Snow and smoke fell together that day.

The white of Frostveil's coastline was no longer white — it was grey, bruised by ash and fire. The port that once shimmered like a frozen mirror now groaned under the weight of artillery thunder and the shriek of relic shells. The sea foamed crimson where the wounded fell, their cries swallowed by the roaring wind.

Noah stood at the heart of it — the Silver General — his mask cracked at the edge, his cloak torn, and his hands steady despite the tremor beneath the ground. The banners of the North snapped in the wind behind him. Around him, officers scrambled, voices colliding in a chorus of panic.

"Relic artillery incoming!"

"They've breached the east flank—!"

"Communication line with the Sixth Battalion's down!"

Every word was chaos trying to make sense of chaos.

Noah raised a hand and silence fell among his immediate ranks. His tone, when he spoke, was calm — frighteningly calm.

"Signal retreat."

The men around him blinked. One of the lieutenants, barely twenty, stammered, "R-Retreat, sir? But the ridge— we've almost—"

"Do it," Noah repeated, eyes unmoving. "Now."

The signal flares hissed into the grey sky — streaks of red burning against the clouds. From the hills, the retreat horns followed — long, drawn, and desperate. The Northern troops began pulling back in coordinated disorder, dragging the wounded, abandoning damaged artillery, retreating through the smoke.

Across the battlefield, the Southern and Central troops — those marching under the Church's banners — saw it. The masked general was withdrawing. The North was breaking.

They cheered.

And like starving wolves, they chased.

---

"Take the bait," Noah murmured from the observation trench, binoculars steady against his gloves. "Come closer…"

The enemy units advanced fast — too fast — driven by arrogance and victory fever. Their relic cannons moved ahead of their main line, their infantry pressing forward to secure the abandoned trenches.

"Just… a few more meters," Noah whispered. His officers watched in confusion. Some looked ready to question him again, but Iris Star, standing beside him, silenced them with a glance. She alone understood.

She'd seen this before — that eerie quiet before Noah's traps snapped shut.

"Now," he said.

She lifted her signal baton and dropped it.

From the ridges behind the supposed "retreat," the hidden batteries of Chrome Hearts fired all at once.

The air ruptured.

Frostveil's hills spat death.

Hundreds of hidden artillery rounds tore through the enemy's vanguard, detonating the relic cannons, collapsing trenches, and shredding the frontlines. From the flanks, the shadow corps emerged — Chrome Hearts disguised as scouts — flanking from tunnels they'd carved days before.

"Advance!" Noah commanded, his voice slicing through the storm.

And the North advanced.

Like wolves reclaiming their den, the troops surged forward, bayonets flashing, magic flaring. The once-chasing Southern battalions now found themselves trapped between collapsing terrain and Northern steel.

The trap closed beautifully.

It was perfect. It was brutal.

And when the smoke cleared — the victory was theirs.

---

The port belonged to the North again.

But the cost was written in blood.

The field beyond the walls was a graveyard of frozen bodies, Northern and Southern alike. Smoke curled from ruined engines and relic fragments hummed faintly with dying light. The air was thick with the iron taste of death.

Noah stood amid it all — unmoving, expression unreadable beneath the cracked silver mask. Around him, the soldiers were cheering, laughing, weeping. Someone hoisted the Northern banner atop a broken cannon and shouted the victory cry that echoed across the coast.

But Noah didn't join them.

He only stared at the snow, where red met white, until it turned to a murky pink.

---

Hours later, the command tent was quiet. Iris entered silently, brushing frost from her gloves.

"They're celebrating," she said softly. "You should join them."

Noah didn't look up. He was sitting at his desk, still in armor, maps scattered across the table — his gauntlets stained with ash. "There's nothing to celebrate."

She hesitated. "You reclaimed Frostveil. The Emperor will—"

"I lost six hundred men," he said flatly. "Four companies gone. And for what? To retake a port that will burn again tomorrow."

Iris didn't respond. She only watched him — the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the faint tremor in his left hand.

For all the calm he projected, she knew it — he carried every death like a mark carved beneath his ribs.

Finally, she said, "You did what you had to. They knew the risks."

"That's what every commander says when he's trying to justify the bodies," Noah muttered.

He leaned back, staring at the tent ceiling as if the snowstorm outside could wash away the smell of smoke still clinging to his clothes.

And somewhere, buried beneath the silence, something began to stir in him — a memory he hadn't wanted to remember.

---

It came not like a recollection but a concussion — a sudden, heavy blow to the back of the mind.

The screams of artillery were gone. The sea was gone.

He was somewhere else.

