NOVEL NEXT 112. Black Box
A handful of soldiers from the Thirty-First platoon gathered around a small wooden table that was split down the center. Wooden splinters lay on the ground, and only a few seats remained. Jones and Luther sat down at the table with a tired sigh. Jones played with a small rectangular box, twirling it on his finger with a heavy expression. He then stopped and struck the match with a swift flick, filling the room with a hint of sulfur. A tiny flame bloomed to life, trembling in the still air.
Jones cupped his hand around the match as the shadows danced on the walls. The room felt barren with the other soldiers of the Thirty-First missing. Some had left to collect themselves, while others needed time to grieve the losses that struck their hearts. Only the acting leaders of the militiamen had gathered, their hearts heavy with the pressing decision looming over them.
He leaned in and held the flame against the candle's blackened wick. For a heartbeat, nothing happened… then the wax gently hissed, and a soft orange glow flared to life. The weak fire flickered in the wind as the match burned close to his fingers. With a sharp snap, he shook out the match's light, allowing the brief scent of smoke to curl into the room. The darkness receded just a bit, but the men sat there conflicted.
"Is this really it?" Luther asked, running his hand through his grey hair. "Are we really going to leave like this? After everything we've been through?"
"That's the plan," Jones said quietly. "The captain told us the details when he didn't have to. It's a royal decree."
"But that doesn't mean we can just go!" Liam shouted. "What about everyone else? Everyone who died here!" He slammed his hand into the broken table, shattering the other half as it crumbled beneath the force of his strike. A single tear streamed down his face. "What… what was the point then? Why did we fight so fucking hard for?"
None of them answered. They couldn't find the right words. Not the ones that would put his heart at ease. There were three hundred men who endured the grueling training together with them. Now, only a fraction remained. From the defense of the outer walls to the march of the inner walls, they had been through hell and back. Somehow still clinging to a hope that the tides of battle would finally turn in their favor. Yet now that flicker of hope seemed lost.
Liam's voice was on the verge of breaking. He tightly clenched the fabric of his torn pants. Its green color smeared with dirt and ash. "Was it pointless after all?"
"It wasn't."
The men turned to Jones, who sat quietly while gently placing the box of matches onto the table's surface. He stared at Nemo with eyes filled with confidence.
"It wasn't pointless," he said once more. "We fought to protect our home. To keep the Empire away from our villages… our people. Even if it was only for a few days."
"But look at what it took!" Liam shouted. "We lost hundreds of good men in just a couple of days!"
"You don't have to spell it out for us, Liam," Nemo said in a cold voice. "We're all aware of what happened."
"Then why aren't you guys upset?" Liam asked. "Our friends died to protect the bastion, and now we're being told to run. Even the Captain gave us the option to leave."
"Don't misinterpret what the Captain did," Jones retorted. "He gave us a golden ticket to leave after everything we've been through."
"I know! But—"
Liam stopped himself mid-sentence and looked at the ground. He knew Tucker had given them a way out. A way to live another day without being labeled as cowards. But how could he accept it when the other members of the Thirty-First died to defend every inch of ground in the bastion.
"We can't bring them back," Luther said quietly. "But we can carry on their spirit, and to do that, we need to be alive. Besides, we didn't gather here just to vent. We came here to make a decision."
Nemo nodded while standing beside Jones. He leaned forward and pressed his hands on what was left of the table. "Luther's right. What do you guys want to do? Should we stay or leave?"
"Well, I'll be honest with you guys," Jones leaned back in his chair, scraping the wooden legs against the stone floors. "I don't plan to leave."
"What?" Liam raised a brow in disbelief. "Why?"
"Because I know the Captain isn't going to leave," Jones replied.
"Bullshit, you don't know that," Nemo protested.
"No, I do," said Jones, brushing aside Nemo's piercing gaze. "Back in Captain Morgan's domain, I saw our captain easily scale a statue that was several meters taller than the inner walls. He could've abandoned us and saved himself, but he didn't."
Luther fell deep into thought, thinking about the time spent with Luka in the sewers. The soldiers of the Thirty-First that followed him had similar experiences. Barely clinging to life while avoiding the numerous enemy patrols. If it weren't for the watchman leading them, they would have all been caught and killed on sight.
"The vice-captain wouldn't leave either," Luther added.
"Guys, do you really believe that?" Nemo asked, walking closer to the table.
"I do," Jones replied.
Liam gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Not in rage but in despair. A storm stirred in his head, and he didn't know what to make of it. Liam and Jones were already set on staying, and if he left, no one would blame him. Yet no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't bring himself to do it.
"You're all idiots," Liam muttered.
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"Yeah, but seeing as how you didn't say no, that means you're staying, right?" Jones asked with a smirk.
"Only until you guys leave. I can't bring myself to just run knowing that you three plan to fight," Liam replied.
"Then it's settled," said Nemo. "We'll stay, and the others will be given the same choice. No hard feelings, no guilt tripping."
"Agreed." Luther nodded.
The four of them were in agreement in the cold stone room where the sun's light failed to reach. Yet none of them knew how great of an impact their decision would make. Jones and Luther rose from their seats with Jones gently brushing the surface. Just as the flame from the candle blew out from the breeze that seeped through the cracks of the door. The darkness returned once more, but this time, it felt different. Not an end, but a promise made in silence.
.
.
.
Within the spiraling tower of the castle stood two men, who focused on the boundary beyond the inner walls. They wore damaged runic armor with green capes draped over their shoulders. The torn and scorched fabric covered their battle-scarred plates, its shine dulled to a faint gleam that barely caught the orange glow around them. Even though Thomas had done his best to repair their armor, he couldn't hide the deep blade marks that etched themselves into the metal.
