The cold wind swept down from the Iron Flower Mountains— carrying with it the bite of winter as it dusted the peaks of the town below. Matterhorn, once a quiet, isolated mountain hamlet nestled along the Fallen Pedal Trail, had transformed into a military stronghold.
Snow collected on the eaves of the traditional wooden houses, their steep, slanted roofs peeking out beneath layers of ice. The once-charming village now bristled with tall, iron-plated walls that loomed around its perimeter. Guard towers stood like silent sentinels at each corner— armed with mortars and lever-action rifles, snipers crouched within, their sights trained on the surrounding mountainside. Mounted gatling guns pointed outward, ready to rain fire down on any would-be attackers.
The streets crawled with soldiers, with their munition-grade armor clinking softly in the cold air. Knights, easily distinguished by the insignias on their armored shoulders, moved amongst them, while issuing orders. They carried lever-action rifles and heavy revolvers strapped to their sides, with their own personal melee weapon strapped on them as well.
But the true muscle of the base camp were the black templars, hulking figures in black and crimson power armor, and were stationed around the Royal Army Branch Office.
The elongated building in the center of Matterhorn, which was once a large longhouse used for local meetings and aid, had been converted into a fortified structure— its windows sealed, and its wooden exterior reinforced with iron plates. The black templars, armed with advanced rivet rifles, stood like menacing statues, their very presence exuding an intimidating aura of power and destruction.
Through the secured doors of the branch office, the interior had been transformed. The lobby, which had once offered warmth and hospitality to the locals, now overflowed with crates of ammunition, high-grade weapons, rations, and mortars. The walls were lined with supply caches, while a makeshift command center had replaced the cozy seating area. Soldiers milled about— distributing the contents of the crates to different units.
And then through the front counter area and into the back offices, there were knights in full armor that sat at their desks across the open space. Their shining armor bore the Pendragon Family Insignia on one shoulder and officer rankings on the other. The rhythmic sound of typewriters filled the air as the knights meticulously typed up their latest reports of their squads..
At the far end of the office, through another set of secured doors, was the war room. Beneath the stark, newly installed fluorescent lights, a massive steel table dominated the center of the room. On it was a sprawling map of the Iron Flower Mountains, which extended into the eastern edges of the Evergreen Forest. The map had been meticulously marked— blue flags denoted the critical points: Matterhorn, the West and East points of the Fallen Pedal Trail, and several other outposts, while a single small red flag marked Forgehart Stronghold— the orc-controlled fortress less than a kilometer away from the East Fallen Pedal Trail Station.
Standing around the table, their gazes focused intently on the map, were the senior officers of the Royal Army, and among them was D'Arce. She was a striking figure, her pale skin and short ginger bob catching the faint glow of the overhead light.
Her muscular frame filled out her armor, every inch of her body built for power. Her arms were thick with muscle, and her legs were equally large and strong— a testament to years of physical training. A six-pack of abdominal muscles pressed against her layer of belly fat, with her definition unmistakable yet attractive in a primal way. Her armor fit snugly against her wide frame— accentuating her large chest and ample curves at her backside. But her posture remained straight, and her expression unreadable as she stood silently among the other officers.
At the head of the table, towering over all of them, was none other than the General of the Royal Army, Lord Aldric Lysander Blackwood— a figure of legend, and myth. At a staggering nine feet tall, his frame was broad and thick like a mountain of muscle, barely contained beneath his ornate black and gold dress uniform. A thick black peacoat, trimmed with gold, draped over his massive shoulders.
His hair was pulled back into a large, regal man-bun, and his beard was thick, framing his chiseled face. His piercing blue eyes scanned the map coldly, calculating, and his demeanor left no room for doubt— he was a man who commanded absolute authority.
Lord Aldric gestured at the map, and with his voice deep and commanding as he spoke to the assembled knights. "We'll begin our assault at seventeen-hundred— Prince Pendragon and his Court of Diamonds shouldn't arrive until the following mornin," he started, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The Forgehart Stronghold is fortified on all sides. Their walls are thick, but not unbreachable. We'll begin by surrounding them."
He pointed to strategic points on the map, marking out positions for his forces. "Our mortar teams will be positioned here and here," he said, pointing to the high ridges that surrounded Forgehart. "The bombardment will be relentless. We'll shell the walls and streets, until the orcs are forced to retreat inside their fortified shelters. They'll be blind and deaf to our movements."
