Returning to the Battlefield

"Long ago, lad… before this land was soaked in ash and silence, there was a small kingdom—humble, crumbling at the edges, but proud all the same. And in that kingdom lived a man named Hugo Bismarck.

To the people, he was a man of his word. A charmer. The kind who'd speak with honeyed tongue and make you believe the sun rose just for him. He smiled at the market women, shared drinks with the poor, and always helped the old with their carts.

But beneath that smile… was a rotten heart.

Hugo was an opium slave—he'd sell his own shadow for a pinch of the black flower. The day he got a coin in his hand; he spent it before it touched his palm. When that wasn't enough, he turned to stealing—from anyone. Even from Mistress Callen, a midwife who once nursed his mother through sickness.

She caught him. Fought back, too. And in that flurry of struggle—he struck her too hard. Her head hit the edge of the hearth.

She died with her eyes open, as if still scolding him.

He panicked, of course. He wasn't a killer. Not yet. But death doesn't care for excuses. The soldiers would come. No coin, no name, no charm could shield him now.

But the gods… they had other plans.

That year, war broke out between his kingdom and its jealous neighbor—two starving dogs biting at one carcass. The army needed bodies, not honor. So, when the soldiers found Hugo, they did not take him to a noose.

They gave him a spear.

Told him: 'Fight, fight for the king and your freedom. May God forgive your sins if they know you died by the blade for my king.'

And so, he did.

Hugo Bismarck, the opium-slave, became Hugo the Bayonet—a butcher on the battlefield. No one knew who he was anymore. Just another madman in iron, drowning his guilt in blood and fire.

Some say he died a hero. Some say he never died at all.

But let me tell you, Evans—that monster didn't die; instead, he ended up becoming a blacksmith in a remote village."

"Father, why are you telling me this?" asked Evans.

"Because that monster is me, son. My real name is Hugo Bismarck. I changed it to Garrison Smith to escape my past."

"Listen, son, they're going to take me, and I may never get to see you again. I just want you to know that I love you, and there's nothing in this world more precious to me than you. You have to stay strong when I'm not around."

The next morning arrived, and three able-bodied men with a cart full of food were brought to the soldiers' camp.

The officer barked, "Where is the blacksmith?! And the girl you promised didn't show up last night. Does this village want to be burned?!"

From the crowd, an elderly man stepped forward, trembling with fear. "Sir, the blacksmith is coming, he's just saying farewell to his son — his only family left."

The officer grunted, "And what about the girl?"

The elderly man stammered, "Sir, we didn't know you requested her company last night… but we've brought a girl who will satisfy you. Please, take a look at her."

The young girl was no more than sixteen, her skin browned by sun and wind, her fingers calloused from mornings spent pulling roots from the frostbitten earth. Her hair, the color of burnt wheat, was always tied back in a rough braid with twine, loose strands clinging to her cheeks like they'd grown roots. Her faded dress, patched at the knees, was clean — always clean, a small rebellion against the filth that plagued the village. Her eyes held no innocence, only the dull clarity of someone who had learned too early that hope is fragile.

The officer glanced over her and said, "Yeah, this will do."

The elderly man felt a wave of relief, knowing the officer would not burn the village.

Then, from the crowd, a man emerged—broad-chested with strong shoulders, his body marked by scars. His heavily tanned skin and unkempt beard streaked with gray gave him a rugged appearance. His square, grim face held a certain darkness in his eyes, hinting at a past burdened with secrets.

The elderly man spoke up before the officer could ask, saying, "Sir, this is Garrison Smith. He is the blacksmith of Sunny Hall."

The officer scoffed, "Took your sweet time."

Garrison glanced down, "Sorry for keeping you waiting, sir."

The officer turned back and called out to his soldiers, "Prepare for the march, soldiers. We have a long journey ahead..." He paused, casting a charming smile at the girl.

The girl flinched slightly at the smile but managed to conceal her reaction.