Captain Grayer

A fresh sea breeze swept through the air as the bright blue flag of Venosa fluttered in the wind. The golden cobra emblem at its center caught the sunlight, casting a blinding glare.

Down below, beneath that flag, a man in uniform sat casually beside a small artillery pit, watching a group of fresh recruits fumble with an M224A1 60mm mortar.

"Stop."

Captain Gleir's voice wasn't loud, but it cut clean through the recruits' chaos. The four soldiers—mid-loading a mortar round—froze on the spot. One of them had even panicked and held the shell upside down.

"First question," Gleir stood up, brushing dust from his pants as he strolled over, unhurried. "Can anyone tell me why you're holding a 60mm high-explosive shell like it's a popsicle stick?"

The recruits glanced at each other in silence. No one dared to speak.

"No one? Fine." Gleir pulled the upside-down round from the recruit's hand and held it up. "Fins up, warhead down. This is one of the last things you're allowed to get wrong on the battlefield. And if you do?"

He gave the mortar barrel a light kick with his boot. "Whole squad's lining up at heaven's gate. Got it?"

"Got it, sir!" they all shouted in unison.

"Second question," he said, patting the mortar mount. "When adjusting your angle, are you using the sight dial or that little voice in your head?"

"The dial, sir!" one of the recruits blurted.

Gleir nodded, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly. "Finally, someone speaking human."

He crouched and made a quick adjustment to the sight, then pointed to the base of the mortar. "Look here. If the base isn't stable, no amount of aiming will help. In real combat, the ground's not going to be this nice and flat."

He grabbed a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. "You'll need to use this stuff to lock the base in tight."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the skinniest recruit dropped to his knees and began shoveling sand into the pit around the base.

"Easy, kid," Gleir pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. "We're not building sandcastles here. This is a weapon, not your childhood beach toy."

The others stifled laughter. The mood lightened just a little—but the smirk on Gleir's face faded just as fast. He stood back up and gave them all a sharp glance.

"Now, repeat the loading steps you just fumbled. Slower. Cleaner. Every move should burn into your muscles—once the shooting starts, your brain won't have time to catch up."

They gathered around the mortar again. Their motions were still a little stiff, but far more coordinated. The ammo handler confirmed the round's orientation. The loader waited for the signal. The gunner adjusted azimuth and elevation. The fourth relayed readiness status.

"Mortar ready, sir!" the lead recruit called out.

Gleir gave a short nod, his eyes sharp as blades. "Good. Let's do a dry-fire drill. Target..." He turned toward a distant metal silhouette. "Target Number Three. Elevation 85. Azimuth five degrees east-southeast. Fire."

"Yes, sir!"

"Fire!"

Thump—The practice round shot into the sky, trailing a puff of white smoke, and landed just three meters shy of the target, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"Three meters off," Gleir said without even glancing at the impact. "At least it didn't blow up in your faces. That's progress."

He turned back, sank into his seat by the artillery pit, pulled his cap low over his eyes, and left them with one last, cool remark:

"Keep training. Don't make me start doubting your intelligence."

The afternoon sun cast its warm light over the steel structures of the coastal military camp—hot, but not harsh. The training field still echoed with the thumps of mortar drills and the sharp shouts of new recruits, but Captain Gleir had already stepped down from the pit. He took off his cap and let out a long breath.

Unfastening the front of his combat jacket, his boots crunched less heavily now against the gravel as he walked. He didn't take a vehicle—instead, he strolled leisurely down a narrow path skirting the coastline. The sea breeze washed away the lingering scent of gunpowder on his uniform, replacing it with the salty tang of the ocean.

By the roadside stood an old, wind-bent tree, twisted over years of enduring the coastal gusts. Beneath it, a stray cat lay lazily in the sun. Gleir reached into his pocket and pulled out a leftover piece of compressed biscuit from the morning, tossing it in front of the cat.

"Don't say I play favorites," he murmured with a faint smile. "This is better than the chow in camp."

As he entered the nearby town, some early vendors were already setting up their evening stalls. The fruit seller, who knew him well, waved.

"Back early today? Didn't scare all your rookies off, did you?"

"Scared off a few," Gleir replied with a nod, accepting an apple handed to him. "Still got a few worth teaching."

"Then your daughter's in for a treat tonight," the vendor laughed.

Gleir chuckled but didn't reply. He walked on, returning to a modest gray-brick house at the edge of town. On the porch sat a tiny pair of red canvas shoes. He stooped to straighten them before gently pushing open the door.

"Daddy!" A small figure ran out from inside and leapt into his arms.

"I'm home," he said softly, lifting her with one arm and closing the door with the other.

The house was small, but tidy and warm. He slipped off his boots, shrugged off the uniform, and walked into the kitchen in just a gray T-shirt. His daughter dragged over a little stool to stand beside him, holding a carrot like a seasoned chef inspecting her ingredients.

