Let’s rewind six months before Pupil arrived in this world. The Kingdom’s army was plotting an assault on the Empire’s marching supply depot—a mission assigned to the Wild Wolves, the most undisciplined unit in the Kingdom’s notoriously rowdy Third Army.
[*Saying this job’s "ours alone" just means they don’t value us.*]
Hank crouched behind a desert boulder, eyes fixed on the enemy depot.
[*Damn right! I was hoping to sack a city and play with its pretty girls!*]
A short soldier leered.
[*All you ever think about is women! I’d grab cash and live it up back home.*]
Another soldier shot back with a sneer.
[*Quiet! First squad draws fire with me upfront. Mons takes second squad to set the blaze. Drey covers their retreat with third squad—side route.*]
Hank sketched a rough battle plan.
[*Why overcomplicate? Burn, kill, loot—done!*]
A turbaned soldier cut him off.
[*I doubt heavy guards, but caution saves lives.*]
Hank replied firmly.
[*Captain’s right. Green flare from my staff means retreat successful. Red means danger—run.*]
Mons stepped forward, staff in hand, explaining the signals.
[*Relax. Burning a depot’s no big risk.*]
The short soldier scoffed at Mons.
[*Heh. You’re always first to flee, hypocrite.*]
Drey smirked at the short man.
[*Enough! Move out!*]
Hank silenced them.
This should’ve been a 99% sure victory. But fate loves its 1% surprises.
[*RED FLARE! Mons failed—RUN!*]
The short soldier bolted first.
[*Damn it! How do you even fail at burning grain?!*]
As Hank cursed, a sandstorm parted—revealing a tall, lean figure gripping a one-handed sword.
[*CAPTAIN! RUN!!!*]
Mons suddenly staggered past him, blood-soaked and missing an arm.
[*What happened?! Who did this?!*]
Mons was no weakling. Only a monster could break him like this.
[*The Hellhound Squad! RUN!!!*]
Agony shredded Mons’ voice.
[*Hellhounds?! Why’s the Empire’s elite unit here?!*]
Cold sweat drenched Hank’s back.
[*Too late for that.*]
A red-haired man materialized behind them, sword flashing—Mons’ leg severed clean.
[*Fissure Fist!!!*]
Hank lunged to save him, fist aimed at the redhead’s ribs. The blow landed—but the man didn’t flinch.
[*Where’s the "fissure" in that punch?*]
The redhead smirked.
[*Bastard!!!*]
Hank swung again. The sword blocked effortlessly.
[*Let me show you how it’s done.*]
The redhead’s grin turned demonic. His blade sliced through Hank’s attacking arm.
[*AAAAAGH!!!!*]
Hank’s scream tore across the desert.
[*Wolves can’t fight hellhounds.*]
The sword lifted for the killing stroke—
[*CAPTAIN! GO!!!*]
One-legged Mons tackled the redhead from behind.
[*MONS!!!*]
Despair choked Hank’s cry.
[*Buying time?*]
The redhead spun, driving his sword through Mons’ heart.
[*Run… Captain…*]
Mons collapsed.
[*Your turn.*]
The redhead turned. Hank was already sprinting toward the Republic’s border. He hated abandoning comrades—but Mons’ sacrifice demanded he live.
[*Heh. Wild Wolves do run fast.*]
The redhead sheathed his sword.
[*Captain! We’ve captured most enemies. The rest fled toward the Republic—pursue?*]
An imperial soldier saluted.
[*No need. They’re too weak to be fun. Let’s slowly torture the ones we caught instead.*]
The redhead smiled faintly, walking back to camp.