Their armor was battered and broken, but in the darkness that surrounded them was a flame that refused to yield. Something within them refused to die, setting their spirits ablaze and fueling an unwavering purpose amid the shadows of the bastion.
Tucker's eyes drifted to Luka before focusing on the large obsidian sphere that shrouded the fourth bastion. Carl had been locked in combat against the general for hours, and neither side could tell who was winning. Knights from both nations circled the domain, clashing against each other in desperate attempts to gain ground. All while desperately trying to minimize losses as bursts of aura flared and cracked through the air like distant fireworks.
"Who do you think will win?" Luka asked.
"The commander," Tucker replied.
"You really believe he'll come out on top?"
Tucker crossed his arms over one another and didn't utter another word. He didn't believe with certainty that Carl would win, but if their commander perished, then the bastion would be as good as done. There was no one else who could lead the platoons, and disarray would fill their ranks.
"For all our sakes, he better," said Tucker. "Otherwise, we'll have quite the work cut out for us."
A quiet chuckle escaped Luka's lips. He revealed a weary smile as his eyes drifted to the domain. "Don't you think it's time we returned?"
Tucker silently turned to Luka, watching him lean over the stone rails of the tower. "I've thought about it," he admitted. "But if I leave, then what would happen to the others?"
"You don't owe them anything," Luka said softly. "You were just thrown into this position."
Tucker's gaze dropped to the battlefield beyond the inner walls, where a thick, dark line marked the outer edge of the domain. Hundreds of fallen soldiers littered the bloodstained streets. Both friend and foe alike. Luka was right. He was just thrown into this position, but that didn't mean he could just leave.
"I said I would take responsibility for them," Tucker said in a stern voice. "And that's what I plan to do."
Luka's fists tightened at his sides. "What if they take your offer and leave? Would you go too?"
Tucker hesitated for a moment. "I don't know… There are still soldiers from the other platoons. And the thought of leaving Captain Morgan and the others behind—it just doesn't sit well with me."
"Ha…" Luka exhaled, glancing up at the cloudy sky. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, and a new day would soon be upon them. Yet it seemed like each day only grew harder than the last. "Yeah… we're on the same page on that one. I never thought I would get attached so easily to a bunch of strangers."
"I guess war does that," said Tucker with a faint smile. "I just… wish that we could've saved more lives."
Luka slowly nodded in agreement. "We did the best we could with what was given. There's no way we would've known that the advisors were traitors."
"I know, and that's what frustrates me. We don't know how far the Empire has infiltrated, and it feels like we're running out of options." Tucker gazed at the distant crimson banners fluttering in the wind. He tapped the surface of the stone rail with a heavy sigh. "Soon their war machines will be at our doorstep, and we need some way to stop them down."
"That's easier said than done," Luka muttered. "Even the Nightfall Rangers failed to take it down."
"Yes, but they were only a team of two," Tucker pointed out. "If we can figure out a way to restrain its movements and take out the mana generator, we might have a chance."
"Yeah, but what if we're wrong? What if taking out the mana generator doesn't work?"
"Then we keep trying."
Luka scratched the back of his head, letting out a dry laugh. "What's the point of even thinking about this? It's not like we're going to be here when the machines arrive."
Tucker remained quiet. His thoughts drifted to the logistics of their retreat. One teleportation platform running at seventy-five percent efficiency could move a hundred soldiers every twenty to thirty minutes. But thirty-five thousand? That would take at least four days if they were lucky, and in that time, the Empire's war machines would already be at their doorstep.
"I don't think we'll be able to leave in time." Tucker didn't hide his thoughts from Luka. He spoke the truth, and Luka couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief.
"What do you mean? Of course, we'll get out—we're part of the first group."
"We don't know that." Tucker examined the obsidian sphere as small ripples formed on the surface. "Odds are we would still be in the process of retreating, and with only one teleportation platform… It's just not fast enough. There'll still be stragglers, people left behind.
"Wait… are you saying that if we don't leave now, we might not leave at all?"
"It's just a suspicion."
Luka looked at Tucker before scoffing. "Bullshit, it's not just a suspicion, is it? It's a belief. You wouldn't say that unless you were sure."
Tucker's gaze hardened as thin cracks began to spread across the surface of the domain. "I don't believe they'll put the Thirty-First as a priority."
"Then why did you even give them the option to leave now?"
"Because it isn't busy now. If they were to leave, no one would bat an eye. But once more, platoons arrive, that changes things."
Luka cursed under his breath and stared at the cracking domain. "Then what should we do?"
"For now, we worry about the worst-case scenario."
Tucker turned towards the staircase and looked over his shoulder. He could see Luka nod from the corner of his eye. There was no telling who won the duel, and the unease in his heart didn't settle, but with the domain falling apart in front of them, they couldn't afford to rest anymore.
"Gather the men," Tucker said. "Anyone staying should be armed to the teeth, and those who want to leave should be stripped of whatever gear they have."
"Gotcha," Luka replied, following closely behind Tucker.
Both of them walked down the descending staircase. Their hearts beating with each step that echoed with the weight of what was ahead. Tucker's mind raced with one problem bleeding into the next. They needed ideas, solutions that could counter the Empire's war machine. But there was hardly any information on them. How could he plan their next course of action when everything felt like a black box?
And yet, in that moment, something clicked.
A realization dawned on him. One that was sharp and undeniable. He tightly curled his fists as the leather gloves he wore creaked under the pressure. A fear mixed with conviction surged in his chest. In his mind, Charles's silhouette stood firm, the scholar's words echoing back with a sudden clarity.
If their nation lacked information, then the men of the bastion would get it for them. They could record their engagement with the Empire's war machine and give their homeland a fighting chance… even if they didn't survive. Every clash. Every weakness. Every desperate second—they would record it all and seal it within a black box. One, they would deliver to the order even if it cost them everything.