The Invisible Pressure

Ten days after the defeat at Nation's western border, Lunamaria was summoned back to the Organization's headquarters while in the midst of drafting a new strategy. Though displeased with the abrupt recall, she had no choice but to temporarily hand over command of the 4th Legion to the virtual assistant system and immediately set off for the capital, alone to face unforeseen pressures.

On the other side of the front, Nation was preparing for its annual internal meeting. As one of the high-ranking leaders, Stratos was required to attend. After confirming that the Organization's 4th Legion would not launch further attacks in the near future—based on intelligence gathered from informants—he decided to temporarily entrust the management of his units to his deputy generals and depart the base for the royal palace.

-September 23, 21xx, Auxelles, Capital of the Federal Republic of Beum-

In the main conference room of the Organization's headquarters, the greenish-white light from the overhead lamps reflected off the metal walls, creating a stifling atmosphere. The long conference table was covered with strategic maps, classified documents, and models of advanced weaponry, exuding a cold, solemn air.

At the head of the table, an elderly general with nearly all-white hair and a face scarred from war stood up. With a deadly gaze, he swept his eyes across the room like a blade slicing through the air, silencing everyone before he spoke.

"The situation at the front is not as expected! Commander Whieblod, your legion has failed to meet expectations in the recent engagements. You promised to breach Nation's border within a week, but this is the result you've brought back. Do you have any explanation?" His voice boomed, drawing all eyes to Lunamaria.

She stood tall under the scrutinizing gazes, striving to maintain her composure. Her hands clenched the documents against her chest as if they were a lifeline.

"Sir, the 4th Legion has successfully defended the strategic base at the front. Losses were inevitable, but we held the critical position while applying pressure on Nation's forces," Lunamaria replied, her voice steady but unable to mask the underlying tension and anxiety.

"Held the position?" Another general scoffed, slamming his hand on the table.

"Your mission wasn't to hold, Whieblod! You were supposed to advance, to break through Nation's defenses! And you failed at that!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices. One by one, they took turns criticizing her, dismissing her and the 4th Legion's efforts entirely. The atmosphere grew heavy with accusations. Despite her attempts to explain, every argument she presented was shot down. The Organization's mentality of always being superior to any adversary made this failure unacceptable. To them, any excuse was merely a justification.

As the meeting concluded, Lunamaria left the room with her shoulders weighed down by pressure. Though she knew many of the criticisms were unfair, she couldn't deny her responsibility as a commander. To her, a leader was not permitted to fail, and certainly not allowed to make excuses.

"Luna." A warm, deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

She stopped and turned to meet the gaze of her father, Effandor, one of the Organization's senior advisors. He leaned against the corridor wall, his demeanor calm but his eyes still carrying their familiar sternness. Bound by protocol, he couldn't attend her debriefing, only able to stand outside and silently witness his daughter face the cold criticisms of his colleagues.

"Dad…," Lunamaria bowed slightly, her voice polite but tinged with weariness.

"You did well," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't let those criticisms shake you. The battlefield is where truth is decided, not in these air-conditioned rooms filled with comforts."

She wanted to argue, but the exhaustion within her kept her silent. Her father gave her a brief hug, as if to lift some of the burden from her shoulders.

"You've proven your capabilities. But remember, you're human too. If you don't take care of yourself, who will take care of your units?"

Moments later, he handed her a leave slip, informing her that he had personally approved a week off for her. Though she tried to protest, his resolute gaze left her no choice but to nod.

"This isn't a suggestion, it's an order," he emphasized, his tone brooking no argument.

Before leaving, he placed his hand on her shoulder once more, his eyes softening with trust. He understood that to reach her position at just over 23, she had proven herself through countless trials and was entirely deserving. To him, that was a source of deep pride. She watched his figure disappear down the long corridor, a mix of gratitude and responsibility swelling within her.

"Thank you, dad," Lunamaria whispered to herself before turning to face the challenges ahead.

-September 26, 21xx, Valford, Capital of the Kingdom of Urasus-

At the royal palace, the Royal Hall shimmered under the light of hundreds of crystal chandeliers, their glow reflecting off white marble columns adorned with ancient rune patterns, creating an atmosphere both majestic and timeless. At the center of the hall, a long ebony table, intricately carved and edged with gold, commanded attention.

