chapter 5.4

The twilight sky slowly faded, replacing its golden glow with streaks of orange that darkened into the coming night. The Central Headquarter of The Wall remained alive with activity despite the approaching dusk. Outcasts moved relentlessly—some repairing weapons, others preparing for night watch, while the patrol units dragged themselves back through the gates, their faces lined with exhaustion, streaked with dust and dried blood.

Amid the persistent motion, Alcard walked through the narrow corridor leading to Oldman's office. His steps were firm, yet his mind swirled with thoughts. A sudden summons from Oldman was rarely a good sign.

Arriving at a worn wooden door scarred with deep scratches, he rapped twice.

A heavy voice answered from within. "Come in."

Alcard pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room had not changed. Dimly lit, simple, yet burdened with history. A large wooden desk sat at its center, cluttered with tattered maps, stacks of reports, and the last few remaining bottles of Bloody Potion. An oil lamp flickered, casting elongated shadows against the wooden walls—a silent testament to the weight this place carried.

Behind the desk, Oldman sat with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on a weathered map. The lines of age and fatigue had deepened on his face, yet his sharp eyes betrayed the fire that still burned within him. He gestured for Alcard to close the door before speaking.

"I need you to lead something, Alcard." His voice was low, edged with caution.

Alcard remained silent, waiting for the details. Oldman pulled out a folded parchment, the seal of Jovalian imprinted at its corner, and handed it over.

"News from the north," Oldman continued. "The political situation in Jovalian is boiling over. The second prince's faction, backed by military forces, is preparing to overthrow the third prince's faction, which currently stands with the Prime Minister. If war breaks out—and you know it will—the losing side will be exiled."

Alcard took the document but did not open it. His expression remained unreadable, yet a flicker of something—perhaps resentment, or perhaps bitter familiarity—flashed in his eyes at the mention of Jovalian. Still, he listened.

"This is worse than you think," Oldman went on. He tapped the few remaining bottles of Bloody Potion on his desk. "If the exiled numbers surge, our supply will run dry. You understand what that means."

Alcard finally spoke, his voice steady but weighted. "How much do we need?"

Oldman let out a long exhale, his fingers tracing the faded lines of his map as if searching for an answer.

"At least ten times what we have now."

"Ten times?" Alcard did not flinch, but even he knew that number was an impossible demand.

Oldman nodded, his tone grim. "Folwestian Bloom and Rotrofila Root, the core ingredients for Bloody Potion, are becoming scarce. The southern forests—our only source—grow more dangerous by the day. Mutated creatures are gathering. Orges and goblins aren't just roaming aimlessly anymore; they're forming structured packs."

He pulled out another map—this one smaller, more detailed, marked with paths and danger zones. "This is the route," Oldman said, pointing to a spot far in the south. "You'll lead the team."

Alcard studied the map carefully. He was used to operating alone, but this task was too great for a single warrior. "Fine," he finally said. "I'll assemble a team."

As he turned to leave, Oldman gripped his shoulder, stopping him momentarily. "Make sure they're prepared. This journey will take weeks, maybe more. I'll arrange for whatever supplies we can spare."

Alcard gave a silent nod in acknowledgment, but as he reached the door, he paused and glanced back. "The exiles from Jovalian… the numbers will be large, won't they?"

Oldman met his gaze, a rare flicker of sympathy in his weary eyes. "Likely over a hundred. And that's just the initial estimate."

Alcard narrowed his eyes. A cold, bitter wave of realization settled over him. The kingdom he had once fought for—bled for—was now sending its discarded remnants to The Wall. Just as they had discarded him.

"Then," he murmured, almost to himself, "I won't return empty-handed. I'll make sure we have enough Bloody Potion to welcome them properly."

Oldman watched him for a long moment before nodding. He trusted Alcard—but he also knew this mission could be his last.

"Stay alive, Alcard. I have a bad feeling about this one."

Alcard didn't reply. He simply nodded once before stepping out, letting the door close behind him. His footsteps echoed down the dim corridor, his mind now entirely focused on the task ahead.

Outside, the cold night wind howled through the outpost, cutting through the air like a whisper of foreboding. But to Alcard, the cold was nothing new. Just another trial to endure.

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