On the fourth day after returning to the border outpost, dawn had not yet broken.

  The wind was faint, as if the whole plain were holding its breath.

  The soldiers stood guard in shifts.

  Those who slept, slept.

  Those who woke, spoke nothing.

  Only the alchemist’s instruments still swayed faintly.

  He sat with a scroll across his knees, copying lines at speed—

  As if afraid he’d forget something.

  I stood behind him, watching his hand draw circles—

  Over and over, like a maze.

  Or a spell diagram.

  “What are you writing?” I asked.

  He didn’t turn.

  “Magic frequencies.”

  “From that cluster the enemy left behind?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve labeled it ‘Band E.’

  While it fluctuates, it achieves over thirty percent resonance with the Divine Construct’s core systems.”

  “The Divine Construct?” I repeated.

  He paused his writing and finally looked back.

  “You don’t know?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I don’t need to.

  I am here to execute, not interpret.

  If the throne commands we crush the Fiendkins,

  I don’t need reasons.

  If they say the Divine Construct is the kingdom’s future light,

  Then I’ll clear every shadow in its path.

  “Compile the data. Send it to the capital,” I ordered.

  “You’re not going to read the results?”

  “My result is victory,” I said.

  The royal response arrived that morning—far faster than usual.

  It came by covert courier, sealed twice—once by the royal crest, once by the church’s fire sigil.

  I didn’t open it.

  The lieutenant passed it to the alchemist.

  He read it under shade, said nothing, and tucked it away.

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  “The royal house denied further analysis,” he replied.

  “The church agreed—it’s been declared ‘heretical pollution.’ No further study.”

  I nodded.

  A sound decision.

  We are not scholars.

  We are a purging force.

  Heresy is not to be studied.

  It is to be destroyed.

  In the following days, our advance resumed.

  We pushed into the southeastern forest zone.

  Three ambushes. Two repelled. One escaped.

  Casualties are minimal. But the tension rose.

  Not because the enemy was strong—

  But because they were silent.

  We thought the Fiendkins would rally in groups.

  But this time, they avoided direct contact.

  They left behind magic traces.

  Shadows.

  A constant watchfulness—but no clash.

  Some soldiers said they saw “laughing shadows” at night.

  I ignored such reports.

  What mattered was this:

  We seized four positions, established outposts, and blocked three old roads.

  The Fiendkins were being pushed back.

  But they hadn’t resisted yet.

  The child did not reappear.

  Nor the black cat.

  They were waiting. Or preparing.

  They hadn’t fought.

  Which meant—they had other plans.

  We entered an abandoned village as the first snow fell.

  The homes were ruined. The ground iced over.

  It was a graveyard without sound.

  The lieutenant’s team found a small magic stone by a dry well.

  The alchemist confirmed it:

  “Same as Band E. Same caster group.”

  I ordered it sealed. No use.

  A soldier asked, “Can we use this?”

  I replied, “It’s not ours. We won’t win by stealing from them.”

  He nodded. No further questions.

  That night, we made camp.

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  Soldiers warmed themselves by fire.

  The lieutenant checked the perimeter.

  The alchemist sat alone, eyes troubled.

  I approached and sat beside him.

  He hesitated, but didn’t move.

  “You’re still thinking about that magic?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “It’s too clean.

  No conflict signal. No corrupted residue.

  It’s like it was sanitized before being left.”

  “Sanitized?”

  “Yes. It’s not like combat magic.

  More like...

  residue from a device powering up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Softly, he said:

  “Like something that breathes. On its own.”

  I was silent for a moment.

  “If the enemy can build such a device,” I said,

  “Then all the more reason not to hesitate.”

  He looked at me.

  Didn’t nod.

  Didn’t shake his head.

  I continued:

  “We’re not here to understand them.

  We’re here to end them.”

  Three fires burned out. Only the central one remained.

  I hadn’t ordered them to dim the camp—but the men knew.

  In places like this, too much light is a risk.

  The enemy wasn’t near.

  But they were watching.

  Always watching.

  From a tent, someone began to pray.

  I recognized the voice—the girl from the mess unit.

  She spoke an old dialect, almost extinct.

  Her pronunciation was poor, but the rhythm was correct.

  She said the words I’d grown up hearing:

  “May the Lord anoint the blade of flame,

  That the faithful may never doubt.”

  I didn’t stop her.

  Some faith needs no sermon.

  The battlefield itself is the divine’s pulpit.

  That night, a soldier requested reassignment.

  Youngest in the unit—first tour on the front.

  He said, “I’ve seen the same Fiendkin—seven nights in a row.

  It just stands outside camp. Smiling.”

  The lieutenant asked, “You sure it wasn’t a dream?”

  He nodded.

  “It looked right at me.

  It said I’d grow horns someday.”

  I examined him.

  Not mad. But unstable.

  “Reassign him,” I ordered.

  “He’ll return with the next supply caravan.”

  He didn’t protest. Just bowed.

  Before leaving, he turned to me and asked:

  “If they really become like us...

  How do we tell the difference?”

  “You don’t need to,” I replied.

  “You need to follow orders.”

  He asked no more.

  We don’t need to distinguish.

  No matter how human they look—they don’t live like humans.

  No family trees. No cities. No tombstones.

  No records. Only resistance.

  They don’t seek land. They want—exchange.

  They speak in terms. Imitate language.

  They craft illusions.

  They make themselves seem “negotiable.”

  But they aren’t here to talk.

  They are interference.

  They twist the “is” by mimicking “seems.”

  On the fifth day, we received a new notice from the capital.

  It didn’t mention our battles.

  Just a church edict:

  “All things resonating with Fiendkins are henceforth heresy.”

  The wording was clinical, calm.

  It was waiting in a drawer—just for this moment.

  I ordered the alchemist to burn all duplicate records.

  He did so, without expression.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I’m not a commentator,” he replied.

  “I’m a recorder.”

  “You shouldn’t just be a recorder.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Just watched a scrap of unburned paper turn in the ash like a hesitant butterfly.

  We set out again.

  The wind turned north.

  The soil was frozen.

  Wheels sank deeper.

  The lieutenant led from the front.

  I walked to the center.

  The soldiers no longer whispered about shadows.

  They no longer asked what it was.

  They simply eliminated it.

  We marched along a frozen river for two days.

  No enemies in sight.

  Only the occasional wisp of magic over the ice—identical to that first trap.

  “They’re ahead,” I said.

  “How do you know?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Because now they know how to hide their scent.

  And the kind of enemy who hides—is one that’s afraid.”

  “Should we pursue them?”

  “It’s not a pursuit,” I said.

  “It's an advancement.”

  And so we kept walking.

  No drums.

  No new orders.

  The snow and wind carried us forward.

  We weren’t waiting for command.

  We were the command.