The General's Daughter Part II

The midday sun hid behind layers of marching clouds as Brickvia’s war horns resounded across the windswept southwest frontier.

General Yamada Masahiro stood before a freshly nailed campaign board, maps fluttering beneath iron pins and hastily drawn arrows. Behind him, the elite brass of Brickvia’s military gathered in a tight formation. The air was sharp, heavy with silence, as if even nature held its breath.

“Listen well,” Masahiro began, voice cutting through the stillness. “This is not just about retaliation. This is to apply pressure. Political, psychological, and military. Kuchiwara has crossed the line by detaining Harada Yukime.”

His hand struck the board with a baton, tracing two curving arrows toward the border — a harsh region of cliffs, ridges, and pine-choked valleys.

“We’ll launch a two-path assault.”

He gestured to the forested highlands. “First: Engineering Division under Colonel Koizumi. Move through this terrain. Your dark green uniforms will help you vanish into the pine. Open a path for Major General Tabrizu’s archer corps. Clear any traps. Quietly. If the archers are caught before they reach formation, we lose initiative.”

Koizumi gave a firm nod.

Masahiro continued, moving the baton to the coastal outline. “Second: Infantry units led by Lieutenant Generals Futaba Watari, Ryusuke Suzuki, Harada Kurosuke, and Harada Waruyama. You will be transported by sea under Rear Admiral Shinomori Hayate. Landfall will be here.”

A small ‘X’ was marked along the narrow strip of coast.

Masahiro locked eyes with the group. “Coordination is everything. Forest units move first. Once in position, archers will signal. Then naval units land and move in.”

He lowered the baton, his voice tightening.

“We are not the aggressors here. But if Kuchiwara wants to play hostage games with a Brickvian citizen—especially one born to our own military bloodline—we respond with something louder than words.”

He stepped back.

“Dismissed. Move swiftly. And no mistakes.”

The generals offered swift salutes before dispersing, each turning toward their respective divisions. As the first war drums began to beat along the ridgelines, Masahiro remained still, watching the wind ripple the map one last time.

By dusk, the plan was already in motion.

The forested borderlands between Brickvia and Kuchiwara stood like a wall of shadow—dense pines, winding ravines, and craggy ridges woven into a terrain perfect for ambushes or concealment. It was here that the Engineering Division moved first.

Their boots sank silently into soft moss and dead needles. With every step, they scanned the undergrowth for traps—wires, shallow pits, hidden spikes. Silence ruled. Even whispers were forbidden. Only hand signals guided the ranks forward.

Ren moved just behind the forward scouts, his eyes scanning the canopy and his hand never far from his sheathed blade. The light was dim, but his mind was sharper than ever. He didn’t come here to kill. He came to prove something.

A few paces ahead, a scout gestured—halt.

Movement among the trees.

A patrol.

Kuchiwara soldiers, no more than seven, weaving through the forest unaware of the Brickvian presence. The Engineering unit froze. Weapons were drawn, but held tight. The air thickened.

Ren stepped forward.

“I’ll go,” he whispered to the corporal.

He slipped past the others, feet barely brushing the earth. When he moved, it was like mist gliding through the branches. He reached the closest enemy, waited for the rhythm of their steps, then struck.

His blade snapped out—not to kill, but to disable. A knee, a shoulder, a hand gripping a weapon—every target calculated, clean, and precise. Within seconds, the patrol fell with grunts and gasps, alive but disarmed and unmoving.

Ren breathed out slowly.

“Clear.”

The path opened. The rest of the Engineering Division continued their advance, silently collecting the disabled patrol’s weapons and pushing deeper into the woods.

Further behind, Major General Tabrizu’s archer corps advanced with equal caution. Thanks to the engineers, their route remained untouched. No triggered traps. No resistance. They climbed to the higher ridges overlooking the distant valley, concealed beneath the thickets, holding position until the signal would come.

No one spoke. Every heartbeat waited for Masahiro’s timing.

