chapter 16.4

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and violet, Alcard leaned against the outer wall of the central headquarter, his arms crossed as he listened to the quiet murmurs of the senior outcasts around him. The atmosphere was calmer than usual—a brief reprieve after the battle they had endured the day before. Even in rest, they remained vigilant, aware that the threats from the south never truly disappeared. Some idly sharpened their weapons, while others cleaned their gear, their hands moving with the practiced efficiency of warriors who had long abandoned the need for haste.

In the distance, a thin cloud of dust rose against the fading light, marking the approach of a caravan. Before long, a large carriage came into view, flanked by three more heavily laden wagons. The banners of Wastadian fluttered above them—blue and white, stark against the evening sky.

One of the outcasts sitting near Alcard raised an eyebrow, watching the convoy grow closer. "Wastadian again," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "They've been coming more frequently, haven't they?"

His companion, an older outcast who had spent years in The Wall, gave a slow nod. "Yeah, and they never come empty-handed. Always with full shipments. Unlike the other kingdoms, which mostly send us prisoners and the bare minimum of supplies."

That remark caught the interest of others around them. A former Jovalian soldier, now an outcast, a tall man with a deep scar along his throat, chimed in with a skeptical tone. "That's what makes me curious. Why are they bothering to send food here? They don't owe us anything. Most of the human kingdoms barely acknowledge our existence unless they need a place to dispose of their unwanted men."

For a while, Alcard had merely listened, letting the conversation unfold around him. But now, he finally spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet discussion with its usual calm certainty. "It's not out of kindness," he said flatly.

The group fell silent, all eyes turning toward him. He kept his gaze fixed on the approaching convoy, watching as the wagons rolled closer. Then, in a steady, measured tone, he continued, "Wastadian is a maritime kingdom. It stands apart from the power struggles of Middle Earth, with no stake in the endless wars between our lords and kings. But they have something far more important—a broader perspective."

One of the senior outcasts frowned, leaning forward slightly. "A broader perspective? What do you mean?"

Alcard took a slow breath before explaining. "Wastadian's economy depends on Middle Earth. They don't have the fertile lands or natural resources that the other kingdoms do. Instead, they thrive on trade—on exporting their seafood, rare goods, and imports from distant lands. If Middle Earth collapses into chaos, if war spreads unchecked, they lose their primary market. That's why they're ensuring that The Wall stands firm. Because without us, the stability of Middle Earth crumbles."

A heavy-set outcast from Edenvila, a man with scars running down his muscular arms, grunted in response. "But other kingdoms need Middle Earth too. So why is it only Wastadian doing this?"

A faint smirk crossed Alcard's lips, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Because Wastadian is the only one that isn't falling apart."

The outcasts around him exchanged glances, and Alcard continued, his voice colder now. "The human kingdoms of Middle Earth—Edenvila, Jovalian, and the lesser lords—they're all too consumed by their own civil wars, betrayals, and political games to see the bigger picture. Wastadian, on the other hand, has remained stable. Their government is strong, their leadership unchallenged. They can afford to think beyond the next battle, beyond the next power struggle. While the other kingdoms fight among themselves, Wastadian is already shaping its future."

A younger outcast, newly recruited, muttered doubtfully, "So basically, they're just using us to keep Middle Earth from collapsing?"

Alcard shrugged, his tone indifferent. "Perhaps. But does it matter? We don't need their gratitude or their recognition. We need supplies. As long as they continue to send food, weapons, and provisions, we benefit. They may call it investment, strategy, or self-preservation—but for us, it's survival."

By the time he finished speaking, the Wastadian convoy had entered the courtyard. Soldiers clad in their distinctive navy-blue armor dismounted, moving with well-trained efficiency as they began unloading their cargo. Sacks of grain, crates of dried fruits, barrels of fresh water—all essential for the continued survival of The Wall.

Alcard watched them for a moment before pushing off from the wall, preparing to return to his duties. But just before he left, he turned back to his fellow outcasts, lowering his voice but ensuring that his words carried weight.

"Not all kingdoms are enemies. Some see the world differently. Wastadian may not fight alongside us, but they support us in their own way. They understand what so many others in Middle Earth refuse to see—that war only destroys, and stability is the most valuable investment of all."

The outcasts around him remained quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. For men who had spent years defending The Wall, perspectives like this were rare. They had been conditioned to see the world in black and white—friend or foe, ally or threat. But Alcard's words forced them to consider a possibility they had never truly pondered.

Meanwhile, the bustling activity in the courtyard intensified. Supplies were carefully cataloged, distributed to storerooms, and rationed out to those who needed them. The presence of Wastadian in The Wall still carried an air of mystery, but as long as their shipments kept arriving, no one was in a position to complain.

Alcard walked away, leaving the conversation behind as the other outcasts continued their quiet deliberation. He knew the world was far more complicated than they realized. And perhaps, behind all of this, there was a greater game at play, one even The Wall's defenders were yet to fully understand.

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