He stepped back, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in. "Once they're huddled like rats in their bunkers, the Black Templars will descend. They will hit the fortress from all sides— drawing the orcs' attention. Their advanced armor and weapons will allow them to absorb the first wave of resistance— creating chaos."
D'Arce stood quietly, absorbing the plan as Aldric continued. "While the orcs are focused on the templars, our knights will scale the walls. Snipers will take position on the surrounding cliffs— picking off any remaining orcs manning the battlements. No ballista will be left operational after the initial strike."
Aldric's eyes narrowed as he traced his finger over the stronghold's gates. "When the battlements are cleared, we'll establish a kill zone outside the main doors. Gatling guns will be positioned here and here. When the orcs attempt to break out, they'll be met with a wall of fire. Our soldiers will be lined up to pick them off as they flee. We'll force them into the open and slaughter them."
He smiled coldly, the expression never quite reaching his eyes. "The remaining orcs will be systematically rounded up. Emperor Pendragon will need all the slave labor he can get for the coming days. And orcs..." He chuckled darkly. "They're remarkably resilient when it comes to hard labor."
The room remained silent, the tension palpable. D'Arce shifted slightly but said nothing, her face impassive as she stood at attention. Like the others, she knew better than to question the General's plans. His strategies had never failed.
Lord Aldric's gaze fell on D'Arce for a moment. "Captain," he said, his voice low but commanding. "I've received word from West Station of a caravan of supposed Maggiore villagers, who are heading there from Muhati… Get a log of every current resident of Maggiore, and have your battalion escort you to meet them before they reach Matterhorn— you're going to verify them."
D'Arce nodded, her voice short and to the point. "Aye, sir."
Aldric gave a curt nod, satisfied, before reaching into his peacoat. He pulled out a cigar, placing it between his lips. With a flick of his fingers, a small magical flame sparked at his fingertips, lighting the tip of the cigar. He took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling.
"Dismissed," he said, his voice like steel, as he puffed out a cloud of smoke.
The knights saluted in unison, their armor clinking as they turned to leave the war room. D'Arce moved with them, her expression as stoic as ever, but her mind already working, preparing her squad for the bloodshed that would follow.
As the heavy doors closed behind them, the war room was left in silence— save for the soft crackle of the General's cigar, as he stared down at the map.
D'Arce rode at the front of her column, with the hooves of her warhorse, Aldwin, crunching the frozen earth beneath them as they descended the trail. Her breath, heavy in the mountain chill, billowed like smoke from her lips— mingling with the cold mist that clung to the Iron Flower Mountains.
Behind her, the rhythmic thud of her squadron's hooves echoed off the rocky cliffs— the creak of leather and metal marking the movements of her two-hundred-strong force. Knights rode in perfect military formation beside her, with their polished rifles strapped to their backs, while the soldiers behind them— armed with a mix of arquebuses and mass-produced lever-action rifles— marched in disciplined rows.
D'Arce's shield, a massive slab of polished steel emblazoned with the Pendragon Family Insignia, was strapped to her left forearm. Her newly acquired red-steel broadsword hung from her hip— its crimson blade radiating a subtle, constant warmth that cut through the chill of the mountains. The heat was a welcome contrast to the icy air, but the weight of it was not just physical— it was symbolic. This sword was a weapon of war, and with it came the reminder of what she had been commanded to do.
As the wind whipped past her face, D'Arce's thoughts churned. 'Aldric's plan to bombard the Forgehart Clan's stronghold, to crush them without a second thought... It feels wrong, and for the life of me… I don't understand why I feel that way.' She thought to herself; conflicted due to her respect of the General's prowess, and his strategy being undeniably sound.
But Prince Arthur Pendragon III had expressed a different vision. The Prince sought diplomacy with the Forgehart Clan— a chance to bridge the gap between humans and orcs, and create lasting peace.
But peace seemed so distant now, overshadowed by war.
Aldric's ambition— and the Empire's hunger for control over the East Station of the Fallen Petal Trail— could not be ignored. That route was vital to securing the outer rim of Central County, and if the Forgehart Clan held it, they held power over more than just the trail. Yet, as D'Arce led her troops down the mountainside, she felt an uneasy conflict within her.
'What, or who for that matter, am I truly fighting for?'
D'Arce grimaced beneath her helmetaa clenching her teeth against the turmoil gnawing at her. 'It… It shouldn't matter,' she told herself. 'Not who, but what. It's always been about what. The Pendragon Empire. I fight for the Empire, just as my father did, just as his father before him.'