Beyond the tree line, at sea, Admiral Hayate’s vessels crept toward the coastline—unseen, but soon to become thunder.

A low whistle cut through the mountain air. It was the signal for the Engineering Division to halt, as Colonel Koizumi raised his hand. Below them, Major General Tabrizu’s archers were ready—their arrows notched, their breathing steady.

Colonel Koizumi leaned toward the messenger beside him.

“Relay to Tabrizu: do not fire until I give the next mark. First, we clear the ridge of any buried traps.”

“Yes, sir.”

The messenger sprinted down the slope, weaving through pine trunks and crouching low.

Koizumi turned to his team.

“Move. Sweep the perimeter. Dig if you must. No one fires until this path is sterile.”

They spread out in formation. Steel rods, probes, gloved hands—they searched every inch of ground. A sudden shout—

“Wire. Right flank, ten meters!”

The unit closed in. A disguised spike trap lay hidden beneath dry brush. Another a few paces ahead. The forest was rigged for blood, but not today.

Koizumi gritted his teeth.

“If we hadn’t led, those archers would’ve died before drawing their first arrow.”

Another signal was raised—this time a clenched fist. The traps ahead were cleared. The message was passed down to Tabrizu’s position.

Below, a silent wave of motion rippled through the archer ranks.

They were ready.

While Brickvian troops were closing in, the Kuchiwara command tent erected on a flat stretch of ground near the border, its canvas flapping softly in the evening breeze. Inside, General Kazan Shigure leaned over a large map pinned to a wooden table, the flickering light of a single oil lamp casting shadows across the detailed lines of terrain.

His eyes traced the marked paths carefully. From this vantage, Brickvia’s forces were clearly moving southwest, pushing closer to the Kuchiwara border. To Shigure, they were coming from the northeast—through a route flanked by dense pine forests and steep ridges.

A young scout entered, breath uneven from a rapid journey.

“Sir, our watchers report movement near the northeastern approach. Ships were seen moving along the coastline.”

Shigure nodded slowly, folding his arms.

“So, they choose the sea route,” he muttered.

He turned to the officers gathered around him.

“Masahiro is clever—too clever to risk the forest paths. That terrain is full of traps waiting to spring. He’ll never send his main force into such a kill zone.”

His voice hardened.

“We will hold the coast and wait. Move archers to the high ground where they can control the beach. We’ll meet them where they think they’ll find easy passage.”

As orders were shouted and messengers dispatched, Shigure allowed himself a brief, confident smile.

“Masahiro thinks the sea will favour him,” he whispered to no one but the wind. “He underestimates us.”

But unseen beneath the pine canopy, Brickvia’s engineers were already making their way silently—turning Shigure’s confidence into a dangerous gamble.

As General Shigure pored over his maps, the forest around him gave no warning. It only grew denser. The Brickvian engineering division advanced their march, each step measured, every breath held. Branches whispered in the faint wind and leaves trembled with unseen movement.

Ren moved at the forefront, senses sharp, eyes flicking through the shadows. His blade, once a tool for lethal precision, now danced with a new purpose — to strike without death, to disable without cruelty.

Ahead, another Kuchiwara scout appeared, weapon raised, eyes wild with alarm. Ren shifted smoothly, his body flowing like water as he closed the distance.

With a swift, practiced motion, he struck—targeting a nerve in the scout’s leg. The man collapsed with a startled cry, clutching the wound but still conscious.

“Live. Remember this,” Ren murmured, voice barely audible beneath the rustling trees.

Around him, the clash was quiet but intense. His comrades moved silently, but when confrontation came, Ren’s strikes stopped before fatal.

Each foe he faced fell to the ground, breathless and broken, but alive.

This was the war he had chosen — one of shadows and silence, where victory came not through death, but through mercy and skill.

Behind him, the engineering unit pressed on, the path ahead slowly revealing itself, unmarked by blood but heavy with unspoken resolve.

