The General's Daughter Part I

In Brickvia main castle, the stone chamber was unusually quiet, lit only by streaks of afternoon sun filtering through tall, arched windows. Around the long war table sat the king’s most trusted minds—generals, ministers, and the crown prince himself. Maps, ledgers, and casualty lists lay spread before them like a battlefield of paper.

King Hikusa’s eyes narrowed. “Begin.”

Captain Kazamatsuri Daichi, eldest son of the king, rose to his feet.

“Our delegation to the Tenban Kingdom was received with caution. Their ruler, King Yasamizu, welcomed Brickvia’s economic proposal, though he was clear: Tenban will not intervene militarily.” He paused. “But they are open to land-based trade routes along the eastern corridor.”

The room stirred with restrained murmurs. Minister Ozaki tapped the map with a lacquered pointer.

“That eastern corridor could be our lifeline,” Ozaki said. “Likeland’s destruction crippled our western flow of goods. With its warehouses flooded and central keep burned in Kanbe’s final act of defiance, we’ve lost our strongest commercial hub. Tenban might fill that void—if we act quickly.”

General Hiryuu crossed his arms. “But it’s a gamble. Tenban has long remained neutral. And if Kuchiwara suspects we’re building strength elsewhere—”

“They’ll strike again,” Lt. General Watari finished, voice sharp. “Maybe not with swords, but with sabotage. Bribes. Espionage. We are vulnerable now, and everyone knows it.”

Daichi didn’t sit. “Then we move fast. Strengthen eastern logistics. Tenban wants silk and ore. We need rice and glass. It’s an even trade.”

“But no military support,” muttered Koizumi. “When Brickvia burns, they’ll send condolences, not archers.”

“Then we buy time with coin,” said Ozaki coldly. “We compensate the west by enriching the east. And while Tenban smiles at our caravans, we rebuild our power in the shadows.”

The king finally raised a hand.

“Make the trade happen,” Hikusa said. “Let Tenban think we come with open hands—while our swords sharpen in silence.”

No one spoke. The strategy was clear: they would rebuild, disguise their intentions with commerce, and quietly prepare for what came next.

Outside, the castle courtyard was drenched in late sun. The clang of distant sparring echoed like ghosts of battles past—familiar, rhythmic, almost soothing. But to Ren, the sound now struck differently. Hollow.

He stood alone near the edge of the training yard, his gaze fixed on a chipped practice dummy. Not even a breath escaped him. His hands, once eager to draw steel, were clenched at his sides, unmoving.

The memory of Kobayashi’s final cry still rang in his skull.

He had tried. Fought hard. Killed with precision. But it hadn’t been enough.

Ren’s jaw tensed. All those months of training—learning footwork from Mai-sensei, tactics from Koizumi, the drills, the battles—they’d shaped him into a soldier. But now, in the quiet after loss, that path felt like a dead end.

"There must be another way." He walked toward the training ring, dragging a worn wooden blade behind him. The soldiers nearby didn’t look up. They’d seen Ren before. Quiet. Odd. Swift as wind, deadly as a blade’s whisper.

But today, he wasn’t here to kill dummies or sharpen reflexes.

He was here to stop killing altogether.

Ren raised the blade and struck at the dummy—not at the chest, not the neck—but the elbow joint. A sharp crack. He pivoted, struck again at the thigh, then the ankle. Not death. Immobilization.

Strike to disarm. Strike to disable.

Again. Again. Again.

Sweat traced lines down his back, though the evening had turned cold. He kept going until his shoulders ached and his grip bled. Still, he didn’t stop.

Behind him, someone watched in silence. A voice, low and knowing, finally broke through the haze.

“You’re not practicing for war,” said Mai-sensei. “You’re preparing for something far harder.”

Ren didn’t turn. “I want to end battles without taking lives.”

Mai stepped forward quietly, her voice softer now. “That path isn’t easy, Ren. It’s not weakness—but it will make you bleed in ways a sword never could.”