But the thought hung in her mind, suspended like a blade above her. 'But then who does the Pendragon Empire serve?'
She felt her pulse quicken, and her grip tightened around the reins. 'Zemuria, or Great Victoria?'
Like a snake slithering in the dark, the truth slid uncomfortably into place— creeping into the back of her mind like poison. 'The Pendragon Empire… Serves the Pendragon Empire.'
The answer stung, and D'Arce flinched. A cold wave of frustration flooded her— overwhelming the warmth of her sword. 'The Empire's interests, its wars, its conquests... Was it ever truly for the good of the people?' The residents of Matterhorn, who had been forced from their homes and businesses, their lives disrupted to make way for this military base. Many had no other option but to venture into the frontier— facing the harsh wilderness with little more than the clothes on their backs, with Maggiore being the nearest settlement.
'Were their sacrifices— my sacrifices— worth it?'
She had spent her life serving the Empire, upholding its laws, and protecting its people. But she couldn't say for certain if what she ever did had ever made a difference in the lives of those who looked up to her for guidance.
'Perhaps the banner of the Pendragon Empire hides a deeper cruelty— a deception that leads to more harm than good?'
The memory of the boy flashed before her eyes— the one she had struck across the face. She had shattered his world shortly after humiliating him by telling him everything wrong with his twisted hatred of goblins. His face— his wide, disbelieving eyes, and his trembling form— haunted her. She had thought it was for his own good, to show him the reality of the world, but the way he had broken down before her hadn't felt right.
'The reason as to why I struck him eludes me… He didn't deserve such cruelty, as neither did the people of Matterhorn…'
Her hand gripped the reins harder as she recalled the aftermath. She had arrested him, sent him away with the Snow Lord to Crossbell, believing that removing him from the battlefield might save him from himself.
But the report had come back weeks later, and her heart had dropped when she read the grim words: her scouts had found the scattered remains of the caged wagon meant to transport him and the broken dark-elf.
They had been ambushed, their bodies never recovered— their rotten, devoured remains left to decay under the hot sun.
She blamed herself for the deaths. For the deaths of her men, the unknown fate of the young boy, and even for the dark-elf, who had been broken by her torture— only to end up back in the same room where she was repeatedly violated and made to endure pain unlike any other.
D'Arce's chest tightened with guilt.
'In all my life… Have I truly saved anyone?'
The captain could feel the weight of her decisions pressing down on her, heavier than her armor, heavier than the shield strapped to her arm. She had always been proud of her duty, of her family's legacy. But as the cold wind swept over the mountainside and her soldiers marched beneath her, she wasn't so sure.
'Have my attempts to protect and those who've sought my help only brought them ruin?'
As her horse trotted forward, D'Arce let out a slow breath, with her face hardening beneath her helm. The silence of the early morning was broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the sound of her squadron of knights, but eventually something up ahead caught her eye. Her breath hitched as she saw it.
'There's the caravan.'
Leading it, at the front, were two figures—one tall, armored, and unmistakable. The other, relaxed and leaning casually on the reins of their horse.
'That can't be…?! It's… It's that boy again— he's alive!'
'Goblin Slayer!'
D'Arce's heart raced in confusion, disbelief overtaking her as she stared. She thought he had died— perished in the ambush that destroyed the caged wagon he had been chained within.
The report from her scouts had confirmed it.
And yet, there he was, as real as the chill of the dawn air— leading a massive procession of over sixty horse-drawn wagons behind him.
Her gaze flickered over the caravan, past the heavy cloth-tarps covering the cargo, to the ambulances— where hill goblins dressed in medical attire were tending to the women. Some of the females D'Arce faintly recognized from previous operations— survivors. Her heart clenched as she watched, uncertainty twisting her gut.
Beside Goblin Slayer, Remi was walking with a carefree smile across their pale face— their relaxed demeanor contrasting starkly with D'Arce's confusion. The sunglasses that shielded their glowing yellow eyes gave them an air of amusement, and as their eyes met the captain's, they raised a casual hand in greeting.
"S'up?" Remi called, with their voice lilting with nonchalance.
D'Arce muttered their alias under her breath, her voice a low murmur, "S-Storm Lord…!"
And just like that, D'Arce second-in-command, who was riding just beside her, barked out a command before she could respond, "Knights, take aim!"
