shadows across the logistics camp. The air, heavy with the thick scent of damp pine needles and drying mud, begins to warm under the direct midday light.
Throughout the camp, soldiers hang their soaked wool cloaks, leather jerkins, and padded arming doublets over wooden drying racks. Steam rises from the wet garments in thick, white wisps, drifting upward into the high oak canopy where small forest birds have begun to sing once more.
Near the central supply depot, the four cargo carriages stand in a neat, orderly row, their canvas covers pulled back to allow the morning air to dry the timber beds.
Aldo walks down the line with an iron-bound ledger tucked under his arm, a charcoal pencil held firmly between his fingers. He inspects every strap, every axle, and every iron wheel-rim with methodical precision. He kneels beside the second wagon, extending his thumb to check the clearance between the wooden brake pad and the iron tire, making a quick, sharp notation on his parchment.
A few feet away, Onaga sits on a dry timber beam, his boots removed to let his pale, water-pruned feet dry in the sun. He leans back against a stack of empty grain sacks, his eyes half-closed as he watches the steam rise from his drying trousers. His breathing is slow and steady, his face wearing an expression of quiet, exhausted relief now that the heavy rain has finally ceased.
Hano sits on the opposite side of the trail, an open wooden crate resting between his knees. He holds a small iron scraper, carefully prying dried grey mud from the seams of his leather boots. Every few seconds, he stops, looks up at the sunny sky, and mutters a quick, quiet prayer under his breath, counting down the exact number of days remaining until August 1st.
Comtois, however, shows no sign of resting.
Standing in the center of a wide, sunlit clearing, he practices his spear drills against an imaginary army of darkness. He thrusts the iron point forward with a loud grunt, steps back into a low guard stance, spins on his heel, and slashes the wooden shaft through the air with a loud whoosh. A solitary forest leech, resting on a nearby log, is cleanly severed in two by the tip of his spear.
"Take that, foul beast of the swamp!" Comtois shouts, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead with his forearm. He grins broadly, thrusting his chin into the air as he adjusts his grip on the weapon. "None can withstand the iron strike of the heroic vanguard!"
From his seat on the timber beam, Onaga opens one eye, looking over at Comtois with a flat, weary expression. [He never runs out of energy, does he?]
Aldo finishes his inspection of the fourth carriage, closing his ledger with a sharp clap that echoes through the trees. He turns on his heel, his sharp eyes sweeping over his three companions.
"Hano, Onaga," Aldo calls out, his voice crisp and demanding. "The mud on the southern corduroy road is drying into hard ruts. Grab the wooden rammers and level the surface before the afternoon patrol wagons arrive."
Hano stops scraping his boot, letting out a long, heavy sigh that sags his shoulders. He looks up at Aldo with an exasperated frown. "Can't we get five minutes of rest, Aldo? The sun just came out!"
Aldo doesn't alter his stance by a fraction. "The sun coming out means the mud is hardening. If it hardens with ruts, the next supply wagon will snap an axle. Move."
Hano groans loudly, but he slowly stands up, tossing his scraper into his tool kit. He nudges Onaga with his boot. "Come on, Onaga... back to the grind."
Onaga sighs quietly, pulling his dry socks back over his feet before reaching for his heavy leather work gloves. "Understood, Aldo," Onaga mutters, pulling himself up from the timber beam.
As the two of them head toward the tool shed to grab the heavy wooden road rammers, Officer Watkins emerges from his central command tent. He has removed his heavy plate armor, wearing only a clean linen tunic, wool trousers, and polished riding boots. He carries a small silver cup of tea in his hand, taking a quiet sip as he steps out into the warm sunlight.
Watkins stops near the supply shelter, his eyes tracking Aldo, who is already kneeling beside a row of iron-hooped water casks, testing the wooden bungs for leaks with a small wooden mallet.
Watkins takes another slow sip from his cup, watching the sheer efficiency with which Aldo works. A faint, complex expression passes across the commander's face—a mixture of genuine respect, mild lingering disbelief, and the quiet satisfaction of a senior officer who knows his logistics are in absolute, unshakeable hands.
"Aldo," Watkins calls out softly.
Aldo stops his mallet mid-swing, turning his head to look at his commander. "Yes, officer?"
Watkins looks down at his tea, then back up at the young slave-soldier standing amid the mountain of perfectly organized war supplies.
"Make sure the men get double rations of the stew tonight," Watkins says, a subtle, approving smile touching the corner of his mouth. "They've earned it."
Aldo gives a single, sharp nod of his head. "Understood, commander. Salted lamb, dry beans, and hardtack. Cooked hot for every squad of six."
Watkins nods, turning back toward his tent as the steady, rhythmic sound of Aldo's wooden mallet tapping against the iron-bound casks fills the warm afternoon air once again.