Bermuda

In truth, Hugo’s thoughts were quite different from Liner’s assumptions. But when the gloom weighing down the 1st Battalion instantly lifted at Liner’s words, Hugo chose to stay silent—for their sake, and for another reason.

A few hours earlier, when he and Liner had first found the scorched traces underground, Hugo too had felt relieved, assuming they were left by Leonardo’s magic. Yet the moment he brushed his hand over them, a strange sense of unfamiliarity struck him.

Until recently, Hugo had been on edge over Leonardo’s instability in controlling his magic. Because of that, he had examined in detail every trace left behind where Leonardo’s spells had passed. The impression was always the same—destructive, yet sharply precise.

Take the red beam Leonardo often used: though its range was narrow, it concentrated extreme heat in an instant. It didn’t merely melt its target—it annihilated it, erasing it completely.

Objects struck by that beam bore cylindrical holes with scorched edges, the surroundings eerily clean. By contrast, the melted traces inside the tunnel seemed of an entirely different style.

Still, style alone proved nothing. The marks were undeniably left by powerful fire magic, and no ordinary spell could have melted rock. Moreover, at the time of the collapse, Leonardo’s mana had nearly run dry, and the urgency of the situation made it unreasonable to rule him out simply because the traces looked different. Circumstantially, it remained more logical to assume they were his.

But there was something else Hugo could not dismiss.

Beneath the rubble at the passage leading to the other peak, he had found a footprint—one easily overlooked at a glance.

Liner had taken it for Leonardo’s, but Hugo knew otherwise. The print was larger, and the sole pattern didn’t match the boots Leonardo currently wore.

What troubled him further was that the footprint had been smudged, as if deliberately erased. Nearby were faint drag marks, as though someone had been pulled along.

The combat boots issued by the Council had finely serrated tips at the toe and heel, designed to leave distinctive grooves if the wearer was dragged or in danger while unconscious.

Those very marks had been left beside the blurred footprint. Someone had tried to rub them out with a foot, but hadn’t finished the job—likely pressed for time.

Which meant: if the print was not Leonardo’s, then Kenis had been dragged by someone else while unconscious. And since no such drag marks appeared earlier along the path but only here, Hugo suspected whoever carried Kenis had set him down briefly while using magic to block the passage.

If both hands were needed, then Leonardo was likely in the other.

In other words, Kenis and Leonardo had indeed gone that way—but possibly not of their own power. Both may have been carried, unconscious, by another.

Hugo, lost in silent thought, pulled himself back to the present and the discussion at hand.

As he sat, eyes lowered, he felt a gaze on him. Looking up, he met the anxious stare of the 8th Platoon Leader.

He rubbed his brow briefly. She was sharp, with keen judgment—it seemed she had sensed the unease long ago from his expression.

Cursing himself for failing to mask his face, Hugo turned forward and spoke, intending to ease her worry.

"It’s certain the two are still alive."

At the voice of the Commander, silent until now, all conversation halted and turned toward him.

"And the direction we need to move forward has become clearer."

Hugo picked up a figurine from the table’s edge, set it on the map, and continued.

"Battalion Commander Molten. You and the 9th Battalion will move directly south and join the pursuit team chasing the Dermocas. Retrieve the bodies of our fallen and locate the missing 4th Platoon Leader to uncover their objective."

A spark lit in Liner’s eyes at the long-awaited command.

"Yes, understood."

With that firm reply, Hugo turned to Delua.

"Battalion Commander Rivera. Is Deputy Commander Diaz currently leading the 6th Battalion’s main force?"

"Yes. They’re on standby near the plains and Peak 63, western sector."

"The 6th Battalion will rejoin its main force at daybreak. Begin surveys and nest searches from the tunnels near Peaks 63 and 64, moving southeast. Eliminate any monsters encountered, but if a nest is found, send word through a liaison and hold position. If you receive no response within three hours—because the liaison cannot keep pace with me and the 1st Battalion—follow Deputy Commander Amos’s orders at the border zone headquarters."

"Yes, understood."

After hearing Delua’s reply, Hugo issued brief instructions to the remaining commanders, then dismissed their units to rest.

Finally, his gaze shifted to the 1st Battalion.

As his eyes fell on them, the soldiers snapped into line, expressions taut. The 8th Platoon Leader stood foremost.

Hugo studied their faces, then checked his watch, donned the protective vest beside him, and spoke.

"The 1st Battalion, including myself, will now change our primary objective."

At his solemn tone, even the other commanders turned back toward him.

Hugo tightened the buckle across his chest, pulled the belt strap snug, and scanned the short line of men and women before him—two missing.

"From now on, our objective is not subjugation, but to devote all efforts to rescuing Leonardo Blaine and Kenis Weber."

His gaze swept over them again.

"We bear responsibility for failing to protect our comrades. We will not abandon them to the heat of the peninsula or the mire of monsters. Finish preparations in five minutes—we depart immediately. The night will be long, so be thoroughly ready."

"Yes, understood!"

At once, the 1st Battalion dispersed with vigorous voices, moving quickly to pack gear, don armor, and ready themselves for combat and search. Hugo’s eyes followed them, then dropped to the arm guards Flynn had set aside for him.

And it was then he noticed the 8th Platoon Leader still standing at the front, unmoving.

Unlike her platoon members, she remained fixed, staring at him. One of Hugo’s brows lifted slightly. At last she spoke.

"Commander."

She had been piecing together why his expression never brightened, and her thoughts had crystallized into a single conclusion.

"By any chance... did you find the corpse of someone presumed to be the outsider at the bottom of the cliff?"

Even as she asked, her throat went dry. Nothing else seemed to explain the dread pressing down on her.

Hugo met her eyes in silence, then turned toward the distant collapse site.

"No. There was no such thing as a corpse."

At his resolute words, she closed her mouth, exhaling softly.

Her face hardened, head lowering as dark imaginings replayed in her mind.

Hugo, staring a moment at the wasteland beyond, turned back and picked up another piece of protective gear.

Fastening it over his right arm—the one recently stitched—he noticed «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» her still-hardened face. He spoke again.

"Don’t worry. Just because no corpse was found doesn’t mean that man is with them."

The 8th Platoon Leader lifted her gaze.

"And even if he lives, his only concern will be escape."

Above, the heavy clouds drifted aside, unveiling the hidden moon. Its light poured down, silvering the figure before her.

Hugo, now fully armed, stood facing her directly. The moonlight glinted in his blue eyes, sharpening them until they looked colder than their natural hue.

She felt a suffocating pressure radiating from him. That chill wasn’t from the moonlight alone. His expression remained calm, but the air around him was steeped in brutality. What surged in his eyes was unmistakable killing intent.

His lips moved, voice low and deliberate, like a vow.

"But if that man defies my expectations—and harms those two..."

It had been a long time since she had seen her superior’s anger unveiled.

"...then he will die by my hand."