At once, the entire frontline of knights raised their firearms, with their rifles trained on Goblin Slayer and Remi specifically.
The shift was immediate. Remi's body crackled with cyan electricity, the air around them humming with mana as they began to charge. Above, storm clouds swirled into existence, darkening the dawn sky.
Responding to the imminent threat, High Elf Archer drew back her bow with expert precision— twelve arrows nocked, and aimed at ten knights in a single, fluid motion.
Dwarf Shaman, his short, stout form low to the ground, muttered an incantation. The rocky terrain around them rumbled as several boulders rose from the earth, glowing with heat as flames began engulfing them— all of which were ready to strike like falling meteors.
Lizard Priest acted with swift precision, with his clawed hands reaching into his satchel and crushing a handful of fangs. Instantly, he grew, with his form towering and muscular, transforming into a draconic beast. Two massive bone blades materialized in his hands as he let out a deafening dragon roar— shaking the very air. The roar sent fear rippling through the ranks of soldiers, many of whom flinched and trembled. Even some of the knights looked unsettled.
All but D'Arce.
Calm and steady, her visor concealing her expression, D'Arce raised her gauntleted hand; at the same moment, Goblin Slayer lifted his as well.
"That's enough," they both ordered in unison— their calm voices cutting through the tension.
There was a beat of silence, a palpable hesitation. Then, as though choreographed, each member of Goblin Slayer's party slowly lowered their weapons. The storm clouds above began to dissipate as Remi's mana drained from the air— the crackling electricity fading from around their body.
High Elf Archer loosened the tension on her bowstring— arrows retreating into her quiver. Dwarf Shaman muttered another spell under his breath, causing the molten boulders to sink back into the earth, and cooling as they disappeared. Lizard Priest's towering form gradually shrank, with the bone blades dissolving as he reverted to his normal self.
On the other side, D'Arce's knights also obeyed her command. The rifles aimed at Goblin Slayer and his companions lowered, and the soldiers, still shaken from Lizard Priest's roar, gradually followed suit. The momentary chaos gave way to an uneasy calm.
D'Arce's eyes narrowed behind her visor as she turned her attention fully to Goblin Slayer. She recognized his helmet immediately— its dark-metal, sleek edges, the ragged red plume atop it. That unmistakable silhouette. Her heart stirred, though her expression remained unreadable.
"… What is the meaning of this?" She finally asked, with her voice low, firm, and familiar.
Goblin Slayer's posture stiffened. The voice struck him like a hammer— the same monotone voice he hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity. Without any distractions or muttering words, he finally recognized it.
"… D-D'Arce?" he muttered, with his voice bewildered— barely audible under his helmet.
The captain hesitated for a moment, with her heart pounding in her chest. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached up and removed her helmet, revealing her face.
Mature, weathered, and stunning, her features were as sharp and strong as he remembered. Her short ginger hair framed her face, and her eyes locked on his.
For a long moment, they just stared at one another, with the weight of the past hanging between them in the cold air. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint rustling of the wind through the mountains.
Suddenly, Remi chortled, breaking the tension. They leaned over to Goblin Slayer and elbowed him in the ribs with a grin. "Hey Sportsy, is this the broad whose big ol' tiddies ya told me that ya sucked on?" Remi asked, half-playful, half-mocking.
Upon hearing that, High Elf Archer raised an eyebrow before glancing at Goblin Slayer in surprise. Lizard Priest, on the other hand, blinked in curiosity, while Dwarf Shaman stiffened— desperately trying to suppress an immature laugh, despite the high tensions in the chilly air.
D'Arce, however, remained completely unamused— her gaze locked on Goblin Slayer with a stoic calm.
The gray-haired teenager tensed, with his face burning beneath the helmet. "N…Not... N-Not now, please," he muttered through clenched teeth— his voice tight with embarrassment.
Remi cackled, while raising their elbows above their slender shoulders to interlock their fingers behind their head. "M'kay," they said, nodding their head dismissively.
The tension was far from gone, but in that moment, the silent, frozen mountain air seemed to thaw ever so slightly.
The cold wind continued to howl through the narrow mountain pass of the Fallen Petal Trail— the rugged cliffs towering above the narrow path. D'Arce led the formation, with her powerful warhorse moving steadily forward as her knights flanked the sides of the trail in disciplined formation. Behind them trailed the long line of wagons—sixty-nine in total, and each one drawn by sturdy horses and burdened with concealed cargo and passengers.