He looked up, eyes unwavering. “I still want to walk it.”

She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something behind his conviction. Finally, she let out a quiet sigh and gave a small, tired smile. “You really are stubborn… just like Nakazawa was.”

She walked to the rack and picked up a pair of practice swords, handing one to him. “Very well. If you’re going to do this, you’ll do it properly.”

Her tone warmed, but the edge of seriousness never left. “From now on, you’ll train to strike without ending lives. Arms, legs, tendons. Nothing vital. The goal is to stop them from moving—not to leave them broken beyond healing.”

She stepped behind him and gently guided his arms into position. “It will take time. Precision. Patience. And you’ll fail—many times. But if this is what your heart demands…”

She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Then I’ll help you forge it into something no enemy can predict.”

Ren nodded, his grip steadying.

Mai stepped back, raising her practice blade. “Now show me—how mercy moves in your hands.”

Meanwhile, far in the southwest of Brickvia’s border, nestled within the valleys under Kuchiwara's jurisdiction, lay the city of Marase—known for its river-fed clinics and medical academies. Though untouched directly by the war’s flames, the city had become a quiet extension of the battlefield, where the wounded arrived in droves and silence was kept like a sacred vow.

Inside one such clinic, Harada Yukime, barely eighteen, worked with careful hands and a guarded heart. Her gaze never lingered long on any one soldier’s uniform. The wounded bled the same regardless of their allegiance—Suragato or Kuchiwara—men turned hollow by the same cruelty of steel.

A damp cloth in one hand, a bundle of herbs in the other, Yukime pressed against a soldier’s shoulder wound. The man groaned, but her hands didn’t tremble.

"It’s nearly sealed. You’ll need to rest at least a fortnight," she instructed, voice even, hiding the fatigue behind her eyes.

Another medic passed behind her, calling her name: “Yuki!”

She turned quickly. “Coming.”

She stepped away, wiping blood from her fingers, and approached the linen-covered backroom. The makeshift walls of the clinic offered no privacy—only illusion. She ducked behind the curtain, finding herself alone for a moment. Her reflection flickered in a polished steel tray. Not the girl she remembered. The sash tied around her waist, pale grey from wear, felt heavier than armor.

A whisper passed her lips.

“I chose this path not to run, but to mend what war breaks.”

Months ago, before war had broken out and the streets echoed with marching boots, Harada Yukime walked the quiet courtyards of Marase Medical Academy with a satchel of scrolls and the scent of crushed herbs trailing behind her. Born in Brickvia, the daughter of Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke, her life had once followed a gentle arc—guided not by the path of warfare, but by healing.

Marase, lying southwest of Brickvia’s border, had always been under Kuchiwara’s jurisdiction. It was not a battlefield—just another city with classrooms, libraries, and a rhythm of its own. Back then, The Academy welcomed foreign students. Borders were technicalities, not trenches. When Yukime first arrived, no one questioned her origin.

Then the tides shifted.

Riverbrick fell. Suragato tightened its grip. Kuchiwara, seeing advantage, drew closer to Suragato, and the border between Brickvia and Marase all but closed. Correspondence was severed, carriages stopped coming, and whispers moved like infection through the academy halls. One by one, Brickvian-born students disappeared from the rosters—some quietly asked to leave, others quietly taken.

Yukime stayed. She had no choice.

Going home was impossible, revealing her name was dangerous. She was the daughter of a senior Brickvian commander, her family etched into war strategy and command structures. If discovered, she would be more than a threat—she would be a symbol, one the enemy would not ignore.

So she buried her identity and took the name “Yuki.”

Yuki the quiet one. Yuki the focused trainee. Yuki the girl who kept her head down and asked for nothing.

She accepted work in low-funded clinics across Marase, dressing wounds and calming fevers. Though still a student, she quickly learned to stitch flesh faster than she memorized anatomy terms. Her world shifted from textbooks to triage. The wounded came in waves—Suragato troops, Kuchiwara soldiers, villagers caught between border skirmishes. None of them knew who she was. None of them cared.