Another world. Another life.

The sound of laughter replaced gunfire.

---

"Come on, Hajun, drink! For God's sake, it's not even real beer!"

The mess hall was cramped and dim, lit by a flickering fluorescent light that hummed over the long metal table. Around it sat eight men in uniform, their jackets half unzipped, their dog tags glinting faintly as they clinked their bottles together. The air smelled of instant noodles and cheap soju.

Kim Hajun — young, unscarred, in a plain green fatigues shirt — sat at the head of the table, watching his teammates argue over who'd stolen whose cigarettes.

He smiled faintly. "You all realize we're breaking at least three rules doing this, right?"

"Only three?" laughed Sergeant Minho, sliding him another cup. "You're getting soft, leader."

Another voice piped up from the back — Private Jae, the youngest. "Come on, Hajun-hyung, we might get deployed again tomorrow. Let us have this!"

Hajun sighed but gave in, raising the cup. "Fine. But if Command finds out, I'm blaming all of you."

They laughed, and the tension broke. It was warmth in the middle of a cold, brutal system. For a moment, they weren't soldiers. They were brothers.

"So what'll you do when we're done with this unit?" Minho asked suddenly. "When it's over, I mean."

"Me?" said Jae. "I'm gonna open a ramen stall near Busan. Make the best kimchi ramen in the world."

"I'll find a wife," said Minho, flexing. "Some poor woman who doesn't mind a scarred ex-soldier."

Laughter again. The youngest teased, the eldest cursed, bottles clinked. Then someone turned to Hajun.

"And you, leader?"

He paused, swirling the liquid in his cup. "…I don't know."

"What, seriously? You always have a plan."

"Not this time," Hajun said quietly. "Sometimes I think my life's just… cruising toward something. Like I'm not supposed to end here."

"Cruising?" Minho laughed. "You sound like a poet, man."

"I mean it," Hajun said, half-smiling. "Like maybe… there was something before this. Something better. And I just can't remember it."

The others jeered playfully, bumping his shoulder.

Jae grinned. "You think too much, hyung. Doesn't matter where we go. There's beauty in everything and anything. Even this dump."

Hajun laughed. "Maybe you're right."

They drank to that — to beauty, to life, to each other.

None of them knew it would be their last night together.

---

The explosion came hours later.

He remembered the alarms, the distant thunder of mortars. The radio static — a dozen voices screaming at once. He remembered running — mud, smoke, and the smell of blood.

Then the world became fire.

---

"Hajun! Hajun, they're still out there!"

He could barely hear Minho over the roar of artillery. The bunker was half-collapsed, smoke pouring through the cracks. Outside, the ground was shaking.

"Get down—!"

Another shell hit, blowing the far wall open. Shrapnel sliced across his arm, blood soaking through his sleeve.

The air was filled with screams. His men — his friends — were shouting orders, firing back, dragging bodies into cover. But the bombardment didn't stop.

Through the haze, Hajun saw Jae. The boy was trying to pull a wounded comrade out of the trench. Hajun pushed through the smoke toward him — but another explosion came before he could reach him.

The ground heaved. The sound tore the world in half.

When the dust settled, Jae was gone.

Hajun found him a few meters away, buried under debris. His body was twisted, his eyes half-open, still staring toward the horizon as if waiting for dawn.

"No…" Hajun's voice broke. He fell to his knees, clutching Jae's body, his hands trembling.

There were more explosions outside, the air thick with dust and metal. But he didn't care. He couldn't move. He could only hold the boy — this bright, laughing kid who'd talked about ramen stalls and beauty — as the world burned around them.

"Hajun! We have to go!" Minho shouted from behind him, voice cracking.

But Hajun didn't respond. He couldn't hear. All he heard was ringing. All he saw was the ruin of what once felt like home.

And then, finally, silence.

Just the wind through the wreckage, the soft hiss of dying fire, and the weight of something irreversible pressing down on his chest.

---

Noah opened his eyes.

The tent ceiling was still above him. The candle had burned down to a stub. His gloves were still stained from Frostveil's soil. But his chest felt heavy — like a mountain had decided to rest there.

He exhaled, slow, deliberate.

Outside, he could hear faint music from the soldiers' camp — drunken singing, laughter. Life trying to forget death.

He closed his eyes again and whispered, almost to himself:

"…Is that why I was able to forget all of that?"

His voice was quiet, hoarse.

"Did I really lose my memory or… did I choose to pretend I had lost my memories from my time as a militant…"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the dying flame.

"Just playing games away and doing nothing but rot…"

The candle flickered, then went out.