Dawn light streamed through the dormitory porthole, casting a slanted warm white glow on the floor. When Chén Yàn opened his eyes, the wind turbine outside the window was whirring, with a light sound that tore through the air. This was the deepest sleep he had had since arriving in this world, without blood-stained faces, twisted corpses, or even dreams.
He washed away his fatigue in the shower, and the figure in the mirror shed its recent gauntness. The sensation of the razor gliding across his chin was clear and solid. Just as he finished changing, a grapefruit-sized sub-unit floated over, its optical lens scanning him up and down: "Your current spirits are the best I've seen in many days. You also look handsomer than before."
"Stop joking with me." Chén Yàn tapped its metallic shell. "How is the work progressing?"
"All the wounded soldiers have been transferred to the refugee camp for detention, receiving preliminary treatment from medical robots, and guarded by the Yellow Rose Knights in shifts," the sub-unit's electronic voice returned to a steady tone. "The main body of the incinerator pit has been excavated, and multi-legged robots are laying refractory bricks. It is expected to be operational before noon."
"And your main unit?"
"It's building temporary roads between the main road and the refugee camp. The section between the base and the refugee camp is complete. Although it's just compacted dirt, it's fine for carriages to pass, and reinforcement treatment will follow." Argo paused, adding, "According to your plan, this place will eventually become a trading town, and roads are the foundation."
Chén Yàn nodded. As he walked out of the room, a cylindrical robot glided past in the corridor, its white mechanical arm steadily holding a tray with toast, fried eggs, and hot milk, heading towards the command center. "A service robot?"
"It was built by the medical robot production line while it had free time," Argo's lens flickered. "It's also a fact that we're short-handed. Although the refugees can manage themselves, it's not a long-term solution."
Chén Yàn nodded. "Although Aila already knows how to use the food processor, we can't have them serving tea and water. The refugees must eventually make a living for themselves, not serve as maids here."
"Hiring refugees isn't impossible, but that would change your position again. Maintaining the status quo is probably the most ideal." Argo swayed its body, as if making a shrug. "Speaking of refugees, I think the current accommodation conditions are a bit insufficient and need to be increased."
"Insufficient?" Chén Yàn tilted his head. Argo explained, "Considering diplomatic exchanges with Italica after the alliance, high-ranking officials and knights will be stationed here. Although the dormitory conditions can meet the requirements, living with refugees might cause problems."
"Indeed. Although we don't really care, it's their territory after all. As the saying goes, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do.' We should abide by their customs."
"I suggest building another temporary prefab house next to headquarters. After all, the refugees are used to this type of housing structure, and they won't feel uncomfortable if they return to the refugee camp. It can be dismantled anytime if it's no longer needed, or used as lodging for lower-ranking soldiers."
"So the dormitories still need to be renovated, right? The current capacity is a bit low."
"Convert half of them into double rooms with bunk beds to increase the capacity. Keep the other half as single rooms for visiting high-ranking officials."
"Wouldn't half be too many?"
"Then let's make it one-third." Argo and Chén Yàn walked towards the command center, chatting back and forth. Chén Yàn suddenly remembered the breakfast and couldn't help but exclaim.
"Western breakfast. I personally still prefer soy milk and fried dough sticks."
"Personal preference recorded." The sub-unit turned towards the kitchen. "Service robot in charge of the food processor, begin production."
As they walked and talked, Chén Yàn suddenly remembered something. "How are the Yellow Rose Knights? Can they still hold on?"
"After two rotations, most of them have rested for over four hours." Argo brought up the holographic map, displaying the knights' location markers. "The warhorses have been rounded up, and the simple carriages have been produced and transported to the entrance of the refugee camp. The Yellow Rose Knights are making final adjustments." It paused, its tone carrying a hint of subtle teasing. "As for the wounded soldiers... their 'enthusiasm' for the medical robots far exceeded expectations. If it weren't for the Yellow Rose Knights present, one might think those 'metal lumps' were here to claim their lives."
Chén Yàn chuckled—yesterday, when he was explaining to the Yellow Rose Knights, he had casually called the robots "metal lumps." He didn't expect Argo to remember it until now. "Are they still holding a grudge?"
The sub-unit didn't answer directly, instead changing the subject. "By the way, there's something I forgot to mention."
"What is it?"
"Posses did not return to the dormitory to rest after her shift last night." Argo's optical lens pointed towards the command center. "She came to me, saying she wanted to borrow paper and pen. Now... she should still be at your seat drafting the alliance treaty."
Chén Yàn froze. "She's in the command center? Why didn't you say so earlier!"
"Who told you to call us 'met~al~ lumps~'?" the sub-unit's electronic voice carried a rare hint of smugness. "Now we're even."