They only saw her hands. And those hands never trembled.

By night, she folded letters she couldn’t send. By day, she whispered Brickvian lullabies to unconscious patients. Every morning, she fastened her plain clinic robe and left her past in the bottom drawer of her locked desk.

But the weight was growing. Every time a soldier barked questions in the hallway, every time her clinic was searched for contraband, she braced herself for the moment her false name would unravel. She told herself she was surviving—that she could do more good here as a hidden healer than as a captured daughter of a general.

Yet every whisper about the front lines, every offhanded report about Brickvia’s maneuvers, cut deeper than any scalpel.

Yuki kept her head low. But the war was crawling toward her, step by step.

And war… war never forgets a name.

In the weeks following the battle near Brickvia’s western line, Kuchiwara’s internal patrols shifted in tone. What was once passive oversight became something more aggressive—interrogations without cause, frequent scans of residency records, anonymous reports rewarded. The war had left its mark on the generals, and now paranoia trickled down through every level of command.

In Marase, the city that had once prided itself on education and medicine, a new kind of silence fell. Suspicion replaced civility. Eyes lingered longer. Names were spoken less freely.

Yuki had lived quietly under her false identity for months, carefully avoiding any misstep that might unravel the truth. She moved through the alleys like mist, worked in the back rooms of a modest apothecary, and made certain that her past never touched her present.

But secrets have weight. And the war was beginning to hunt them.

It was a local records inspector who first noticed the irregularity. An anonymous audit of residency permits turned up several flagged names across the city. One, in particular, struck a nerve.

Harada.

The surname was like flint against stone.

The inspector, following orders, cross-checked it against the intelligence bulletins posted by the military office. There it was again—Harada Kurosuke, Brickvia’s standing officer, recently seen on the western front. A man of influence. A threat. And now… possibly a father to a hidden enemy inside their walls.

A quiet order was issued: investigate.

Yuki had no warning. She had no chance to run.

The knock on the clinic door came just before dawn. Four men in dark blue robes of Kuchiwara’s civil enforcers stepped inside without greeting. No weapons drawn—just the cold certainty of authority.

She bowed politely, even smiled. “How may I help you, sirs?”

“We're conducting a routine verification of residency,” one of them said, voice clipped and neutral.

She provided the name she always used. “Yuki. I've lived here since before the fighting reached the border.”

Another officer nodded, flipping through a leather-bound register. “And your full family name?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. A crack in the mask.

“…I’m… alone,” she finally said. “I have no family here.”

But it was already too late. The documents they brought with them were not for verification—they were confirmation.

The officer stepped forward, his tone shifting. “Harada Yukime, born in Brickvia, daughter of Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke—do you deny your identity?”

Her fingers clenched around the edge of the wooden counter. Every breath felt sharp.

“I am a healer,” she whispered. “That is all I’ve ever been.”

“You are a Brickvian. And a military daughter. That is all we need.”

She was seized without resistance.

The street outside the clinic was still empty when they led her away, her wrists bound in cloth, not rope—out of some token gesture for her profession, perhaps. But mercy ends quickly in wartime.

No trial. No inquiry. Just a sealed report and a silent escort to the local holding cells.

Rumors spread fast in Marase—faster than Yuki ever could. By nightfall, the city whispered of a spy among the healers. A traitor in plain robes.

No one came to defend her. No one dared.

And deep in the cold cell where she sat, Yukime stared at her trembling hands—the same hands that had saved dozens of Kuchiwara lives—and wondered if any of them would speak for her now.

But none would.

Because she was no longer “Yuki the healer.”

She was Harada Yukime, Brickvia-born.

And in this city, that meant she was already guilty.

The wind blowing northeast carried whispers—quiet, brittle things that traveled faster than birds. And among the most chilling of them came from the west.

At first, it was just a murmur from the scouts stationed along the Brickvia southwestern border—a passing report from a contact near Marase. A name, spoken in disbelief.

Harada.

