The Red Kingdom— a prosperous nation for thousands of years, lauded for its beauty, discipline, and peace. But for some, those words felt like lies sewn into a flag they no longer saluted.
In the early light of morning, two operatives stood beneath a crooked tree at the edge of a watchpost outside the city of Wilshire. Fog still clung to the ground. The wind carried the scent of damp stone and soot from blacksmith forges deeper in town.
Lysandra adjusted her gloves, eyes sharp as she scanned the narrow road ahead. "Another morning of standing around," she muttered. "If command doesn't send us out soon, I'm going to start patrolling blind just to feel useful."
Charles leaned against the post, arms crossed, a thin smile on his lips. "You say that, but last time you 'patrolled blind' you ended up chasing a merchant's runaway goat for three hours."
Lysandra shot him a glare. "It was a diversion. Tactical improvisation."
Charles chuckled under his breath. "Sure it was."
Then, the faint sound of boots approached—an officer in a blue-trimmed uniform, clipboard in hand.
"Charles Isman. Lysandra Winters."
They turned sharply, suddenly alert.
"You're being reassigned for the day. Orders from your division captain—report to the east barracks for a high-priority mission briefing. Immediate deployment expected."
Charles straightened his posture, voice clearer. "Understood."
The officer gave a brief nod before continuing down the path. Lysandra exhaled through her nose.
"Finally," she said, eyes lit with restrained excitement.
Charles offered a glance. "You're smiling."
"Because I'm tired of sitting still."
"Well," he said, already walking, "Let's hope it's not another glorified stakeout."
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At the eastern barracks…
Captain Beckham stood outside the old stone barrack gates, jaw tense as he checked his pocket watch. His expression was that of a man who had expected disappointment and received it precisely on time.
Inside the courtyard, ten foreign recruits stood lined in disciplined formation, quiet but clearly observant.
Footsteps echoed off the stone, and moments later Charles and Lysandra approached briskly—silent, professional, and just barely late.
"You're two minutes behind schedule," Beckham said, not looking at them. "I hope whatever held you up was worth shaving that off your life expectancy."
"No excuses, sir," Lysandra said plainly, her tone respectful.
Beckham's eyes flicked to her, then to Charles. "You're here now. Stand in formation."
As they took their positions, slightly Infront of the already in formation newcomers, Beckham addressed the Lysandra and Charles.
"Private Lysandra, private Charles" Beckham addressed the two, they furrowed there brows and tightened there stance.
"Listen well. You've been paired with a temporary combat platoon. These ten are: Luca Bianchi, Sebastian Müller, Adrien Moreau, Aleksandar Petrovic, Mikkel Hansen, Rafael Dominguez, Nikolai Ivanov, Elias Papadopoulos, Tomáš Novák, and William O'Connor. You'll coordinate with them for the duration of this operation."
He paused, letting the names settle. "Your mission is located in Wilshire. We've received intelligence regarding illegal combat tournaments hosted by a man named Zethes. These events violate Red Kingdom law and attract criminals, mercenaries, and even off-grid former soldiers."
He narrowed his eyes.
"The last confirmed activity was traced to a district near the Iron Lantern Brothel. Your task: infiltrate, identify Zethes, and capture him and any associates. We want them alive, if possible. One of his inner circle is known to wield enchanted paint—highly volatile, used as a weapon. Be prepared."
He turned away. "You move out by nightfall. Coordinate your approach. I expect efficiency."
"Dismissed."
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As the squad scattered to check gear and review roles, Charles gave Lysandra a quiet glance.
"Paint as a weapon, huh?" he said, brows raised.
She was already walking over towards the platoon, ready to improvise roles. "Guess we'll have competition."
He nodded slowly, thoughtful. "Let's not underestimate them this time."
Lysandra cracked a small grin—sharp, confident. "I never do."
Lysandra approached the new recruits. Their conversation died the moment they noticed her—shoulders tensing, spines straightening under her gaze.
"As Lance Corporal Beckham just informed you, you'll be operating under our supervision for the duration of this mission," she said, voice firm and even. She gestured toward Charles, who was standing a few paces behind her with his arms crossed.
"That being said," she continued, "the details of the infiltration are… lacking. We don't have a floor plan or a clear contact inside. That means when we enter the Iron Lantern Brothel, I expect all of you to behave as naturally as possible. Blend in. Observe. Report."
A few of the recruits nodded, eyes forward.
Charles stepped forward, taking over. "We'll still need intel. Whether you find something or nothing, we're assigning a fallback point. Rendezvous there by nightfall—no excuses."
He looked the group over, then shrugged. "Also, I already forgot all your names. So we're going with codenames for now."
There was an awkward silence. Charles smirked and clapped his hands once.
"Return to your quarters. Gear up. Meet back here at sundown. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir!" the squad called out in near-unison—slightly off rhythm, but the effort was there.
As the recruits marched off, Lysandra tilted her head at Charles with a raised brow. "Since when did you get tactical?"
Charles grinned wide. "What can I say? It's my first official mission as a Vermilion Knight. Gotta make an impression."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why send them off and regroup this evening? Beckham never gave a hard start time. We could begin tomorrow."
Charles's expression shifted, more calculating. "I want to know what we're working with. Tonight's for evaluation. We'll see who's dead weight and who isn't."
Lysandra nodded, satisfied, then turned and walked off.
⸻
Evening.
The courtyard was dimly lit, torches flickering against the stone walls. The air smelled of steel and oil. The recruits stood in formation, more rigid than they had earlier in the day. Nerves buzzed in the air like static.
Lysandra arrived first. She said nothing at first—just stood, arms folded, gaze sharp.
Silence grew.
Then she locked eyes with a particular recruit—a blond cadet grinning like he was moments from a festival.
"You. Goldilocks. Step forward," she said.
No hesitation. He practically bounced into position.
"Yes, Private?" he replied, voice steady.
Lysandra studied him, then pointed. "Grab a sword."
Without a word, the cadet dashed off to the armory nearby and returned moments later, weapon in hand.
By now, the rest of the squad had figured it out: this was no roll call—it was a test. A few of them shifted nervously. Others lit up, eager to prove themselves.
Charles arrived soon after, dragging one of the cadets by the collar to the front line. The poor soldier looked like he'd just woken up mid-nightmare.
"Tonight," Charles said, his tone darker, a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, "we see who's worth the resources. Who fights… and who watches."
He let go of the recruit, who stumbled into position.
"Don't hold back," Lysandra added coldly. "But don't be stupid either."