Chén Yàn was speechless and could only quicken his pace towards the command center. As he pushed open the door, he saw that the windows surrounding the control center were all closed, and the curtains were not pulled back, leaving the interior dim. Only Posses's seat was illuminated. She was hunched over his desk, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, obscuring half her face. Under her arm was a thick stack of drafts, and the wastepaper basket was already filled with crumpled balls of paper.Chén Yàn casually picked up a few pieces of discarded paper and found that the handwriting evolved from early tadpole script to cuneiform, clearly unaccustomed to modern paper and pen. Once the handwriting became neat, the clauses were repeatedly crossed out, ink layers overlapping, clearly meticulously deliberating each line. There was no unilateral bias; the text was filled with repeated considerations.
Chén Yàn's fingertips traced the surface of the paper, completely understanding why she was so tired she fell asleep.
"Mmm..." Posses stirred, her eyelashes fluttering. When a tall, thin male figure appeared in her field of vision, she immediately sprang up. But reality betrayed her; the revolving chair moved, and Posses, losing her balance, slid to the floor.
"Be careful!" Before Chén Yàn could reach out to help her, he saw her nimbly push herself up from the ground, her cheeks flushed—she had taken off her armor while working at the desk, wearing only her close-fitting linen clothes. Without the constraint of the armor, she appeared somewhat slender, like a young girl.
"When did you get here?" Posses's voice trembled, and she instinctively clutched the drafts to her chest.
"Just now." Chén Yàn placed the discarded drafts he was holding back on the desk. "It seems you've been busy all night."
Awkwardness filled the air until the voice of a Yellow Rose Knight came from outside the door: "Miss, the carriages are ready. The next step is..."
Posses regained her senses and immediately adopted her usual commanding tone. "Wake up everyone who is still resting. Take turns eating, and await my orders."
"Yes!" The Yellow Rose Knight sprinted away, as if having some astonishing gossip to share with everyone.
Posses had now regained her usual demeanor, pointing at the drafts. "Come, it's time to fulfill your promise."
"Wait." Chén Yàn interrupted her, pointing to the discarded paper in the wastebasket. "Look at these revision marks. Even you are not satisfied, are you?"
Posses pursed her lips, remaining silent. She was indeed not good at paperwork. By the end of last night's revisions, she herself felt that regardless of the wording or the neatness of the writing, these clauses were unsatisfactory.
"An alliance treaty is not a child's play." Chén Yàn's tone softened. "You are not proficient in paperwork, and neither are the knights you brought. Rather than signing it hastily now, it would be better to go back and bring a formal civil official."
Seeing her eyes instantly dim, he added, "I won't let you go back empty-handed. First, take the wounded soldiers and warhorses back to Italica. This is ironclad proof that the Imperial advance force was repelled, which will boost morale. Second, tell Count Fomarth the situation here and the combat strength of the Imperial Army exactly as it is, so he can make a decision. Third, bring your civil officials here—I hope the signatory will be Count Fomarth himself."
Posses suddenly looked up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She finally understood that Chén Yàn was not shirking his responsibility but helping her out of a difficult situation—this alliance treaty carried too much weight, and she, as a proxy lord, truly couldn't bear such responsibility.
"But..." she bit her lip. "My father may not be able to leave Italica."
"Your older brother can come too. After all, he is the heir to the territory and can guarantee the continuation of this alliance." Chén Yàn smiled. "The main Imperial force won't attack immediately; they need time to figure out our details here, and I won't let them do that. As long as the situation here remains a mystery, they won't dare to attack, and we have plenty of time."
The sound of the service robot's wheels echoed in the corridor. It was carrying freshly made fried dough sticks and soy milk. Chén Yàn swept the discarded paper off the desk and placed the Western breakfast he had just received on the table. "Here, eat your breakfast first. After eating, take your people and go back. When you return, we will formally sign the treaty."
Posses picked up a knife and fork, suddenly feeling a warmth in her eyes. She lowered her head, her long hair covering her reddened eyes, and softly replied, "Mmm."
At eight in the morning, the road connecting the main road and the refugee camp was completed. Five large carriages were lined up and ready to depart. The tires made almost no sound as they rolled over the ground—the pneumatic tires were wrapped in thick rubber, and the steel plate suspension on the axles deformed slightly, absorbing the undulations of the gravel road completely.
The Yellow Rose Knights, instead of riding horses, were driving carriages, and they occasionally reached out to touch the metal frame of the carriages, their eyes full of novelty.
"These wheels... are not made of wood." A young knight poked the tire, his fingertip feeling a non-wooden texture, yet it was hard, truly miraculous.
Posses stood beside the foremost carriage, her fingertip tracing the steel plate on the side of the carriage. The touch was cold and smooth, certainly not achievable by hand forging. "Is the load capacity three times that of a normal carriage?" She turned to Chén Yàn, her golden hair gleaming in the morning light. "With this craftsmanship, the blacksmiths of Italica probably wouldn't even understand the blueprints."