At the rear of the caravan, Remi lounged atop of the tarp covering their own personal possessions — the slime monster half-amused, and casually watching the rest of the caravan from where they rested. The wagons ahead of them rumbled beneath the heavy tarps— the goblins either on horseback or riding in the wagos themselves, with some tending to the women within.
But D'Arce and Goblin Slayer had moved to the front— well ahead of her troop, and his group. The two of them rode alone, and were separated from the others by the sheer distance between them and the rest of the platoon. The soldiers, even the knights, kept their distance, and though they cast furtive glances, exchanging quiet, speculative whispers, none would dare interrupt.
D'Arce's powerful arms were wrapped firmly around Goblin Slayer, as he sat between her muscular thighs— his smaller, slender-fit frame pressed against her broad chest. Both of them wore their helmets, with the wind slipping through the slits of their visors— brushing against their pale faces.
The teen felt a strange tension— half discomfort, half an unexpected sense of calm— from being so close to her. Her curvy breastplate pressed firmly into his back, with her presence overwhelming.
The silence between them stretched on, filled only by the sound of hooves crunching in the snow. Finally, D'Arce broke the stillness.
"So… What happened in the Muhati Desert?" She asked— her voice a low murmur, almost swallowed by the wind.
Goblin Slayer hesitated. The memories of that day flashed in his mind before he responded, his voice measured and quiet. "Albion... Attacked the wagon. Killed the guards. Took the dark-elf girl with them."
D'Arce's lips pressed together behind her visor. A hum of acknowledgment escaped her, but the weight of the situation settled heavily on her shoulders. She was relieved he survived, but guilt crept in. "So then… That's how she escaped," she murmured quietly to herself, before sighing as she lowered her head slightly. "If I had known Albion was in the Muhati Desert… If I'd known what happened at the Sahara Outpost… I never would've sent you through there."
Goblin Slayer's head dipped slightly as he acknowledged her apology. His tone was more neutral than accusatory. "There was… No way for you to have known— Matterhorn is so far away from the Sahara Outpost," he said. "Besides… If it weren't for Albion, we would've made it to Crossbell safely."
D'Arce grimaced, a pang of guilt twisting deeper in her chest. "P… Perhaps," she murmured, while letting the word linger. The silence returned for a moment before she sighed deeply, the tension easing just enough for her to voice something else that had been troubling her.
"I'm surprised," she began, a touch of humor creeping into her stoic tone. "To see you working with hill goblins— after what you said in my office, no less. For someone who calls himself "Goblin Slayer", that's... Quite the contradiction."
The teen chuckled softly— the sound almost foreign coming from him. A small smile tugged at his lips beneath the helmet. "I… I shouldn't have dismissed you back then… When you tried to explain what imp goblins were," he admitted. His voice softened, reflective. "I've… I've learned since then that the word "goblin" doesn't necessarily mean a short, green-skinned creature."
D'Arce hummed again, her voice as calm and monotonous as ever. "Is that so?" She asked, with a hint of curiosity buried beneath her tone. "Then tell me... What is a goblin?"
Goblin Slayer took a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "A goblin," he began, "is anyone who's wicked. It's anyone who's forfeited their right to live, by harming the innocent. It's anyone who invades the lives of others, and takes away their peace of mind."
D'Arce fell silent— repeating his words in her mind, and letting them linger as they rode on. After a moment, she reached a hand up, with her gauntleted palm pressing lightly against Goblin Slayer's leather chest-piece. Feeling her strong hand on his lightly-armored pectorals, the teenager stiffened— flustered by the feeling, and the unmistakable pressure of her armored breasts pressing up against his back.
"What... W-What are you doing…?!" He stammered, with his voice awkward, and unsure of what to make of the situation.
D'Arce's lips then hovered near his ear, with her voice a quiet whisper, sharp and deliberate. "Would you consider the Pendragon Empire to be goblins, then…?" She asked, with her muffled voice reaching past the orichalum plating of his helmet.
A heavy silence fell between them— thick with unspoken tension. The wind continued to howl, and their horse trotted forward, as though the mountains themselves were unbothered by the gravity of her words. In the distance, the rest of the caravan followed— the soldiers and wagons marching onward up the trail.
After a long pause, D'Arce tightened her hold on him, her voice dropping to a low, intimate tone. "You can tell me the truth: I shall not betray your trust a second time," she whispered, with the sincerity in her voice cutting through the cold air.
