chapter 4.4

Inside a narrow room at The Wall's Central Headquarters, a somber atmosphere lingered as the flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows against the crumbling wooden walls. The scent of aged wood mixed with the faint remnants of burnt oil, giving the space an air of something far older than it should be.

A rickety wooden table sat at the room's center, its surface buried beneath scattered documents, tattered maps, and empty glass bottles that once held Bloody Potion.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the floor—Alcard's presence unmistakable as he entered without knocking. He had long stopped caring for such formalities.

Oldman, seated behind his worn wooden desk, lifted his gaze slowly. The exhaustion in his eyes was impossible to hide, his features worn with the weight of leading The Outcasts for far too many years. Though his sharp gaze still carried a commanding presence, there was an undeniable awareness behind them—an understanding that their golden days were long past.

"What now, Alcard?" His voice was hoarse and heavy as he leaned back into his creaking chair, rubbing his forehead as if trying to dispel the fatigue.

Alcard strode forward, stopping just in front of the desk. His red eyes locked onto Oldman's as he got straight to the point. "My Bloody Potion supply is running low. I need more."

Oldman exhaled sharply, reaching for the supply ledger at his side. "Of course it is." He muttered under his breath, flipping through the worn pages. "Every damn time we face an attack, we drain our reserves faster than we can replace them."

Alcard crossed his arms, his gaze piercing. "Are we truly out of ingredients, or is there something else going on?"

Oldman let out a bitter chuckle and tossed the supply list onto the table with frustration. "Both," he admitted, his tone grim. "Folwestian Bloom and Rotrofila Root are getting harder to find in the south. And even when we do manage to bring some back, it's never enough. Every damn gathering mission costs us lives."

Alcard sat down across from him, sensing that Oldman needed more than just a request—he needed someone to listen.

"So, we're barely scraping by," he muttered, his voice steady but weighted. "The monsters keep coming, our numbers keep thinning, and the potions we rely on are running dry."

"Exactly." Oldman's gaze hardened. "And let's not forget the Dwarves have cut their supply shipments. The iron plates they sent aren't even enough to repair our armor—let alone reinforce the damn gate that's about to collapse. They claim their own lands are under threat."

Alcard scoffed, his voice edged with sarcasm. "Dwarves are always concerned with their own problems first." Then, after a brief pause, he added, "What about the Elves? They have more resources."

Oldman snorted derisively. "The Elves? They send us just enough food to keep us alive, but nothing more. They refuse to share anything of true value. Their excuse? 'We must focus on protecting our own lands.' In the end, everyone is only looking out for themselves."

Alcard's gaze shifted toward the small, grimy window. Through it, he could see the towering stone of The Wall—once a monument of strength, now marred by visible cracks. The morning light only made those weaknesses more apparent.

"We keep getting empty promises while The Wall slowly crumbles," he murmured. "If this continues, we won't last."

Oldman tapped his calloused fingers against the wooden desk, the rhythmic sound filling the silence before he finally spoke.

"We survive because we have to, not because we receive aid. The Wall stands—not because Middle Earth needs it, but because The Outcasts choose to defend it. The outside world doesn't give a damn about what happens here."

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft creaking of Oldman's chair as he leaned back.

Alcard finally spoke again. "Just give me whatever's left of the potion stock. I'll make do with it."

Oldman studied him for a long moment before turning toward a small wooden cabinet at the back of the room. He pried open the door with a tired motion, retrieving three small glass vials filled with thick, crimson liquid.

"This is all that remains," he said as he handed them to Alcard. "Use them wisely. We don't know when we'll be able to get more."

Alcard took the vials without a word, slipping them into the leather pouch at his waist. As he turned to leave, Oldman's voice called out once more, lower this time—but weighted with meaning.

"Tomorrow, I'm sending a team to the south to gather more Folwestian Bloom and Rotrofila Root."

Alcard paused at the door, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips—though it held no amusement.

"Let's hope they come back alive."

Oldman let out a dry, humorless chuckle, though his eyes remained tired. "We don't have a choice. We have to endure."

Without another word, Alcard stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

Inside, Oldman was left alone, once again drowning in the endless paperwork and grim realities of their existence.

Beyond the office, the sounds of The Wall's daily struggle filled the cold morning air—the clash of metal, the heavy footsteps of Outcasts training, and the distant hammering of wood, as they desperately tried to reinforce the damaged gates.

For now, The Wall still stood.

But everyone knew—time was running out.

And their enemies?

They were only getting stronger.