“This is strange.”

Avalel looks silently at the reports before him, the Anapadeia by his side. Outside, the muffled chatter of soldiers fill the otherwise empty void of his tent, their sounds barely giving any solace to this rather peculiar predicament. The pictures of various officers lie on the desk, accompanied each by a single page of text. Avalel has already read through them all. His eyes now stay fixated at the pictures, each stamped over with a single bolded word: deceased.

The battle of Pos is already over. Weeks over. The soldiers, already properly rested, should be ready for the next campaign. The Confederation forces have already completely abandoned their holdings east of the Pass, hunkering and building up their defenses at the crucial junction itself. After all, there is nothing but empty wastelands and sprawling slums after Pos, the roads all destroyed by the retreating Confederation army, the only cover being small hills and former Confederation trenches. The bombardments, once a daily occurrence, are no more, the New Rule now fully controlling the air space east of the Irrenl Mountains.

And yet, in this brief respite, he sees reports such as these on an irregular basis, officers dropping dead in their sleep, sometimes even when several soldiers are standing guard. The chain of command is not severely cut, but still somewhat disrupted. Even with the knowledge that these deceased officers were once merely insignificant pawns in his campaign, it’s certainly a nuisance, a rather annoying attempt to slow their advances.

“Klarsten, what do you make of this?” he asks, beckoning for his aide-de-camp to approach.

“I don’t know if that’s on your mind, but what do you think of a Confederation agent among our midst?” Klarsten proposes.

“Unlikely,” Avalel quickly dismisses. “The chances of an enemy soldier pretending to be one of us are minimal. If they wanted to infiltrate and disrupt our chain of command, they could’ve easily done so during the battle when there was far less organization and attention to discipline, nevermind the identity of our ranks.”

“There seems to be many officers under suspicion of various crimes who were assassinated as well,” Klarsten notices. “Here, Company Leader Uri was accused of negligence over an entire squad during the battle. And here, Squad Leader Laiela was under investigation for the death of a comrade who used to compete against him for the Squad Leader role. And if we were to trace it back to the earliest cases—”

“And what are you suggesting from that?” Avalel hisses. For a brief moment, he glares at Klarsten, his left eye temporarily flashing a red streak burning into Klarsten’s gaze. “The military is not morally corrupt… Or perhaps you are suggesting I am at fault for allowing such officers to command our troops despite their alleged crimes?”

“What are you talking about?” Klarsten responds, irked by the question. “I’m merely noting the patterns between victims. I have never even implied there was any fault on your part.”

“Then what was the point of mentioning those patterns?”

“You said ‘what do you make of this’, didn’t you? I’m only doing what you asked me to do.”

“Klarsten.” A single word. Avalel completely brushes aside the reports, his eyes fixated on Klarsten’s insolence. The Anapadeia is so near, so tempting. He doesn’t need to strike. To force the latter into submission by threats is enough. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Such an attitude needs to be responded accordingly. After all, Klarsten is just his aide-de-camp…

“Are you seriously considering threatening me over a minor argument?” Klarsten suddenly lowers his voice, his eyes unfaltering as he parries Avalel’s glare. “Your arrogant anger. It’s acting up again. You’re not… yourself, if I have to say so.”

Avalel didn’t even realize it. He should be aware. Klarsten has angered him before, but definitely not over such a petty reason. And to think he even considered utilizing the Anapadeia in such a situation… It’s not reasonable at all. The stress, the will to control, the cacophony of voices in his head, speaking to him, taking shape in his dreams… Is it really inevitable?

“Just… Whatever,” he finally relents, realizing the futility of such a useless argument. “Sorry for jumping to conclusions. Let’s just focus on the reports.”

They file through the reports in silence, Avalel looking at faces and names he barely even remembers, assuming he had ever met them before. They might have been liked or hated, respected or feared, laid-back or strict. He’ll never know. All of these soldiers, subordinates under his command, were killed without any reason.

It’s not as if you care about them any longer. You don’t know them as well as them, their fates not even affecting yours in the slightest.

Then what is this strange sense of sadness? An emotion not felt for so long he had almost forgotten about it, a lingering taste of the grief he had first tasted when he was at the Pass. The bitterness, the helplessness, uncharacteristic of a leader, but of a recruit fresh into battle.

He hasn’t felt this since he has become alone at the top, removed from all the closeness he had once felt with his now-dead companions.

If only—

“Wait, actually, I remembered something,” Klarsten says, interrupting his thoughts. “I believe the scene of Company Leader Uri’s death should still be preserved. She was found dead just this morning, and her body should be still awaiting an autopsy in the field hospital.”

Avalel looks up, replanting himself into reality. “Are you suggesting we head to the hospital now?”

“Yes, but you look like you’re thinking of something,” Klarsten says apologetically. “We can head there later.”