As the time goes on, the thick forest swallowed the sounds of marching boots, leaves muffling each step like a natural cloak. The engineering division moved with painstaking care, avoiding dry branches and loose stones, weaving through shadows cast by the towering pines.

Major General Tabrizu’s archers followed closely, their eyes sharp, bowstrings taut but silent. Every man understood the danger — one wrong move, one snapped twig, and the entire advance could be betrayed.

Ren scanning every direction with a calm intensity. His breath steady, heart pacing the rhythm of the forest’s pulse. He no longer saw the enemy as targets to kill but as obstacles to overcome — obstacles to outwit.

Hours passed. The dense canopy blurred the world into a maze of green and shadow, but the division’s progress was steady.

Not once did they reveal themselves to the open field ahead.

Not once did they allow Kuchiwara scouts a glimpse of their true strength or numbers.

By nightfall, the path was cleared.

The engineering division and Tabrizu’s archers were ready — concealed, poised, and unbroken.

By dawn, the salt air thickened as Rear Admiral Shinomori Hayate’s vessel cut through the restless waves, edging closer to the Kuchiwara coastline. On deck, the generals gathered, eyes narrowed against the biting wind, scanning the shadowed cliffs that awaited them.

“Visibility is poor,” Hayate muttered, voice low but steady. “Kuchiwara forces will know we’re coming soon.”

Lt. General Futaba Watari tightened his grip on the railing. “They expect us. We cannot afford hesitation.”

Lt. General Ryusuke Suzuki nodded, eyes locked on the rocky shore. “Their scouts must be watching every inlet. We need to move fast once we land.”

Behind them, the soldiers readied their weapons, tension crackling like static in the salty air.

“General Masahiro’s orders were clear,” Hayate said, turning to the others. “We disembark quietly, establish a foothold, then press forward. No mistakes.”

A sudden flare from the cliffs caught their attention. A signal—swift, precise.

“Prepare for immediate engagement,” Suzuki commanded. “The battle begins the moment our boots hit land.”

Hayate gave a curt nod. “Hold steady. The sea may be calm, but the storm on land is coming.”

As the landing crafts slipped silently toward the shore, the generals exchanged grim looks. Each understood the danger that awaited — the unknown weapons, the cunning defenders, and the heavy cost ahead.

The first wave of Brickvian troops disembarked swiftly, boots sinking into the damp, stony coastline. Salt spray mixed with sweat and the smell of iron as soldiers moved in practiced silence, their breaths shallow.

Further inland, atop a hardened embankment masked by foliage, Kuchiwara’s coastal units were already in position. Hidden among sand-colored canvas and timber barricades, archers readied their bows. The moment Brickvia’s vanguard stepped past the jagged driftwood barrier, the silence shattered.

A rain of arrows screamed down.

“Shields!” shouted Lt. General Watari, raising his own just as the first volley struck. Wood splintered, men cried out, but the formation held.

“Form up!” Ryusuke Suzuki roared. “Advance in lines! Don't break!”

Behind them, more Brickvian troops disembarked under the protective cover of their comrades. The coastline had become a furnace of movement—organized chaos tempered by experience and resolve.

Farther out at sea, Masahiro stood on the command ship’s raised deck, eyes fixed on the shore. The coastline shimmered under the morning light, deceptively calm.

“They’re stalling,” he murmured.

“Sir?” Hayate asked, now beside him.

Masahiro’s tone sharpened. “They're holding the line too early. They want us funneled here. Too clean.”

He raised his arm.

“Signal Tabrizu. Volley downward. Don't wait for my second call.”

The signal officer lit the flare. The signal flare streaked upward—bright orange against the pale morning sky—then burst into a sharp pop.

From the hills just inland, the archers under Major General Tabrizu moved in unison. No drums, no horns—only the steady hiss of bowstrings drawn.

“Loose!” came the low, firm command.

Thousands of arrows screamed down in a wide arc, blackening the sky for a brief moment before crashing down toward the outer forest slopes flanking the Kuchiwara coastline. The sound of impact was chilling: shafts sinking into bark, striking shields, armor, and earth alike.