The scout who delivered it hesitated before handing the sealed scroll to the capital’s intelligence office. He had double-checked the source, reread the message twice. It couldn’t be true. But he carried it anyway.

The report ascended quickly through the hierarchy.

By the time it reached Lieutenant General Futaba Watari, his brow tightened as he reread the parchment in silence, lips drawn thin. The soldier who delivered the scroll shifted nervously but dared not speak.

When Watari finally spoke, it was low and certain.

“She’s been found.”

Word reached Lt. General Harada Kurosuke at dusk.

He had just returned from an inspection along the frontline encampments, caked in dust and still in uniform when the officer found him. Watari came in person—he would not let the message fall to a courier.

They stood alone in the garden outside the strategy hall. Kurosuke had always been a composed man, measured and rational. But when Watari handed him the note, and the truth behind his daughter’s capture unfolded in sparse military terms, the silence that followed was not calm—it was thunder held in check.

“…Yukime?” Kurosuke finally breathed. “Where?”

“Marase. Under custody of Kuchiwara’s civil office,” Watari replied. “The report says her identity was uncovered during a civilian registry sweep. She was using an alias.”

Kurosuke’s hand trembled—just once. He turned his face slightly, jaw locked.

“She was studying there before the borders closed. She must have been trapped.”

“She remained. Disguised herself. Worked as a medic.”

Watari added with quiet conviction, “Saved many lives, it seems.”

Kurosuke’s knees bent slightly. He steadied himself on the low stone railing beside him. “She’s my daughter. My only child.”

“I know.” Watari replied.

The silence was broken again, this time by sharp footsteps on the stone floor behind them. A third figure arrived—taller, broader, and older. Eyes fierce beneath thick brows.

Lt. General Harada Waruyama , Kurosuke’s elder brother, had already heard the news.

“Watari,” he said coldly, not waiting for pleasantries. “Has the king been informed?”

Watari nodded once. “I sent an immediate summary to His Majesty. But the council will not convene until morning.”

Waruyama snorted. “A Brickvian citizen—a general’s daughter—has been detained as a spy, and we wait for morning?”

“We have no confirmed demands from Kuchiwara,” Watari replied firmly. “She may still be held under civilian investigation. No execution order is known.”

“But it is possible,” Waruyama said, voice rising. “You know how they treat ‘foreign agents’ under their law.”

Kurosuke raised his head at that. His voice was tight. “Then we act now.”

Watari didn’t flinch. “With what? A rogue assault? You’d risk triggering a full border war over a single prisoner before the king commands it?”

“Don’t speak of risk to me, Lieutenant General,” Waruyama hissed. “That girl has Harada blood. If the court won’t move, we will.”

Kurosuke turned to his brother. “Enough. I will not let her die in a cell while we debate procedure.”

Watari met his gaze, then nodded slowly. “I’ll push for an emergency session with the war council tonight. If the king permits it, we mobilize.”

And so it was done.

By nightfall, Brickvia’s inner circle had been stirred into motion. Scribes lit oil lamps along the palace corridor. Runners carried sealed dispatches to regional commanders. The torchlights on the southern barracks flared brighter than usual. Something was shifting.

For the first time since the war began, a personal stake had entered the political arena.

And the daughter of Harada Kurosuke—medic, spy, survivor—had become the spark.

The war room was stifling with tension. Maps lay sprawled across the central table, ink still drying on newly adjusted border lines. But all eyes weren’t on the frontlines—they were on Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke, who stood like a statue beside his chair.

The emergency session had been called not just because a Brickvian citizen was detained—but because the citizen was his daughter, Harada Yukime, known in the southwestern territories as “Yuki.”

Across the room, voices clashed in a low thunder. Ministers debated, generals whispered strategies, while King Hikusa sat in silence, eyes sharp, weighing every word.

“I do not deny Yukime’s bravery,” said Lord Ayanokoji. “But we must weight this carefully. To demand her release without evidence of her innocence could validate Kuchiwara’s claim of espionage.”