"Just some minor modifications." Chén Yàn smiled and looked back at the slope—the multi-legged robots had already cleaned it up. Only dark red bloodstains remained on the ground, like forgotten scars. In the air, a dozen rotor drones were hovering at a low altitude, fine blue disinfectant spray misting the grass. Even the wind carried a faint smell of disinfectant. On the distant hillside, mechanical arms were filling soil into shell craters, their movements as precise as drawing with a compass.
"The 'metal lumps' here are busier than people." Posses's tone carried a hint of teasing, but her gaze was fixed on Chén Yàn's face. "You even cleaned the battlefield as if it had never been fought."
"We have to leave some 'surprises' for the Imperial scouts." Chén Yàn looked towards the main road in the east. "If they can't find any traces of battle, they won't know how the advance force was defeated. The more cautious a commander is, the less likely they are to act rashly."
Posses nodded. If she were leading the troops, she would have similar doubts. The knights began boarding the carriages. The wounded soldiers had already filled the carriages, some sitting, others lying down if they couldn't sit, like a herd of pigs being sent to the slaughterhouse. The only difference was that they didn't struggle or resist.
Posses mounted her horse, winding the reins around her palm twice. "I'm leaving."
"Travel safely." Chén Yàn waved. "Once the wounded soldiers arrive in Italica, you can deal with them as you see fit. Whether it's execution after trial or labor in the mines, it will be according to your laws."
"You don't need to tell me." Posses's horse pawed the ground, then suddenly moved half a step closer, her voice lowered. "I will come back. Don't forget what you promised me."
Chén Yàn's ear tips felt slightly warm. Before he could say anything, she had turned her horse around, and a crisp command echoed in the wilderness: "Move out!"
Posses rode at the front of the convoy, the Yellow Rose Knights driving the carriages closely behind. From the driver's seats came whispers—several young knights of the Yellow Rose were discussing in hushed tones.
"Has Miss changed these past few days?"
"Yeah, I've never seen her express so many emotions before."
"Exactly. She usually has a stern face, but now..."
"Do you think Miss has feelings for him...?"
The rest of the words were scattered by the wind. Posses, lost in thought, dismissed these little rumors as background music for the march, not hearing them at all.
The carriages rolled on, the clanking of the Yellow Rose Knights' armor fading into the distance. Chén Yàn stood in place, watching the convoy turn around the hills and disappear from view. Then, he turned towards the refugee camp.
In the refugee camp, more than three hundred Imperial wounded soldiers sat in a group, most having lost arms or legs, crippled if not dead. They hung their heads, their previous arrogance gone, now resembling soulless puppets. Chén Yàn walked up to the wounded soldiers. They had already removed their heavy armor, and their right legs were bandaged, but they had lost everything below the knee, evidently severed by plasma cannons.
"What are your thoughts now?" Chén Yàn's voice echoed across the open space. "When you were destroying Karelia, did you ever think you would end up like this?"
The wounded soldiers showed no reaction, not even lifting their eyelids.
"Why aren't you speaking? Weren't you very imposing when attacking the city?" Chén Yàn's voice suddenly rose, kicking bits of gravel at his feet. "Do you think pretending to be mute now will absolve you of your sins!"
The soldier at the front finally moved, slowly raising his head. His left eye was blind, the empty socket crusted with dried blood. The corners of his mouth twitched into a grotesque smile, but he couldn't utter a sound; the wound on his throat had been scorched into charcoal by high temperatures.
Chén Yàn's fists clenched with a creak, anger churning in his chest like lava. He suddenly kicked a wooden post nearby, shaking the clothes drying on it. "Don't think that you can wash away your sins like this. Sooner or later, you will pay the price!"
His only response was deathly silence. The wounded soldiers seemed to have lost all strength. Some buried their heads in their knees, others looked at the sky as if waiting for death to arrive.
"A bunch of beasts." Chén Yàn cursed under his breath and turned to leave. The alloy-made camp gate was heavily shut, but it wasn't locked, as if mocking their lack of courage to even attempt an escape.
Joining the army might not have been voluntary, but no one forced them to slaughter unarmed civilians. Robbing property and killing for pleasure—was someone holding a knife to their throats to do it? No, I don't think so. Therefore, there is no reason for forgiveness, not even if the King of Heaven himself came.
Until the sun reached its zenith, the gate remained still. The wounded soldiers remained seated, no one getting up, no one escaping. Only the wind, carrying the scent of disinfectant, swirled across the open space.
Chén Yàn stood on the city wall, looking at the incinerator pit in the distance. Multi-legged robots were pushing piles of corpses into the fire. Black smoke, entwined with flames, shot up into the sky, like a silent elegy. Chén Yàn gazed at the smoke, his throat suddenly tightening. He finally understood that the most terrifying aspect of war was never death, but those who survived, struggling in the human world with physical and psychological scars.