"Roast chicken and creamed corn tonight. What does the head chef say?" he asked with a smile.

"I want mushrooms!" she pouted.

"Mushrooms it is. Head chef gets final say."

The sound of spatulas stirring and the aroma of garlic and butter soon filled the small kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains, casting gentle stripes across the table. The roars and blasts of the training field felt like they belonged to another world entirely.

The next morning, the sun had yet to fully climb over the camp's rooftops when Captain Gleir was already in uniform. As he fastened the final button on his jacket, the communication terminal at the door gave a sharp beep.

[Grayspot Assault Unit – Team Two requests combat support. Mission Level: RED. Immediate reassignment evaluation required. Target location: Western sector, ammunition depot.]

He glanced back at his daughter's sleeping face, peaceful and unaware. Then, moving quietly, he pulled the door shut behind him—and stepped once more into the world he knew too well.

Western Wing of the Base – Temporary Staging Area, Grayspot Assault Team

Commander Meng of Grayspot Team Two stood over the tactical sand table, his face etched with sleepless fatigue. When he saw Gleir enter, he gave a brief nod and got straight to the point.

"Our Number Three went down last night at San Moya. No armor support arrived in time. His body came back just before dawn."

Gleir nodded, offering no words of condolence.

"I need someone steady," Meng continued. "We're heading back in tonight. He needs to hold under pressure."

"Looking for a tech type, or someone who can take hits?" Gleir asked.

"Technical skill and reaction time. This time, we're going in through the sewers."

Gleir frowned. "You out of your minds? That's the edge of the 'Borderline'—the maps for that area are still outdated."

"HQ doesn't care anymore. We have to secure the objective. There's no other option." Meng sighed heavily.

Gleir didn't press further. He pulled a small notebook from his chest pocket and flipped through a list of names and serial numbers.

"Kyle? No, still recovering. Linda? Too impulsive…"

He paused on a page, tapping a name lightly."Donn Aiso. Just transferred in. Ex-special forces sapper. Not much live combat, but his hands are steady."

Meng raised an eyebrow. "He's only been here two weeks."

"But his hands are steadier disarming explosives than mine are making coffee. During last night's rookie drill, he ran a full mortar team solo. Zero error."

Meng was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Have him prep."

"I'll talk to him. But after this mission…" Gleir's eyes darkened. "Don't ask me to pick another 'Number Three' again."

By the time Gleir stepped out of the command tent, sunlight had already spilled across the base. He stood there for a moment, as if saying goodbye to a familiar face locked deep in memory.

That's how it worked on the battlefield: when one number went down, another stepped up.No ceremony. No mourning.Just records, transfers, and forward motion.

The transfer was finalized at the West Wing's operational office. A metal ID tag lay quietly on the desk, engraved with a single number: 3.Its edges were worn, but it had been polished until it gleamed.

Gleir sat down, flipping through the transfer documents. In front of him sat the military legal officer, Grayspot Two's communications officer, and a neutral recorder. Their presence meant procedure—no matter how urgent the replacement, protocol was not to be skipped.

"Donn Aiso," Gleir read the name aloud just as a set of footsteps echoed from the hallway outside.

He looked up.

A tall, lean young man with sharp features walked in. His expression was calm, though a restrained tension lingered beneath the surface. He wore a new-generation combat uniform not yet fully broken in—his shoulder patches still stiff.

Snapping off a textbook salute, he spoke evenly:

"Reporting in. Reserve Assault Sapper Donn Aiso, assigned to Grayspot Assault Team Two for support."

"Sit," Gleir said flatly. "You know why you're here?"

He studied the young man's face—clearly of East Asian descent.

"One of your Number Threes is dead."Donn didn't waste words. He spoke like stating the weather.

"You're calm." Gleir gave a small nod. "Let's hope you stay that way. Before tonight's operation, you'll complete the ID reassignment. From this moment forward, you are part of Grayspot Team Two. Your number is—Three."

He slowly pushed a small metal plate across the desk. The cold scrape of metal against wood echoed quietly in the room.

Donn looked down at it. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes, but he didn't ask anything. He reached forward, took the weighty tag, and clipped it to the left side of his tactical vest.

"Effective immediately," the Grayspot communications officer said while jotting down the timestamp,"ID Number Three assigned to Grayspot Assault Team Two. Command reports to Team Two CO. Operation codename: Scorch Echo.Previous Number Three: status—KIA. File archived."

Gleir stood, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"Three—starting now, you don't have a name. Only a duty. On October 20th, we infiltrate enemy territory through the Shellline sewer sector. You'll lead point and handle mine clearance. One mistake—and the whole team dies with you."

"Yes, sir."The young man—no, now Grayspot's Number Three—replied with unwavering steadiness.

Gleir gave him one last look, then turned and walked out of the office.

He knew this newcomer didn't yet understand what being a "number" truly meant. But he would.Out on the battlefield, every breath would teach him.