Frontline (1)

Ping!

"These new, AHMC's, whatever, are pretty efficient."

A soldier, of medium stature, leaned against the rifle. From the appearance of his light armor, he was an archer. A young one, to add to that.

He bared his kingdom's flag on the chest piece of his armor.

Bang!

A few kilometers away, a loud explosion could be heard. The result of a mana cannon, perhaps. It did not change the smoky smell that lingered upon the battlefield.

The soldier reloaded his rifle, aiming. 

The AHMC was more efficient than most bows. It didn't require the arm strength that a more mature, strong individual had in order to pull the string- or rather, rope of the bow. 

Ping!

The AHMC shot. A direct hit. The mana-propelled bullet flew through the air, past an ally, and into the head of a Sar knight. Following the bullet, the brain matter trailed behind it.

"That accuracy is always as sharp as ever, Bastle."

The praise of his squadmate was nothing to him.

It was expected for someone of his race to have good accuracy, anyway. Sharp, reptillian-like eyes, that could spot a fly's wink from 2 kilometers away. 

"Is this the life destined for a demi-human like me?" he quietly said to himself, mundanely reloading his rifle. 

The frontlines of the war were harsh and unforgiving. The sky was forever grey, tainted by the rising smoke of fires and things of that nature.

Ping!

Another accurate shot.

"Units, halt fire!" his captain called. 

Reluctantly, Bastle got up from his one-legged, kneeling position. 

The forces managed to push back Sar. But if things went on like this, a loop was bound to happen. Sar pushed Anore back, and Anore pushed Sar back. This was all happening on Anore's land. So the only person at a disadvantage here was Anore.

"We'll set camp, and continue onward as soon as day strikes!" the captain yelled out. His voice became more and more irritating to Bastle.

. . .

Bastle took his scratched and dulled helmet off, allowing his light-blue hair to breathe. He shook his head, ever so slightly.

There were 20 tents or so, meant for 6 people in each. 120 people.

"20 are bound to die."

Bastle counted in his head, his fingers stretched out.

The taste of blood still lingered in his mouth. He had previously bit his lip, the recoil of the rifle exceeding his expectations after applying too much mana to his shot.

"How did you all get stationed on these frontlines?" a curious soldier asked. Whether it was out of curiosity, or to simply start the conversation to raise morale.

"I enlisted. With no family of my own, I thought the best thing to do with my life was serve my kingdom."

The response of a middle-aged man was heartfelt and somewhat grizzly.

"To be honest, I really joined for the money. I hope you guys won't judge me."

Despite his plea, there was still silent judging, whether it was in their stares or the way they readjusted. 

"My parents nearly died in that first attack. I can only hope to rid of their fear by killing off those... sick bastards."

She swallowed in her pause, staring at her feet. A soft-spoken girl. You would never expect those words to come out of her mouth. 

"The horrors of war."

Bastle chuckled to himself.

Everyone had these reasons to come.

But Bastle had no choice. A victim of the first attack on the shore. There was no place willing to take him. If he joined the military as an archer, he wouldn't have to overexert himself on the frontlines, and he would receive some sort of food and housing.

. . .

. . 

.

The moonlight gazed upon Bastle's light orange eyes.

While everyone was cozy in their tent, he stood outside, along with a few others.

"You're an archer, correct? From the ranged unit."

Bastle nodded.

One of the lookouts was a black-haired elf. Uncommon. His eyes were a soft baby blue. On his waist, one sword was attached.

"Those callouses on your hands. With these new AHMC's, it's not possible to gain a callous like that, right? Those are the callouses you gain through swordsmanship."

"... So what? What's your point?"

"Why are you trying to be an archer?"

"..."

"I can see your potential. The skill that lies within you. But you're instead an archer."

"Being an archer is far easier. And to be honest, I guess I just find swordsmanship boring."

The elf suddenly displayed a look of disdain on his face. 

"Watch closely."

He unsheathed his sword, holding the scabbard gently with his off-hand.

"No thank you. I'm supposed to be watching for potential enemies. I don't want to see you dance."

"... No matter. I don't need to be observed to want to become better at my skill."

He swung his sword. Bastle paid no mind, continuing to watch. However, a strange curiosity overcame him.

"What's your name?" he asked, without looking at the elven boy.

The elven boy stopped in the middle of his swing. Thinking whether he should tell his name, or not.

"Feyrith. My name is Feyrith."

The two boys had no last name. No family. It was just them in this war.

Perhaps they had joined the war for similar reasons. Though, from the looks of it, Feyrith was a lot more courageous than Bastle was.

. . .

(Author's Note)

still grounded, unfortunately. but, i've figured out a way to still somewhat post chapters to the best of my ability.