Inside the Kuchiwara command post—an entrenched wooden structure hastily erected behind woven barricades near the coastline—General Kazan Shigure’s eyes narrowed. The tremors in the soil hadn’t come from footfalls.

“Over the ridge... they're firing from above?” a soldier near him muttered.

Shigure stepped forward, brushing aside the tent flap.

“Masahiro,” he whispered. “You’re baiting again.”

A memory stirred—an old briefing room, a younger General Arakawa from Suragato slamming his fist on the table, warning: "Masahiro always leads with the bow, always carves his path forward with a rain of steel."

Shigure’s hand clenched around his hilt.

“Don’t be fooled. There’s more coming. Prepare the second formation to engage once they break cover.”

He turned to his adjutant. “Send word to our rear units. Keep watch on the northern ridge. If they try to flank—cut them there.”

The adjutant bowed and sprinted into the organized chaos.

Back on the shoreline, Brickvian commanders rallied their troops under the thunderous volley.

Masahiro watched from afar as the Kuchiwara line began to respond—but too late. The true strike hadn’t begun yet.

He turned to the signalman once more.

“Now we push.”

On kuchiwara side, General Shigure motioned toward his adjutant. “Send orders. Second and third lines, hold position at the coastline. Tell the forward squads to watch the ridgelines. If they try to descend, they’ll do it fast.”

“Yes, General!”

Back among the trees, higher along the ridge, Ren crouched in the undergrowth beside Colonel Koizumi and the rest of the engineering unit. They remained silent, unmoving, the deafening whistle of the arrow volley masking any trace of their presence. Ren's eyes scanned the forest ahead, every muscle in his body wound tight like a bowstring. The rain of arrows wasn’t the main act. It was the curtain.

Koizumi shifted beside him and whispered low, “Brace. If they respond like predicted, our window opens in the next volley.”

Ren gave a short nod.

A second volley of arrows rained from the forest. This time, faster. Closer. Shigure heard the distinct cry of a horse as it fell just outside the perimeter.

He didn’t flinch.

He stepped out from the rear tent flap and scanned the ridgeline.

The trees were too thick for a clear view. But he knew the sound. That crisp rhythm of Brickvian archers. That relentless pattern—always in threes. Always flanked by misdirection.

Shigure exhaled slowly.

“Masahiro,” he muttered again. This time, with a trace of bitter respect. “You’re still clinging to that damned old rhythm.”

Another runner arrived. “Rear patrols report movement in the lower woods! They’re not charging, sir. They’re positioning!”

Shigure’s jaw tensed.

“They’re opening a path,” he said. “Not for the archers. For something else.”

He turned sharply to his officers gathered near the command banner. “Signal the cliffside watch. Reinforce the tree lines below the northern ridge. They’ll try to breach from under the slope.”

“But, General,” one of the younger lieutenants began, “What if the main assault still comes from the coast?”

“It won’t.” Shigure's voice cut clean. “This is Masahiro’s playbook. The coastline is bait.”

He looked once more to the ridgeline.

“Hold the high ground. But don’t forget—what he really wants… is our blind side.”

On the coastal path, amid the organized chaos of shouting officers and surging troops, Masahiro stood before the central battle banner. His voice rang clear, sharp as a blade against steel.

“Infantry—forward! Don’t wait for the volley to end. Push hard, keep their archers guessing!”

He turned to Koizumi. “Engineers—now. Use the slope, strike from their exposed left. Cut the legs out from their line.”

Koizumi saluted swiftly and motioned to his unit. “We move!”

From the ridge shadowed by thick pines, Ren crouched low beside Koizumi’s vanguard. The sound of clashing metal below and the shouted commands of both sides thundered in his ears.

He narrowed his eyes.

They’ll kill them all.

He thought.

Once our infantry breaks through, they won’t hold back. If I don’t act first, none of those Kuchiwara soldiers will leave alive.