Goblin Slayer shifted uncomfortably in her embrace— the weight of her words heavy on him. He hesitated before speaking, his voice quiet and guarded. "I… You understand my reluctance, don't you…?"
D'Arce's chest rose and fell beneath her armor as she took in a slow, deep breath. She exhaled softly, her voice steady as she replied, "I understand… Trust is earned, not given— and is nearly impossible to mend once broken…" There was a brief pause before she added, "After what I've done… I owe you a debt… So let me pay it back— let me stick my neck out for you…"
Goblin Slayer furrowed his brows behind his helmet, perplexed by her words. "What... W-What are you-?" He began, but D'Arce interrupted him— her voice barely more than a whisper, yet sharp as a blade.
"The General of the Royal Army is in Matterhorn— Lord Aldric," she said, her voice edged with anxiety. "He has five thousand soldiers ready to take the Forgehart Stronghold by sundown. He has a Blackwatch executive captive, and plans to use her as false evidence to prove to Prince Pendragon that the Forgehart Clan had been harboring her— making up a false narrative that the Forgehart Clan were the ones who attacked the wagon you were on… That they were the ones who freed her…"
Goblin Slayer tensed at the news, with his pulse quickening. "W… Wh-What…?!" His voice shook with disbelief.
"Before the prince arrives, they'll have already bombarded the battlements of the stronghold," D'Arce continued, her tone grim. "Then they'll send in the black templars— special forces in powered armor… They're armed with fully automatic rivet rifles... Six-inch armor-piercing rounds— enough to tear through even a dragon's scales…"
Goblin Slayer's mind raced, his stomach churning with anxiety at the thought of the Black Templars. "Why… Why are you telling me all of this…?"
"Because," D'Arce murmured— her voice wavering, "I want to earn your trust…"
There was then a pause, and a vulnerability that slipped into her tone as she continued— quieter now. "Y-You're… You're not the only one who's changed since we last met…"
Goblin Slayer's breath hitched, sensing the shift in her demeanor. "What do you mean…?" He asked softly.
D'Arce then leaned her helmet against the back of his, with her voice a quiet confession. "I've had time to reflect... On my choices… What I've almost done to you… Seeing the Royal Army force the residents of Matterhorn from their homes... People who I've known for years... Force into the wilderness, where they have little chance of survival... It's all made me question what I'm really fighting for…"
Goblin Slayer's heart softened, a faint flicker of empathy sparking within him. "Is that so…? Then, what do you want to fight for…?"
D'Arce hesitated, her voice trembling slightly as she whispered, "For the innocent… For those who can't protect themselves from the horrors of this world… For those who trust the lives of their family in my hands…"
Goblin Slayer nodded slowly, with his own resolve mirroring hers. "It seems then," he said, his voice quiet but certain, "that we have the same goal…"
D'Arce smiled, though there was no joy behind it. "It appears we do…"
The silence between them felt different now— warmer, more comfortable. As the towering outer wall of Matterhorn came into view— bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun, D'Arce's voice broke the silence once more, determined and resolute.
"Follow my lead," she whispered, "and place your trust in me— I shall not fail you... Or the innocent lives that depend on us…"
Goblin Slayer's tense shoulders finally relaxed, and he leaned back against her chest— a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "…. Xavniik said the same thing," he murmured, with the amusement in his voice barely concealed.
D'Arce raised an eyebrow behind her visor, her tone curious, yet intense. "What are you on about…?"
The teenager chuckled softly, with his smile widening beneath his helmet. "He told me that the Pendragon Empire were the worst goblins of all…"
For a moment, D'Arce was taken aback, blinking in confusion before letting out a small, incredulous scoff. "That's... Debatable, from at least a historical standpoint," she muttered before pausing— a quiet laugh escaping her. "But... That does sound like something Xavniik would say…"
The dimly lit war room of Matterhorn's command center was quiet— save for the soft scratching of pen against paper.
Aldric, seated in a cushioned office chair, leaned over the expansive map laid out on the table. His large notebook sprawled over its edge, and was filled with notes and strategies. With calm precision, he continued to write, methodical in his movements— unaffected by the swirling political storm outside the war room's walls.
