chapter 3.1

The morning light struggled to break through the dense fog lingering over the central headquarters of The Wall. The cold air slithered through the narrow corridors, carrying the damp scent of old wood and dust that drifted from the cracked walls. Silence reigned over the stronghold, save for the occasional heavy footsteps of Outcasts awakening from their short-lived rest, preparing for yet another endless battle.

In the midst of this heavy quiet, the rusted hinges of an old wooden door creaked as Alcard pushed it open. His red, weary eyes swept across the familiar space. This was Oldman's office—a place that resembled the remnants of a forgotten past more than a true command center of humanity's last border. The dim morning light filtered through a small wooden window, casting long shadows over a cluttered desk, where stacks of reports, weathered maps, and empty Bloody Potion vials lay scattered—silent witnesses to countless nights of tension.

Behind the desk sat Oldman. His aged face, more lined than before, bore the weight of exhaustion. Yet his gaze, though weary, remained steadfast, the authority in his presence unchallenged. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet Alcard's stare.

Without hesitation, Alcard stood firm despite the lingering exhaustion from his recent use of Bloody Potion. "The Wall is failing, Oldman," he began, voice gruff. "Monsters have likely already crossed."

"I know," came the calm reply.

Alcard exhaled sharply, then, feeling the weight of fatigue in his body, sank into the rickety wooden chair across from the desk.

Oldman leaned back, scrutinizing him. "Tell me everything," he ordered, gesturing for Alcard to begin.

Alcard ran a tired hand over his face, searching for the right words to describe the decay he had witnessed.

"It's getting worse," he finally spoke, his tone measured, though anger simmered beneath. "I passed abandoned outposts, some barely standing. The ones still manned are understaffed and falling apart. The walls are crumbling, and monster tracks are everywhere. Even the villages near The Wall are being abandoned out of fear."

"…"

Oldman listened in silence, but his expression darkened as Alcard reached the worst of his report.

"The Cyclops I killed—it wasn't normal," Alcard continued. "It was a mutant."

Oldman tensed, his posture shifting forward. "A mutated Cyclops?" he repeated, his voice sharper now. "How did a creature like that get past The Wall?"

Alcard shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. "I don't know," he admitted, his jaw tightening. "But this only means one thing—The Wall is no longer holding. Worse, the villagers are starting to blame us. Some believe we're letting monsters through just to increase our earnings."

Oldman's jaw clenched, and he inhaled deeply before leaning back into his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight.

"We knew this was coming," he said finally, his voice low and heavy. "With no aid from humanity, with no support from the Elves or Dwarves, the entire burden falls on us. But we're too few, and the only thing keeping us strong is Bloody Potion."

Alcard's fist tightened, his crimson eyes burning with quiet rage. "But Bloody Potion is killing us too, Oldman," he retorted. "How many have died from addiction? How many have been lost to overdose? How many of us are even left to guard The Wall? We can't keep doing this."

Oldman did not answer right away. He simply studied Alcard, his worn-out gaze reflecting the weight of years of sacrifice.

"Outcasts are not ordinary soldiers, Alcard," he finally said. "We are a punishment. We are condemned to guard The Wall, to fight the monsters, and to bear the hatred of the world. We knew this from the beginning."

Alcard turned toward the small window, watching the morning fog thin slightly, revealing the gloomy horizon beyond.

"If only the Elves still sent their warriors… if only the Dwarves repaired our equipment and walls…"

"They will never return," Oldman cut in, his voice firm. "This world has forgotten us. The Outcasts exist only in the shadows, defending a world that does not acknowledge us."

The silence that followed was heavy, the only sound being the faint creaking of old wood as the wind slipped through the cracks in the walls.

At last, Oldman stood, adjusting his tattered cloak, which had long lost its former prestige. He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Alcard's shoulder, as if trying to pass on what little strength he had left.

"Our only choice is to endure," he said softly, but his tone held iron resolve. "We will keep protecting The Wall, even though no one cares if we do. Bloody Potion may be a curse, but it's the only thing keeping us strong enough to fight. Just as it always has, and perhaps always will."

Alcard met his gaze, then finally sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He bowed his head—a silent acknowledgment.

"…Understood, Oldman." His voice was quieter now.

Without another word, Alcard rose from his chair and walked toward the door. But before stepping out, he glanced back once more.

Oldman had already returned to his chair, staring blankly at the pile of reports, as if carrying the entire weight of the world on his aged shoulders.

The wooden door groaned softly as Alcard pulled it shut behind him.

He strode down the cold corridor, his thoughts a whirlwind, weighing the bleak future of the Outcasts and their diminishing place in a world that had long cast them aside.

As he stepped outside, the morning wind hit his face, sharp and biting.

He inhaled deeply, straightened his posture, and walked forward.

The next mission awaited.