His grip on his blade tightened—not out of rage, but control. He wasn’t the same boy who had once stood trembling in Riverbrick. Not anymore.

He inhaled through his nose, then let it go in one breath.

Don’t kill. Just strike to end the fight.

His body moved before the command left Koizumi’s lips. Sliding between tree trunks, over moss-laced stones, his footwork sliced through terrain like wind across glass. Every step placed with calculation. Every movement honed to perfection.

Ahead, a Kuchiwara sentry barely had time to react. Ren dipped low, pivoted, and struck the man’s thigh with the back of his blade—collapsing him with a cry, alive but unable to stand.

That’s one.

Another patrol turned to raise an alarm, but Ren blurred to his side, swept his legs, and delivered a focused strike to the shoulder, disarming and dislocating in one clean arc.

Two.

He didn’t need to kill. He just had to be faster.

Behind him, Koizumi’s engineers surged forward, silently fanning into formation. The forest crackled with motion, but none louder than Ren’s thoughts.

Just one opening. If I reach their flank before the others, maybe I can end this faster… before more blood is shed.

Ren had made his own vow.

No more killing.

And by the time Koizumi’s engineers reached the lower brush, they found traces of Ren’s path. A trail of downed Kuchiwara troops—each wounded precisely. Some held their ribs, others clutched shoulders, ankles, or thighs. They were conscious. Breathing. But unable to rejoin the battle.

Whispers spread among them.

“He didn’t kill us…”

“Same pattern… arms, legs… he knew where to strike.”

Unwittingly, Ren had left a mark—not only in wounds but in message. A silent signature in every fallen body:

Mercy, not weakness.

Inside the command tent deep behind Kuchiwara’s forward lines, General Kazan Shigure stood in silence, listening to the distant thunder of battle rumbling from the forest and coastline below. His map lay open, stones marking Brickvia’s advance routes, each of them shifting closer and closer.

A scout burst through the tent flap, kneeling instantly. “They’ve broken into the lower ridges, General. The eastern flank—compromised.”

Shigure’s face remained unreadable.

He turned to his aide. “We waited long enough. Send the signal.”

The aide blinked. “Are you certain, sir?”

“I don’t enjoy revealing our final card before the capital approves,” he muttered, eyes fixed beyond the tent walls. “But if we don’t show our fangs now, we’ll be swallowing Brickvian banners before dusk.”

He stepped outside, lifted a lantern, and gave a distinct circular motion in the air.

High above the rear cliffs, hidden within pine-covered bluffs, the ground crew received the signal.

Ropes were loosened. Anchors unfastened.

With a long, slow hiss, the hot-air balloon rose—no formality, no ceremony. Just silence and size.

Its canvas swelled against the sky, lifting the platform suspended beneath it. Archers aboard steadied their bows, gripping the sides with pale knuckles. For a moment, only the sound of wind filled the forest.

And then—

A cry rang out from the Brickvian center flank.

“What the hell is that?!”

Soldiers paused mid-march. Generals looked up in disbelief.

Floating above the treetops, barely moving, a massive balloon drifted silently toward them, casting a long shadow over the battlefield below.

No one knew its name. No one even knew such a thing was possible.

“What… what is that?” gasped Colonel Koizumi, lowering his blade instinctively.

“It’s flying,” whispered Major General Tabrizu, eyes wide, frozen. “That thing’s flying…”

“It’s not a kite. No string. No frame,” said Lt. General Harada Waruyama, voice cracking. “How is it staying up?”

“It defies the world itself,” murmured Lt. General Harada Kurosuke. “This… this isn’t from here.”

Ren stood among the shadows. His heart pounded—not from battle, but from something deeper. Fear. Not of death.

But of power he couldn’t reach.

His feet refused to move.

That thing is untouchable…

It glided forward with eerie grace, a floating predator cloaked in silence. Then, the archer onboard pulled back his bow.

A shrill whistle.