“No, I’m not thinking of anything too important,” Avalel shrugs. “Just exploring different possibilities, but nothing can advance our investigations better than heading to the scene itself.” He stands, gently patting off the small specks of dust that accumulated on his coat. “Plus, it’s a breath of fresh air to perhaps give our minds some new insights.”

“Alright… As you desire.”

They exit the tent, Avalel feeling Klarsten’s worried glance from behind. It’s natural for his rather observant aide-de-camp, the young man being especially acquainted with Avalel’s every bit of movement. Even during the brief argument earlier, Klarsten had carefully deflected Avalel’s words and mannerisms, calming the temporarily volatile mood of the latter and redirecting their attention to the investigation.

“Did you think I was thinking of her again?” Avalel asks, turning his head just to see Klarsten’s eyes shirk back.

“Well… not really, but I was worried,” Klarsten answers, laughing nervously. “I thought I had said something wrong to make you feel as if your pride had been wounded.”

“No, that was mostly my fault,” Avalel says. “You did well to calm me down before it had escalated further.”

“That’s a relief,” Klarsten sighs.

The two of them march towards the field hospital, Avalel saluting to the soldiers as he passes by, giving a brief compliment or two as their boots crush the dry soil. Some are patrols, their rifles slung behind their back as their pikes serve almost as walking sticks, preserving their energy. Some, bored after a meal, are simply talking with each other, their uniforms disheveled as their suits of armor are placed in a nearby pile. However, as the two approach the hospital, they can hear muffled grunts in the distance, soldiers wounded to varying degrees barely mustering a salute as they pass by. The crippled, the sick, the blind, the shell-shocked… Even after the battle has ended so long, they are still in their pits of agony, awaiting their turn to be dispatched home, to be healed, or simply… to be dead.

Avalel sighs, shaking his head lightly before they enter the presence of some guards, behind a hospital tent fenced off and isolated from the rest of the camp.

“My comrades,” Klarsten says, saluting as he makes his way closer to the entrance. “The President wants to investigate the scene of crime.”

Without even a word, the guards part, one going to open the entrance to the tent as they make way for Avalel and Klarsten. Unlike the enthusiastic rank-and-file soldiers, the veteran guards merely nod as they pass, showing the basic respect demanded from superior to subordinate. It’s normal. After all, these guards have served in the military for far longer than Avalel has, and with such experience comes a sort of pride, unable to be shaken even in the presence of the New Rule’s savior himself.

Inside is somewhat of a chaotic mess. Doctors and nurses rush about amidst the weak groans of the injured soldiers, administering various forms of medicine or painkillers. Recovering patients hobble around the tent, making one shaky step after another, hoping to at least regain their footing. Faint smells of decaying flesh waft into Avalel and Klarsten’s noses despite the flooding scents of disinfectant, soap, and artificial fragrances to at least keep up an appearance of sanitary conditions. The patients, at least those still conscious, salute at the sight of their President, their smiles wavering, their eyes twitching. As Avalel walks past a bed, he notices thick layers of bandages wrapped around the unconscious occupant’s stomach, the middle tainted with a dark patch of red.

It’s too familiar.

All of a sudden, his vision blurs, acid rushing up his throat in a spontaneous burst. He quickly cups his hands over his mouth, his pupils constricting as flashes of red stab into his eyes.

“Avalel!” Klarsten cries in worry, quickly supporting Avalel, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “You alright?”

“N-No, I’m fine,” Avalel quickly responds, lifting his pale face as he resumes his walk. “Just a moment of shock, nothing more.” Far better to show a brief moment of weakness than to worry my subordinates.

“But you—”

“I’m fine,” Avalel reiterates firmly. There is no need for them to know. Wiping his lips, erasing the slightly sour taste, he continues until he reaches an isolated ward, a door instead of curtains standing in their way. In front is a single sign: Autopsy Room. Shaking away the previous distraction, he pushes open the door, stepping inside with a confident stride.

The room is frankly… immaculate. Jars, devices, machines, tools… All are neatly organized into rows and columns, neat formations staring at the central table. The assortments of glassware almost seem to glow from reflecting the lights above, illuminating the room in a frighteningly bright manner. On the table is a woman of average height and build, her body mostly draped over by a white sheet as her armor hangs by the side upon a rack. By her side is a doctor, meticulously marking the corpse with a pen, taking care not to damage the body too much with the metal tool.

“Oh, sorry, but we’re— President?” the doctor looks up, visibly surprised at the esteemed visitor. “What brings you here to this rather disgusting room?”

“To help investigate a case of murder, perhaps quite a few cases of murder,” Avalel answers. He has forgotten the doctor’s name. “This is former Company Leader Uri’s body, right?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies. “From the autopsy, I managed to find several patterns between Uri’s death and the other— wait!”