Lieutenant General Harada Waruyama, Kurosuke’s elder brother, snapped, “She is a medic. She saved lives under a false name only because she had no choice. And she is Brickvian-born, the daughter of a commanding officer. Are we to let Kuchiwara set fire to our dignity?”

From the rear, Lieutenant General Futaba Watari cleared his throat. “We have verified the report. She never leaked any military information. Her only crime was survival. The issue is whether we are prepared to confront Kuchiwara diplomatically—or otherwise.”

A pause.

Then King Hikusa spoke.

“Marase has always been under Kuchiwara jurisdiction. We do not claim it, nor challenge their rule there. But they have detained our citizen—our general’s kin—without notifying this court. That is unacceptable.”

A murmur of agreement.

But the king’s next words came like a blade.

“However, we will not launch a reckless retaliation that gives them cause for escalation.”

His eyes turned to Kurosuke. “What would you have me do, General?”

Kurosuke’s voice was quiet, controlled—but every syllable carried the weight of years and of fatherhood.

“Your Majesty, I request you dispatch an envoy. Demand her release. If they refuse—then we must make it clear that Brickvia does not abandon its own.”

Silence.

Then,“So be it.”

King Hikusa stood. “I will assign Lord Masamune as envoy. You will prepare a list of verified character witnesses for Yukime. I want records—her work, her movements, anything that proves she served as a healer, not a spy.”

Kurosuke bowed deeply, but his fists were still clenched.

The meeting adjourned, but the war room didn’t quiet. Strategy shifted. Priorities changed. For the first time, personal bloodline and political pressure collided.

Outside the chamber, as Futaba Watari caught up with Kurosuke, he said quietly, “She stayed in Marase to help people who were not her own. That won’t go unnoticed, not even by Kuchiwara’s court.”

Kurosuke’s jaw tensed. “Then let them see it. And let them decide if they want to ignite war over a healer.”

The following morning in the west of Brickvia border, the envoy led by Lord Masamune arrived at the edge of Marase, bearing a royal decree sealed with King Hikusa’s crest.

Dressed in formal robes, Lord Masamune dismounted with practiced grace. Behind him, the Brickvian envoy—composed of diplomats, guards, and a royal scribe—stood in disciplined formation.

They were received by a Kuchiwara border warden, a man with a meticulous uniform and a stare that betrayed no hospitality.

Masamune stepped forward, holding the scroll in both hands. “By order of His Majesty King Hikusa, ruler of Brickvia, I request an audience with your magistrate to discuss the unjust detainment of Harada Yukime, a Brickvian-born civilian currently held in your jurisdiction.”

The warden accepted the scroll but didn’t open it.

“We are aware of the woman,” he replied flatly. “She is under investigation for espionage. As per Kuchiwara law, she will stand trial in Marase.”

Masamune kept his tone even. “She is the daughter of one of our lieutenant generals. And she has committed no crime but practicing medicine. She used an alias only to survive under your rule. This is not an act of war. This is a request for justice.”

The warden’s lips curled—not quite a smirk, but close.

“You may take your petition back to Brickvia. Our magistrate will not meet with foreign envoys at this time. The matter is considered internal.”

He returned the sealed scroll, unopened.

Masamune didn’t move. “You would risk a diplomatic rupture over one healer?”

The warden's reply came like ice: “Your healer should have stayed behind your borders.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Masamune and his envoy standing alone on foreign soil, the insult ringing louder than any arrow.

The message was clear: Kuchiwara had no intention of yielding.

By dusk, the heavy oak doors of the Brickvian war chamber slammed shut behind Lord Masamune as he entered, cloak still carrying the dust of the road. His jaw was tight, his expression graver than when he’d set out.

Inside, the high council sat in tense formation. King Hikusa stood before his seat, eyes narrowing as Masamune stepped forward and bowed with restrained fury.

“They refused the scroll,” Masamune announced without ceremony. “Kuchiwara declared the arrest of Harada Yukime to be an internal matter. They will not grant an audience, nor acknowledge our protest.”