Arrows poured from above like rain sent by gods.

Brickvia’s formations broke in panic. Shields lifted, ranks scattered.

“Fall back! Take cover—!” someone screamed.

But Ren remained still.

"What can I do… against something like that?"

He felt like a boy again. Small. Mortal. Earthbound.

"This… changes everything." Masahiro clenched his fists. His voice was low, barely audible. “They have the sky.”

No one replied.

Because for the first time since the war began, every general on the Brickvian side stood in fear—not of the enemy before them, but of the unknown rising above.

Somewhere, from the narrow window of her locked chamber in Marase, Yukime stood frozen, her hands gripping the iron bars. The morning sun cast a golden hue over the ridgeline—until something unnatural appeared against the sky. A giant shadow emerged, silent at first, drifting upward with eerie grace.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“What... is that?” she whispered, pressing her forehead against the cold iron. The object—an enormous floating structure suspended beneath a bulbous envelope—rose slowly into the sky like a ghost defying gravity.

She had never seen anything like it.

Neither had anyone in Brickvia.

Back in the battlefield, a deep groan of ropes tightening in the sky made soldiers on both sides glance up—then freeze in disbelief.

“Wh-what is that…?” a Brickvian archer whispered, slack-jawed, his bow lowering.

"By the gods..." someone muttered, barely audible over the mounting tension.

"It's flying... it's actually flying..."

Above the battlefield, floating beyond reach like silent ghosts, three massive balloons drifted into view. Suspended beneath each one were woven wicker baskets — and inside, rows of armed men stood braced against the wind.

“Impossible,” muttered Koizumi, his eyes narrowed as if trying to wake from a bad dream. “They’re... flying.”

Masahiro didn’t answer. His eyes locked onto the largest balloon, a knot forming deep in his chest.

Without a sound, the Kuchiwara archers aboard the balloons raised their bows.

Then—

Thwip.

The first volley of arrows screamed through the air, descending in a torrential arc.

"Archers?! From the sky?!"

Screams erupted below as Brickvian soldiers were pierced mid-run. Some collapsed instantly. Others staggered with arrows buried in shoulders, backs, or thighs, bleeding into the grass. Horses neighed in panic, carts overturned, and the lines shattered.

“They’re above us!” shouted one officer. “We can’t reach them!”

Ren, crouched beside Koizumi, shielded his head as arrows stabbed into the ground inches from him. His hands trembled. He looked up again, and for a moment — just a moment — he froze.

The sky was hunting them.

He had trained for ambushes, for terrain, for footwork and silence.

But this…

This was beyond anything Brickvia had ever known.

“We have to retreat!” Suzuki yelled from the front ranks. “We’re sitting ducks out here!”

Waruyama stood still, his jaw locked in rage. “Damn it all—pull back to the second line! Get the wounded out of range!”

Futaba Watari snapped, “Signal the flags! Controlled withdrawal!”

But Masahiro didn’t move.

He stood still, eyes narrowed, calculating as the skyfire rained. His mind spun — a thousand scenarios, none ending in victory.

The plan was lost.

The high ground was lost.

And now, the future was slipping.

Hayate turned to him, voice low and urgent. “Masahiro. We can’t fight what we can’t reach.”

Masahiro clenched his jaw. Then finally, he nodded. “Call it. Retreat. Live to fight another day.”

Below, Ren moved through the wounded, dragging two bleeding soldiers by their arms to safety, eyes still darting up at the floating death above.

He’d never felt so small.

And from the edge of the battlefield, standing among his troops, General Kazan Shigure of Kuchiwara watched with calm satisfaction. His lips curled faintly into a rare smile.

“Yamada Masahiro,” he murmured, “you’ve finally been outclassed.”

The day had passed, inside the stone walls of Brickvia Castle, the war council was heavy with tension.

Yamada Masahiro stood at the head, his expression dark and thoughtful. He paced slowly, hands behind his back, eyes narrowed as he replayed the battlefield in his mind.

