Dawn broke over the Karsten estate.
A pale light bathed the courtyards, the ramparts, and the still-weary faces of the soldiers.
Horses snorted, carts were loaded, and orders passed quietly in tense silence.
Everyone knew what lay ahead.
The column set off with the first beat of sunlight.
A long day awaited them: riding uncertain roads all the way to the Flugel Tree — the place where everything would be decided.
Crusch's speech still echoed in their minds.
But the momentum of the previous night was already fading beneath the weight of reality.
The doubts hadn't vanished — they had simply gone quiet for a time.
Guts rode beside Rem.
He, on a restless warhorse; she, on a grounded earth dragon with a slower, steadier pace.
He had glanced at the creature they first offered him… and had shaken his head.
Those dragons, tame as they were, weren't made for him.
He preferred the good old horse.
It reminded him of older campaigns.
The vanguard of the Band of the Hawk.
Endless rides. The sound of hooves before the war.
The sun was high, the sky cloudless.
A dry heat settled over the column.
Too calm.
Almost… insulting, compared to what the night had in store.
Two figures stood out in the marching crowd.
Small, lively, almost unreal in contrast.
One wore flowing white-and-gold robes, like ceremonial garb torn from a temple.
The other skipped joyfully beside her, ears perked, eyes gleaming like shards of moonlight.
They looked nothing like the soldiers around them.
And yet, they approached the odd pair that was Guts and Rem, drawn by some invisible force.
Not a hint of hesitation.
No fear in their eyes.
Only a curiosity — almost childlike.
The smaller one spoke first, her cheerful voice breaking the stillness of the march:
Mimi:
"Waaah! You're huge! Are you here to whack the whale?"
Hetaro followed quietly behind, a soft smile on his face:
Hetaro:
"Mimi... easy now."
Guts turned his head slightly toward them.
He stared for a moment, saying nothing.
But in his eyes, surprise flickered.
Not at their appearance — he'd seen stranger things.
But because… they weren't afraid.
No one ever approached him like that.
Not with a smile.
Guts:
"They told me you're the vice-captain?"
Mimi (chest puffed out, fists on hips):
"That's me! Hehehehe!"
She grinned wide, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Guts looked at her for a second, puzzled.
Guts:
"Call me Guts.
And you two… you seem pretty close. Siblings?"
Hetaro (nodding, calm despite his gentle expression):
"Yes. And we're giving it everything we've got."
But Mimi, already impatient, clapped her hands:
Mimi:
"Together, nothing can stop us!
Plus, our commander's here too! He's even stronger!"
Guts:
"I see…"
He didn't add more.
But something inside him was unsettled.
That confidence… that joy...
It felt too pure.
As if these two didn't truly understand what it meant to face death.
Not yet.
Maybe they had never seen one of their own fall.
Maybe they still lived in a world where promises alone could drive away the darkness.
There was innocence in their eyes — vibrant, childlike.
He watched them walk ahead, laughing at some joke, bouncing like sparks across the dusty trail.
Then his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
But he didn't drift for long.
A rough voice cut through the air — raspy, like a poorly-sharpened blade:
???
"Hey, hey! So you're the guy with the big sword?
I thought you'd be taller."
Guts turned his head slowly.
They were the same height.
But this man… had the build of a fortress.
A giant approached with heavy strides — chest as broad as two men, a massive blade on his back, and a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.
He looked like a wolf.
A wolf-man — wild, massive, untamed.
Ricardo, commander of Anastasia Hoshin's personal guard.
He drew level with Guts, hands on hips, casting a shadow that blocked part of the sun.
Ricardo:
"Name's Ricardo. I run the muscle for the little boss with the purple hair.
And you... what are you exactly? A butcher out for a stroll?"
Guts (without blinking):
"Just a man with a sword."
Ricardo burst into laughter.
A real laugh. Loud, rough, alive.
Like a campfire crackling in the dead of night.
Ricardo:
"I like that! Straight to the point. You're alright, scarecrow.
As long as your blade points in the right direction, we'll get along fine."
He slapped Guts on the shoulder like an old friend.
A friendly gesture — but heavy. Like a hammerfall.
Guts didn't flinch.
Then Ricardo tilted his head slightly, and his voice lost a bit of its cheer:
Ricardo (more serious):
"I know you're not from around here.
But you've got the scent of the old ones. The ones who've survived too much.
I'm not gonna cling to you.
Just… stay alive, yeah?"
And just like that, he strode off — as abruptly as he had come — already tossing a joke to some nearby soldier.
Guts remained still.
He didn't answer.
But in his mind, one phrase took root.
Stay alive.
Maybe the only sensible thing anyone had told him since this all began.
The sun had begun its descent.
The sky shifted from orange to red.
The day's warmth faded, replaced by a drier, sharper breeze.
And then… the landscape changed.
The road narrowed, slipping between two silent hills.
The trees grew sparse.
The dust, finer.
The air… different.
And then, in the distance, it appeared.
A colossal trunk, standing like an ancient pillar.
Monstrous roots devoured the earth around it.
A crown so high it vanished into the mist above.
The Flugel Tree.
It didn't look like a tree.
It looked like a remnant of a forgotten world.
Not a plant — a monument.
A warning.
The sacred column of the battlefield to come.
The column slowed as it neared.
Voices fell quiet.
Even the earth dragons ceased their growling.
There was no more chatter.
No more noise.
Only silence.
Heavy. Organic.
A silence that swallowed thought.
Guts dismounted.
His boots pressed into the dry earth.
He looked up.
He couldn't see the whole thing — but he could feel it.
This wasn't a place meant for the living.
And yet… this was where they would fight.
Rem approached, also dismounted.
Her gaze was different — worried, but resolute.
Guts looked at her.
Guts:
"This is it?"
Rem (quietly):
"Yes. According to the scouts…
She'll appear here.
Under this moon. Between these roots."
Guts turned his eyes toward the horizon.
The light was fading.
Night was coming.
And with it… something else.
He ran his hand over the hilt of his sword.
Then over the strap of his armor.
He could feel it.
The monster was coming.
And this time… it wouldn't be just a beast.
It was a legend.
The troops had begun setting up camp.
Tents were rising. Fires being lit. Voices mingled in organized chaos.
Supplies were moved, duties assigned, preparations made.
But Guts stood apart.
Watching it all like a ghost.
Not a soldier.
Not a comrade.
Just a shadow, fixed in the scenery.
A man with no side.
No banner.
He knew that when battle came, he'd be at the center —
The one everyone would look to.
The one they'd pin their hopes on.
But for now… he was nothing.
A stranger in black.
A dormant blade.
His steps brought him closer to the tree.
The Flugel Tree.
The nearer he came, the heavier he felt.
Not physically.
Something in the air. In the ground.
As if time itself was denser here.
He looked up.
The trunk stretched endlessly skyward.
The roots spread like fossilized tentacles.
The wood bore scars — weathered, carved by forgotten winds.
He had never seen a tree like this.
Not a plant.
A monument.
A column driven into the flesh of the world.
He didn't understand it.
But he felt it.
This tree wasn't young.
It had survived eras as a silent witness.
"Maybe it marks time in this world… like a clock," he thought.
He stood there, silent.
Just staring.
Listening to the rhythm of his own breath.
And then…
A soft voice behind him.
Rem:
"Guts?"
He didn't turn right away.
He knew it was her without needing to hear.
But her voice…
It shattered the silence that had taken hold of his mind.