The heavy iron doors creaked open, and First Lieutenant Haman Zavala stepped into the room— her long strides carrying her swiftly to the table's edge. Her presence was striking— sleek, ornate knight armor hugged her form, silver and black with blue accents catching the muted light. Her sharp, aquiline features were framed by short, maroon hair, with her ice-blue eyes narrowed with confusion and outrage. But despite the storm brewing beneath her composure, she maintained her discipline— stopping respectfully across from Aldric.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Her voice was firm, though it trembled ever so slightly—the weight of her question hanging between them.
Aldric did not lift his head. His pen continued its smooth glide across the paperaa the scratching sound almost irritating in the oppressive silence. Finally, with the same calculated slowness, he nodded. "… Granted."
Haman wasted no time. Her fingers curled into fists, though she kept them at her sides. "I must respectfully ask... Why did you authorize Captain D'Arce to escort the caravan? Especially when I told you that she didn't even verify any of them?" She inhaled sharply, then continued, her voice rising with her indignation. "We should have killed Storm Lord and that boy when we had the chance. They were in the center of Matterhorn, vulnerable. The rest of the caravan should have been executed— especially since they handed over Moon Lord's victims so willingly. They were without leverage— it was a wasted opportunity to prevent them from sabotaging our mission."
Aldric's pen paused. He let the silence stretch— savoring the tension that seemed to coil around her like a serpent. Haman stood, her breath bated, and eyes wide with bewilderment, while her composure was barely holding. Slowly, the general glanced up— his eyes cold and impassive, meeting hers with a look that made the blood drain from her face. His stare was penetrating, a quiet menace behind his otherwise stoic expression.
Then, with a humorless chuckle, he repeated her words. "You wanted to execute D'Arce, and that entire caravan?"
The calmness of his voice was unnerving. Haman stammered, fighting to regain her composure. "I... I've read the case file on his arrest— that boy who calls himself "Goblin Slayer"," she said, her voice shaky. "Written by Captain D'Arce herself. She clearly states that she believes he's an ally of the Forgehart Clan." Her voice grew louder, her frustration boiling over. "And he's fucking allies with Storm Lord! That alone should be enough reason to kill him!"
Her fists clenched tighter as she bit back her rage— forcing herself to breathe. After a moment, she cleared her throat and added, in a more measured tone, "I just need to understand. Why did you authorize that? What was your reason?"
Aldric took his time— finishing the last stroke of his notes before placing his pen down carefully beside the notebook. He leaned back in his chair, while folding his hands together thoughtfully, as the silence returned to the room— thick and tense.
After a moment of consideration, he looked back into Haman's eyes, with his gaze unwavering. The depth of it shook her to her core, and she involuntarily gasped, the sound barely audible as she felt an almost primal fear grip her.
His voice was calm when he spoke. "All will be revealed within the top of the hour, First Lieutenant," Aldric said smoothly. "There has been a development in our war against terrorism. I have devised a plan that will overturn the Prince's bill to the Emperor. We will not halt our expansion at the Iron Flower Mountains— not with Captain D'Arce at that caravan at our disposal."
A stunned silence filled the room, the weight of Aldric's words pressing down on Haman. She hesitated before nodding slowly. "I... I see," she muttered, though her voice betrayed her confusion.
A few moments passed before she gathered her courage once more, her hand trembling slightly as she asked, "P… Permission to speak freely again, sir?"
A low, amused chortle escaped Aldric's lips— though his smile remained thin and devoid of warmth. "Granted."
Haman's eyes narrowed, her gaze shifting toward the end of the table. "Does any of this… New development of yours, have anything to do with… Him?" The lieutenant asked with a wary voice— her attention focused on the young man at the end of the table.
There, seated with his helmet off, was Captain. His long brown hair was tied back into a tight ponytail, with his bangs cascading over his forehead— covering all but his right eye: a sharp, crimson iris that seemed to see through everything.
His expression was unreadable, as always— stoic and silent. His new sleek crimson armor gleamed under the dim lights— the gold captain's insignia on his shoulder matching with the Pendragon Empire's insignia on the other.
Aldric's smirk widened, his voice thick with ominous pride. "Yes," he said softly, his tone deliberate. "It does."
He leaned back in his chair, the soft creak of the leather echoing in the room as he pressed his fingertips together. "Captain Akira Ashta and his squad will be present for the next meeting."
The tension in the air was palpable, the weight of what was left unsaid pressing down on Haman as her gaze lingered on the enigmatic captain at the end of the table. She swallowed hard, the realization of the gravity of the situation settling over her like a shroud.