“This new weapon changes everything,” Masahiro said finally, voice low but steady. “Our forces were unprepared—and suffered because of it. This... thing,” he gestured vaguely upward as if it still hovered above them, “defies all our experience.”

Several generals exchanged uneasy glances. Lieutenant General Futaba Watari broke the silence.

“If we cannot match this unknown technology, Brickvia will fall behind in this war. And if we fall behind, we will lose everything.”

Masahiro stopped and faced them, eyes blazing with resolve.

“We must acquire this technology before Kuchiwara—and whoever else—uses it to destroy us.”

He slammed a fist on the table.

“I propose a covert mission—to send someone into the Airaseu Empire, where this technology likely originated. We must learn its secrets, steal its designs, and bring it back.”

The room grew quiet. Some generals shifted uncomfortably, others nodded grimly.

Colonel Koizumi spoke up, his voice calm.

“Soldiers sent openly will be too obvious. We need someone who can blend in—who can pass as a student, or civilian.”

“Ren,” Watari said without hesitation.

Eyes turned to Lieutenant General Watari.

“He has a civilian appearance, and the field experience needed. He’s our best chance.”

Masahiro nodded approvingly.

“Prepare the necessary documents. Ren will be given a new identity—a forged student passport, a background as a foreign scholar. He must travel without suspicion and succeed where others would fail.”

The council members absorbed the weight of the decision.

Masahiro’s gaze swept the room, steel in his voice.

“This mission is critical. Failure is not an option. If we do not adapt, Brickvia’s future is in jeopardy.”

The generals exchanged determined looks. The war had just entered a new, uncertain phase.

The next day, the heavy door closed behind Ren with a soft, final thud, sealing him inside the dimly lit war council chamber. Around the long oak table, the kingdom’s highest generals sat in tense silence, faces drawn tight with exhaustion and worry. Lieutenant General Futaba Watari fixed Ren with a piercing gaze.

“Ren,” Watari began quietly, “What we witnessed on the battlefield… it defies everything we know.”

Ren’s pulse quickened.

“Soldiers felled not by the clash of swords or spears, but by arrows raining down from above—from something floating in the sky,” Watari said, voice low, almost reverent. “None of us has a name for it.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the flicker of candlelight.

“We believe this... aerial weaponry might originate from the Airaseu Empire,” Watari said cautiously, “a distant realm known for its scholarly and marvel technologies. But we cannot be certain. It’s only a guess.”

Ren leaned in, heart pounding.

“Brickvia cannot afford to be left behind,” Watari continued. “If this weapon remains a mystery, our soldiers will continue to fall, unprepared.”

The council murmured in agreement, unease rippling through the room.

“We need someone who can slip in unnoticed,” Watari said. “A soldier would raise suspicion. But you—” his eyes narrowed slightly—“you still carry the look of a civilian. You’ve seen combat, but you don’t wear it like the rest of us. That’s why you were chosen.”

Minister Ozaki stepped forward, placing a sealed packet before Ren. “Inside, your new identity awaits—a forged passport, background, and the documents needed to pass as a foreign student from Brickvia.”

Ren stared at the packet.

“You’ll be enrolled at an university in Vabaria,” Ozaki continued, “under a civilian alias. That’s your cover. From there, you'll begin your search.”

“Your mission: find Professor Habi Yusuke, a Brickvia-born scholar in Vabaria. Gain his trust, uncover the truth behind these weapons, and bring back their secrets.”

Watari nodded. “Your civilian appearance makes this possible. They won’t suspect you. But once you're inside… the mission is yours alone.”

Ren’s fingers curled around the packet, the weight of Brickvia’s future pressing firmly against his chest.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

The council watched in silence. No one spoke further. The room didn’t need words—it already knew the risks and Ren had already accepted them.

The room’s tension pressed down on Ren, thick as armor. The generals exchanged grim looks. The hope of Brickvia now rested on one man’s courage to walk unseen among strangers.