They weren’t killed.

  That news came just as the frost set in.

  We’d set camp near the northern cliffs,

  still cleaning up after driving off a raiding squad.

  Blood and snow still mixed in the dirt.

  A scout brought the report:

  The lieutenant and the girl were seen behind enemy lines.

  No chains.

  No wounds.

  No resistance.

  They were walking with a group of succubi.

  Uniforms intact.

  Steps calm.

  Neither close nor distant from the Fiendkins.

  They looked like... interpreters.

  Post-truce personnel.

  “They didn’t look like prisoners,” the scout said.

  I gave no reply.

  This wasn’t fact.

  This was insult.

  I gathered all the soldiers at the main campfire.

  I stood at the center line.

  “They’re alive,” I said.

  “But they are no longer ours.”

  No one questioned me.

  I know that in the Hero’s world,

  ‘being alive’ is not the goal—it’s a means.

  If you surrender,

  it doesn’t matter that you breathe.

  If you go silent,

  it doesn’t matter that you survive.

  If you stand beside the enemy and offer no excuse,

  no struggle, no attempt to return—

  Then you have already betrayed our world.

  The lieutenant was trained.

  She knew the procedures.

  She could’ve left a signal.

  Scratched her name in the snow.

  She did nothing.

  She simply stood there.

  And that’s enough.

  Enough to say—she no longer belongs to us.

  The girl is even less worth pity.

  No post.

  No rank.

  No official duty.

  Her leaving was her choice.

  Some said she was quiet.

  Diligent.

  Knew how to cook.

  I won’t remember any of that.

  A human army is not held together by “quiet people.”

  It runs on execution.

  On cadence.

  On every boot striking the earth in a unified rhythm.

  She broke that rhythm.

  She slowed down—

  before the betrayal even occurred.

  I sat by the fire.

  Stars above.

  Camp hushed.

  Snow had stopped.

  Flames danced.

  I overheard someone say,

  “Maybe they were brainwashed?”

  I didn’t turn. I said:

  “Those who are brainwashed—struggle.

  They don’t stand there, quietly, beside the enemy.”

  Silence followed.

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  The enemy’s plan is clear.

  They don’t kill us.

  They return our own—

  not as weapons,

  but as hesitation.

  They send back voices.

  Not blades.

  If we begin to wonder,

  they succeed.

  If we begin to wait,

  they advance.

  I don’t wait.

  I etched a command into the center post:

  “Lieutenant—Treason. Mess Unit—Same.”

  It would be copied. Filed.

  They would become missing numbers in a rotation chart.

  Their slots filled.

  Their names erased.

  This is not abandonment.

  This is a reformation.

  This is human strength—

  Not in winning—

  But in erasing those who leave.

  I dreamed the lieutenant stood on a raised platform.

  Wearing Fiendkin garb.

  Silent.

  The girl stood behind her.

  Hands folded at her waist.

  Also silent.

  Below, Fiendkins.

  Their faces blurred like ink-washed figures.

  They made no sound.

  Only watched.

  And accepted.

  I woke up with my hand still gripping my sword.

  Next morning, a new report arrived.

  The enemy hadn’t interrogated them.

  No chains.

  No punishment.

  This silence—more effective than any torture.

  “Why didn’t they harm them?” a soldier asked.

  “Because they already did,” I said.

  Fiendkins are skilled in suggestion.

  They don’t scream about their goals.

  They quietly change your interpretation.

  They don’t destroy belief.

  They erode it.

  Their silence invites empathy.

  Their stillness triggers questions.

  “Maybe... they have a reason.”

  “Maybe... they deserve understanding.”

  And then, on the battlefield,

  where you should strike without pause—

  you hesitate.

  That’s how they win.

  The lieutenant stands.

  Does not speak.

  And that silence is their strike.

  The girl stands.

  Does not weep.

  And that stillness is their disruption.

  They surrender—by simply existing.

  I once read a church text before battle:

  “The power of Fiendkins lies not in the blade—but in making you sheathe yours.”

  Now I understand it.

  Not all enemies draw swords.

  But you—

  you will put yours away,

  and whisper to yourself:

  “Maybe we should wait.”

  That’s how they win.

  That night, I saw two soldiers burn an old letter.

  The fire lit their fearful faces.

  They saluted as I approached.

  I didn’t ask what the letter said.

  I didn’t care.

  I only said,

  “Next time—don’t wait for dark.”

  They nodded.

  “Hesitation spreads.

  Contagion spreads.

  And that’s how we fall.”

  I walked on.

  They stomped their feet more firmly.

  We revised the roster.

  Two names erased.

  The system updated.

  The gate’s banner changed.

  A red stripe added over black and gold.

  That stripe is a warning.

  Not to the enemy.

  To ourselves.

  I stood outside camp.

  Watched the mountains in the distance.

  The wind had grown colder—

  like something was gathering beyond those ridges.

  But I did not fear.

  Because now—we’ve learned to recognize it.

  They do not speak.

  They do not struggle.

  They do not return.

  That is our answer.