A rumble of outrage swept through the chamber.

At the end of the table, Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke clenched his fist, but said nothing. His usually sharp posture seemed to bend slightly beneath the weight of the news. His daughter—his own blood—branded a criminal in enemy hands. He had once taught her how to lace her boots, how to bind a wound. Now she was locked behind Kuchiwara walls like a traitor.

Standing beside the king, Lieutenant General Futaba Watari stepped forward.

“This cannot go unanswered,” Watari said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of steel. “We sent an envoy in good faith. They spat on it. They have insulted our crown and imprisoned the daughter of one of our generals.”

He turned his gaze toward the council, letting the silence hang.

“This is not diplomacy. This is provocation.”

Kurosuke rose slowly to his feet. His voice, when it came, was low and level—but laced with fire.

“She went there to heal, not to fight. She hid her name because she feared this very outcome. I raised her in Brickvia. She is not a spy. She is a victim of war’s cruelty—no different from any child caught behind enemy lines.”

Then, for the first time, his composure cracked.

“If we do nothing, they’ll make an example of her. They’ll break her—and send her body home in pieces.”

A murmur of unease rippled through the room.

King Hikusa remained silent for a long moment, then looked to his right.

“Masahiro,” he said, calling the name like a spear.

The war strategist Yamada Masahiro stepped forward, fingers steepled in front of his face. His calculating eyes met the king’s.

“We retaliate—but with purpose,” he said. “We strike Kuchiwara’s border, fast and hard. Not to ignite a full war—but to make clear that Brickvia will not be mocked.”

Hikusa nodded once. “Approved. Draw the line, but keep it thin.”

Masamune’s jaw eased slightly. Watari offered a grim nod.

But Kurosuke remained standing, fists clenched, his voice no longer composed.

“Then let me lead the vanguard.”

Watari placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, Kurosuke. Not you.”

Kurosuke turned sharply.

“Why not?”

“Because this war is not yours to lead through grief,” Watari said gently. “If we’re to bring her home, we need cold minds, not burning hearts.”

The tension hung like a sword in the air.

After a moment, Kurosuke sank slowly back into his seat—his eyes burning not with tears, but with something colder.

A vow.

The following morning, the air inside Brickvia barracks was brisk, the kind that lingered on skin like a quiet omen. Soldiers moved with heightened pace—equipment checked and rechecked, leather boots laced tighter, blades drawn halfway then slid back with a click. Rumors had been swirling for hours: the council had reached a decision.

Ren sat cross-legged on the floor of his barracks quarters, polishing the steel tips of his shin guards, his thoughts lost somewhere between doubt and resolve. Ever since the word “Marase” began circulating among the ranks, he knew it would only be a matter of time.

The door creaked open with the sound of hurried boots. Corporal Maeda Mizuhara stepped inside, a scroll in hand and urgency in his stride.

“Karibata,” he said, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Orders just came in. We’re moving.”

Ren stood immediately. “Where?”

“To the southwestern front. Near the Marase border.”

His pulse tightened. “This is about… the girl, isn’t it?”

Mizuhara didn’t answer right away. He handed him the scroll, but his eyes remained on Ren’s face. “Harada Yukime. That’s her name.”

Ren accepted the scroll without opening it yet. “She’s the daughter of Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke.”

“She is,” Mizuhara confirmed. “And Brickvia doesn’t leave its own behind.”

Ren’s jaw set, eyes narrowing. “So we’re going to rescue her?”

“Not directly,” Mizuhara said. “Not yet. We’re to pressure the border. Strategic movements only. No full engagement unless provoked.”

Ren nodded, though part of him bristled. Strategic movements. Pressure. It was always a game of tension before the first blade was drawn.

“You’re under direct command of Colonel Koizumi for this operation,” Mizuhara added. “Engineering division’s going to set up temporary outposts along the hills. Terrain advantage. You know the drill.”

He gave a faint nod, tucking the scroll into his belt. “When do we leave?”

