Reine didn't lower his guard immediately. He stood on the perimeter of the command area, his "Hunter Eyes" scanning the treeline. He was looking for a shimmer of black plate or the ripple of a Sovereign-rank displacement.
"Sir?" Argol's voice was hesitant. He was leaning heavily on his sword, chest heaving in rhythmic, ragged gasps. "Second-in-Command sir... are you alright? You're, uh... you're bleeding from your ears."
Reine reached up and wiped the side of his head. His fingers came away stained with a dark, viscous crimson. He hadn't felt the pain—the adrenaline of the loop was a natural anesthetic—but the physical toll of channeling a 50% Isokinetic Output through a Novice-rank vessel was finally manifesting. His internal pressure had spiked so high it had ruptured the delicate capillaries in his ear canals.
"It's part of my power," Reine said, wiping the gore onto his tunic with a detached coolness. "I'm just cooling down my body. Don't worry about it."
Argol squinted, his face a mask of profound skepticism. "Cooling down with blood coming out of your ears? I don't know about that, sir. That sounds... remarkably inefficient. Almost lethal, even."
"SOLDIER! ARE YOU QUESTIONING THE MECHANICS OF MY ARCANA?!" Reine shouted. He kept his voice firm, projecting an aura of absolute authority while looking away to hide the "evil" smile twitching at the corner of his lips. This is actually working, he thought. The more absurd the lie, the more he scrambles to rationalize it.
"NO, SIR! I AM SORRY, SIR!" Argol snapped to attention, his heels clicking together in the mud.
"Good. It's high-level Aether Science. A mere infantryman in the lowest ranking wouldn't grasp the nuances of pressure-venting. Now, follow me."
As they trudged back toward the heart of the camp, Argol walked with his head down, his ego visibly bruised. He was crying on the inside, struggling to process how a "Specialist" could be so casual about a potential brain hemorrhage.
Reine, however, was focused on the battlefield. That damn Knight. He was a monster. Had he not retreated, we would have been forced to regress again. I need to figure out why he left.
The Specialist and the Veteran
As they neared the outpost, a familiar shadow fell across their path. It was the veteran from the training grounds—the man who had spent the morning mocking Reine's lineage.
"Vangalf," the old man growled, his voice thick with a mix of disgust and suspicion. "The Commander wants you in her office. NOW."
Reine didn't stop. He walked right past the man, intentionally clipping his shoulder with enough force to spin him halfway around.
"If you're curious about the summons," Reine said without looking back, "check the official report. Oh, wait—I forgot. You don't have the security clearance for my specific rank, do you?"
The veteran's face turned a violent shade of purple. He looked ready to swing, but Argol stepped into the gap, his hand on his hilt.
"Show some respect!" Argol hissed, his eyes burning with a protective fury. "He's a specialist!"
Argol is surprisingly good at this, Reine thought, feeling a wave of dark amusement.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?" the veteran screamed as they walked away. "You're an attention-seeker! A pathetic noble playing dress-up! I'm surprised your parents even—"
"HEY! DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!" Argol's roar echoed through the camp. He drew his blade, the cold steel hovering an inch from the veteran's throat. The old man froze. Argol looked back at Reine, his face pale with rage. "SIR, SHOULD I—HUH?"
Reine was already twenty paces ahead, his back to the drama. He wasn't wasting a second on a ghost. Argol hurriedly sheathed his sword and sprinted to catch up.
The Vortex Logic
Before reaching the command tent, Reine stopped at a water barrel. He plunged his head into the freezing liquid, trying to drown out the persistent ringing in his ears.
I finally did it, he thought, water dripping from his white-streaked hair. But why did the Knight retreat? He could have ended us both. At least I have Argol now. He's functionally a moron, but he's reliable.
"Sir?" Argol was standing there, holding a piece of hard, dessicated bread. "You must be famished from the engagement, sir," he said, biting a chunk out of his own ration. "But... I noticed something. Your 'stealth uniform'... it has a recruit's serial number. 00-V-4?"
Reine snatched the bread with the speed of a starving animal. He began chewing the flavorless, dry brick, protecting the ration in his hands like a rat guarding a prize.
Argol stared, weirded out. "Sir... I'm not going to take it back."
"Vanguard Vortex Level 4," Reine said, crumbs flying from his mouth. "It's a classification, soldier. Not a serial number."
"Vortex Level 4?" Argol rubbed his chin. "What even is a Vortex? I've never heard of it."