At the head of the table sat the Emperor, the supreme ruler of Nation. A man in his seventies with silver-streaked hair and a stern countenance, his sharp gaze alone was enough to instill fear, causing others to hold their breath. He wore a resplendent red robe, the symbol of ultimate authority, woven from Nation's finest silk. Flanking him were advisors, nobles, and other powerful figures of Nation, all gathered to report on the state of Nation and its allied nations.

Yet, despite the full attendance, one seat remained empty—the one reserved for Crown Prince Arthur. Whispers began to spread through the hall.

"He's probably in his chambers. I heard he had… a few guests over last night," Zerain, seated beside Stratos, remarked casually, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Stratos, though seething with anger, maintained his cold expression. He stood, bowed to the Emperor, and requested permission to fetch Arthur. With a nod of approval, he left the room, leaving the advisors in a state of confusion. He headed straight for Arthur's private quarters.

In Crown Prince's bedroom, as the door swung open, Stratos was immediately assaulted by a potent mix of scents—musk, sweat, and other unmistakable traces. The scene before him was exactly as he had anticipated. Arthur, the heir to the throne, lay sprawled on the bed, surrounded by three "honored guests," with sheets and clothes strewn across the floor. The room was a testament to chaos, the aftermath of a wild night. Stratos showed no emotion, merely casting a cold glance over the scene, as if accustomed to such displays.

"Your Highness, you're late," his voice was ice-cold, barely concealing his irritation.

"Ah… the daredevil! Is that boring meeting over already?" Arthur cracked open his eyes, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

Stratos didn't respond. He stepped forward and yanked the blanket off Arthur, exposing his naked form, while reminding him of the dignity expected of a future heir. Arthur rose lazily, stretching as if in no hurry.

"I'm exhausted. Why don't you just tell Father I'm ill and can't attend today?"

Then, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, Arthur added, "In return… you can have your pick of these lovelies. I hear you soldiers out there are starved for some—"

"Bang!" The sound of a magical gunshot cut through Arthur's words. The bullet grazed his ear and embedded itself into the crystal wall behind him, leaving a scorched mark. The shot jolted the three on the bed awake, their eyes wide with terror as they realized Arthur was facing the barrel of Stratos's gun—one of Nation's most fearsome generals. Arthur, unfazed, glanced at the bullet lodged in the wall, then back at general.

"You have ten minutes to prepare, Your Highness. If you don't appear, I won't hesitate to order you dragged to the hall," Stratos said, his gun still trained on Arthur.

Arthur stood there, smirking but silent. As Stratos turned to leave, Arthur muttered under his breath,

"Stiff as ever."

After the annual meeting concluded, Zerain, with his frail, scholarly appearance, told him that he wished to speak privately. Following lunch with the royal family, Zerain invited him to his study. Unlike Arthur's opulent bedroom, Zerain's room was lined with bookshelves, documents, and economic development charts.

"Why didn't you tell me about the blood contract?" Zerain began, his eyes filled with concern.

"Because it's not your concern," Stratos replied, sitting across from him.

Zerain presented stacks of documents and reports on contract, all indicating that those who directly signed such pacts rarely met a good end. That was why it were typically agreements between two or more parties to enforce terms, not for an individual to sign directly in exchange for a wish.

He asked Stratos what he had bargained with this magical pact. Instead of answering, Stratos drew his gun and shot his own hand, to Zerain's horror. Yet, what truly shocked Zerain was how the wound healed instantly, leaving no trace. In other words, only when Nation achieved its glorious destiny through his efforts could he finally rest.

"I understand what I've committed to, and it's my duty. My responsibility doesn't allow me to back down," Stratos said, glancing at the documents but not touching them.

"But you, me, and Arthur—aren't we—" Zerain's voice was thick with emotion.

"I don't trust Arthur, especially not now. He might become a capable king, but his current capabilities aren't enough to lead Nation to glory. And you…" Stratos paused, hesitating before continuing.

"You know your own physical condition better than anyone. So, I just need you to focus on the tasks the Emperor has assigned you, economy and diplomacy. For everything else, I hope you'll take the time to care for yourself."

With that, he stood, turned, and left Zerain's room. The door closed, leaving Zerain alone in the quiet space.