As Avalel reaches for the white sheet, his wrist is immediately grabbed on by the doctor, the latter in visible fright. Klarsten, standing behind, is stunned, shocked at the sudden and rude act. Immediately realizing his impertinence, the doctor quickly releases his grip, petrified at what she had done.

“I-I’m sorry for grabbing your wrist so violently!” she exclaims.

“Is the President not allowed to examine the victim’s body as well?” Avalel questions, surprised at the doctor’s reaction earlier.

“No, just that—”

Avalel reaches for the end of the table, supposedly where the head will be covered. Instead, the sheet simply dips, leaving an awkwardly empty space on the table. As he lifts the sheet, he sees only the severed neck, the wound forcefully blocked by burning the exposed flesh.

“President… Uri and the others were all decapitated,” the doctor finally says apologetically. “I didn’t want you to see the gruesome sight in person, so I… I’m sorry for grabbing you earlier.”

“I can see where you’re coming from,” Avalel says, completely unfazed. “But you’ve already informed me of the causes of death in your reports. I am a soldier as well, doctor.”

“Do you have any ideas on the weapon used?” Klarsten asks, attempting to change the topic.

“Y-Yes, the weapon,” the doctor says, the color returning to her face. “From the clean slash, I’d first hypothesize it was caused by a heavy, two-handed weapon, perhaps an axe, but…”

“But?” Avalel asks.

“An axe is far too unwieldy and cumbersome for one whose entire purpose is to stealthily kill our officers, which they have done so far with great success. There is also the case of the injuries sustained by the guards of Los, another officer killed just yesterday. One of them was shot dead with his comrade’s pistol, and the other was gored through the torso. There were no traces of any heavy melee weapons, at least ones with the capacity to decapitate a person.”

“It might’ve very well been different killers,” Avalel suggests dismissively.

“President, all of the victims were beheaded in the same manner,” the doctor emphasizes. I have already made that clear in the reports— Sorry for offending you!”

A moment of intelligent professionalism immediately following a burst of anxiety, and returning to such nervousness just as fast. Doctors are a weird bunch… or perhaps it is just this one.

Avalel looks at her, smiling a little as to appear just a bit less intimidating. “Calm down. I understand what you’re saying. The patterns all suggest the same perpetrator, but it would be near impossible for the killings to have been caused by heavy weapons, right?”

“Yes, yes!” the doctor says enthusiastically. “In fact, judging from the relatively intact scene and the absence of any missing or damaged objects, I hypothesize that the assailant was wielding some sort of precise, close-quarters melee weapon, able to deliver much force from unnatural strength.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Have you seen individuals with prosthetic limbs, President?” She paces over to her desk, grabbing a pile of files, placing them before Avalel, the lines of text and images immediately filling his vision and focus. “I have a friend who studies its development over the years, and with her courtesy, I managed to borrow a few of her case studies. Most of the subjects were soldiers who had at least one amputated limb, obviously, but there was—”

“Doctor,” Klarsten interrupts softly. “We only need the general findings.”

“O-Oh, sorry!” the doctor quickly apologizes. “Anyway, subjects yielded much greater strength with their prosthetic limbs on all accounts. There was even a case where a subject was able to cut down a small tree with only a short sword. At the expense of the sword’s own durability, of course.”

She takes out a notepad, scribbled with barely legible handwriting. “I also interviewed the troops first at the scene, the ones who were alerted by, I think, the gunshot that killed one of Los’ guards. Some said they caught a glimpse of something that looked metallic attached to the silhouette of the assailant.”

“Given this, you think the assailant has a prosthetic arm?” Avalel asks.

“Yes!” the doctor nods. “It is quite a stretch, but not too far-fetched. I’m sure these are useful bits of information that can help capture the one responsible for all these murders, maybe even before another victim is taken.”

“I shall keep that in mind then,” Avalel says, giving another smile, politely indicating his desire to depart.

“S-Sorry to bother you for this long, President,” the doctor says slightly frantically. “Please come back if you need further information.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for your work!” Klarsten says cordially as the two of them exit, slowly making their way back to their tent.

“Thank you,” Avalel adds. He still hasn’t asked for the doctor’s name, but whatever.

A rather fruitful conversation, if he must say so, but something that feels rather… off. The line of reasoning from the doctor is, at the very least, somewhat logical, but there is still something incomplete.

This is but a minor inconvenience causing confusion among his ranks. Then what is he worried about? He is no paranoid maniac, but what is this sense of dread constantly hovering above his head? A missing puzzle piece, unable to complete the image in his mind. A piece just outside of his control, nothing major, yet somehow disturbing.

The Anapadeia by his side grows heavier as he continues to ponder upon the blankness, to at least make sense of the fog in his head, a gap made known to him from the murders of several officers.