"Well, Argol, if you knew what a Vortex was, you wouldn't be standing here talking to me. You'd be part of the vacuum." Reine's face was over-exaggeratedly serious.
Argol nodded slowly, trying to process the lie. By the time they reached the tent flap, the realization hit him like a physical blow. "Wait... wait... WHAT—?!"
"SILENCE!" a voice roared from within.
The Staring Contest
"You two. Sit," ordered the Commander.
They obeyed. Reine maintained a perfect, chilling poker face. Argol, conversely, looked like a man whose soul had been surgically removed. He sat there, staring into the void, his mind shattered by the "truth" of Reine's rank.
"What an interesting pair," Commander Elena mumbled, her voice dripping with curiosity.
The interior of the tent smelled of high-end lavender perfume and expensive ink. Elena sat behind a massive mahogany desk, her short ginger hair framing a face set in a predatory, menacing stare. She was currently locked in a staring contest with Reine Vangalf.
Reine was winning. Not because of his indomitable will, but because he wasn't looking at her at all. His entire existence was focused on the crust of bread in his hand. To him, the bread was the only objective reality left. The war, the loop, and the Sovereign-rank woman in front of him were just background noise.
"Reine Vangalf, right?" Elena interrupted the silence, her voice like a sharpening stone. "I've spent the last ten minutes reading your file. Or should I say, your comedy script?"
Reine took a slow, methodical bite. Crunch. "You're a Third-Class Novice," she continued, leaning forward. "You barely passed the squad entrance exams after a dozen attempts. Your combat scores? They're an insult. My pet cat, Barnaby, has a more impressive mana signature than you—and Barnaby is currently a rug in the corner who can't catch a paralyzed mouse."
She gestured to a fat, orange cat snoring near the tent pole. Barnaby didn't even twitch.
"Barnaby has better footwork than you! Barnaby has better tactical awareness! And yet, I am told that you—a boy who is currently staring at a piece of wheat like it's a long-lost lover—somehow drove off a Sovereign Knight?"
Reine swallowed the dry crumbs. "The paperwork must be wrong, Ma'am," he said, his voice flat. He hunched his shoulders further, shielding the bread with his elbows.
"CADET REINE! ARE YOU IGNORING MY AUTHORITY TO FOCUS ON A CRUST OF BREAD?!" Elena roared, slamming her hands on the desk.
"NO, MA'AM," Reine replied, his eyes glued to the ration. "I AM MERELY ENSURING THE STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY OF MY RATIONS. LOOSE CRUMBS ARE A SECURITY RISK."
"ARE YOU SAYING THE ARMY IS INCAPABLE OF BASIC MEASUREMENT?!" Elena's face turned a spectacular shade of crimson. "And for the love of the Gods, stop clutching that thing! I am a Commander of the Western Front! I am not going to steal your bread!"
That's exactly what someone who wanted to steal my bread would say, Reine thought, his grip tightening.
The Unlimited Buffet
Argol, sensing a total collapse of military decorum, leaned over the desk. "Ma'am... please... you shouldn't mess with him," he whispered loudly. "He's... he's Vanguard Vortex Level 4."
"Vortex Level 4?" Elena repeated, her voice dripping with pure, unadulterated disbelief. "Did you seriously expect me to believe a department with a name that stupid actually exists?! DO YOU THINK I'M AN IDIOT?"
The shout echoed through the camp.
Argol's heart stopped. He turned as white as a sheet. She said it. She exposed the truth. He began to tremble violently. He's going to kill me, Argol thought. He's going to use that bread to choke me to death.
Elena sighed, falling back into her chair, exhausted by the absurdity. "I'll deal with your nonsense later. Tonight, the camp is holding a feast to celebrate the victory. I'll be presenting you, Vangalf, and Orlon with a gift for your... 'heroism.'"
"A FEAST?!" Reine's eyes finally snapped to hers, pupils dilated.
"A GIFT?!" Argol screamed, half-convinced the "gift" was an execution order.
"QUIET!" Elena bellowed. She stood up, grabbed both of them by their collars, and marched them toward the tent flap. "GET OUT!"
With two swift, well-aimed kicks, she booted them into the mud.
Argol immediately scrambled backward on his hands and knees, looking at Reine with pure terror. "Sir! I—I didn't mean to! She just started yelling! Please don't 'redact' me! I'll do better in the next loop—I mean, the next mission!"
Reine stood up, brushing mud off his tunic, still holding his bread. "I'll think about your punishment after the feast, Argol. For now, we prepare for the most dangerous mission of all: Unlimited Buffet."