“By sunset. Pack light. You’ll be moving with the first wave.”

He turned to go but paused at the door.

“Ren,” he said, not turning around. “I’ve heard you changed how you fight. That you’re not aiming to kill anymore.”

Ren met his gaze when he finally looked back. “I want to win without becoming like them.”

Mizuhara’s expression softened. “Then you’ll need more than skill. You’ll need restraint even when your blood tells you otherwise.”

And with that, he was gone.

Ren looked down at the gauntlets resting on his cot. The metal shone like a mirror, but all he saw was the face of a girl behind bars in a foreign land, held not for a crime, but for the name she carried. He tightened the straps.

He would fight for her. And he would not let bloodlust guide his hand.

Somewhere beyond the chaos, Yukime endured in silence. The weight of silence pressed heavily in the small, dimly lit chamber where Harada Yukime sat. Her wrists were bound with rough hemp cords, chafing her skin, but it was nothing compared to the ache settling deep in her chest. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around her, shadows dancing like specters of the fate she could not yet escape.

Outside, the distant sounds of marching feet and murmured commands drifted through the corridors — reminders that the world beyond was still caught in the relentless churn of war. But inside this cell, time felt cruelly suspended.

Yukime’s breaths came steady, each one a silent vow to endure. Her thoughts flickered to her father — Lt. General Harada Kurosuke — and the family name she bore. A name that now was both her shield and her curse.

The heavy door creaked open, a sharp sound slicing through the stillness. Two guards stepped in, their faces hard and unreadable. Behind them, a stern officer entered, his eyes cold as steel.

“Harada Yukime,” he said, his voice low but heavy with accusation. “You are charged with espionage — aiding the enemy. You will answer for your deeds.”

Yukime lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance. “I am no spy. I am a medic. I heal wounds. That is my only crime.”

The officer’s jaw tightened, but his gaze searched hers for a flicker of doubt. “Your true identity is no secret. Daughter of Lt. General Harada Kurosuke, born in Brickvia. Explain why you hide among our ranks.”

Her throat tightened as emotions surged — fear, frustration, but above all, resolve. “I hide because if I did not, I would be dead. I seek only to save lives, no matter the uniform.”

The guards shifted uneasily, the tension in the room thickening. The officer stepped closer, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Your presence here is a threat. Yet something in your eyes speaks of more than defiance... Do you expect mercy?”

Yukime’s voice was steady, though her heart thundered in her chest. “I expect justice — not from those who imprison me, but from those who understand what it means to be caught between loyalty and survival.”

A heavy silence fell. The officer’s eyes softened just a fraction, as if recognizing the impossible path she walked. But duty was unyielding. “You will remain under guard until your fate is decided.”

As the door closed behind them, Yukime was left alone with the cold, her thoughts a tempest of fear and hope — hope that somehow, beyond these walls, those who cared for her had not forgotten.

Far from the prison, in the hush of the barracks, Ren sat alone, fingers brushing over a familiar piece of fabric laid across his lap—his mother’s sky-blue scarf. The color had dulled with time, threads pulling loose at the corners, but to him, it remained untouched—untouched by war, by fire, by grief. Untouched by death.

He didn’t always carry it into battle. Regulation of military uniform left no room for sentiment. But on quiet days—when drills ended and armor was stowed—he sometimes wrapped it around his neck, letting it rest where her hands once did.

There was comfort in the ritual. Not softness. Not escape. Just a moment where the world stopped clawing at him, and he could remember who he was before all this.

He held it now, not to wear it—but to feel that silence again before the march.

A firm knock cut through the stillness. “Ren,” came Corporal Maeda Mizuhara’s voice, brisk. “Deployment in five. Gear up.”

Ren gave no reply, not at first. He folded the scarf carefully, like a prayer, and tucked it inside the inner lining of his pack—hidden, but never forgotten. A piece of the past he refused to leave behind.

He rose. Steel in his spine. Memory in his chest.

“I’m coming,” he said, and stepped into the corridor where war waited.