Noah stood near the edge of the courtyard, his coat heavy with frost, his gaze fixed on the banners swaying above.

A group of lieutenants stood gathered in the armory, their voices low but cutting.

"He's turning us into another army," one muttered, slamming his gauntlet against a crate.

"We were supposed to be free—mercenaries with no leash."

"Free?" another spat.

"You call this freedom? We take orders from nobles, follow military protocols, and die in their wars.

We've become dogs, and he's the one holding the chain."

Inside the main hall, Noah could hear every word through the crack in the door. His expression didn't change. He simply adjusted the glove on his right hand—a black gauntlet lined with chrome veins of mana—and turned to the maps spread before him.

The Northern border. The routes. The supply lines. Every line he drew represented lives, decisions, and consequences. He knew what they thought of him. He knew what they whispered behind his back. But leadership was not a popularity contest.

When the door creaked open, a soldier entered—a young man, nervous and pale. "Sir... Lieutenant Calen requests your presence. He says it's urgent."

Noah didn't look up. "He's already made his decision," he said quietly. "Let him speak anyway."

---

The armory was half-lit, the scent of oil and steel thick in the air. Calen stood at the center, tall and broad-shouldered, his armor marked with the scars of years in service. Around him, about a dozen soldiers watched Noah's approach like cornered wolves.

"Noah," Calen began, voice steady, "we've fought beside you for months now. We've bled for your cause. But lately…" He hesitated. "You've changed. You talk about discipline, order, ranks. You've become what we swore to destroy."

Noah stopped a few steps away, his gaze cold. "I've become what keeps you alive."

Calen clenched his fists. "Alive? You're turning us into the very system we fought against. Look around you—these men didn't join to bow to nobles. We joined you because you said Chrome Hearts would be different."

"It is different," Noah replied. "The difference is—my soldiers know what they're fighting for."

"And what's that?" Calen asked bitterly. "A seat at the nobles' table? Recognition from the Emperor? You used to hate them. Now you wear their colors."

The silence grew thick. A few of the men shifted uncomfortably.

Noah's voice dropped. "You think you understand what I'm doing, Calen. You don't. You see soldiers and orders—I see stability. You see obedience—I see survival. The world doesn't reward ideals. It rewards power."

Calen laughed darkly. "And I see a man who's forgotten who he was."

Noah didn't flinch. "Then you're free to leave."

The words stunned the room. Even Calen froze. "...What?"

"You heard me," Noah said, turning away. "Take whoever shares your sentiment. Take supplies. Take weapons if you must. I won't stop you."

One of the younger soldiers shouted, "You're just letting them walk away?"

Noah didn't answer. His footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the sound of the snowstorm outside.

---

By morning, they were gone.

Half a dozen wagons, stolen rifles, and three crates of mana cores—enough to arm a small battalion. They vanished beyond the Frostveil Ridge before dawn, leaving behind silence and betrayal.

In the barracks, the men whispered. Some called Calen a traitor, others a visionary. Some said Noah had gone soft for not chasing him down immediately.

But Noah wasn't idle.

He stood at the watchtower, coat fluttering in the wind, his expression unreadable as the scouts reported.

"They're heading southeast," one said. "Looks like they're meeting a contact near the ice ravine."

Noah's eyes narrowed slightly. "A contact?"

The scout nodded. "We couldn't see who. But they're not moving like deserters. It's coordinated."

Of course it was.

Noah exhaled, fog escaping his lips. "Let them get comfortable. Once they think they're safe, send word to me."

He turned and began walking back toward his quarters. "I'll deal with them myself."

---

The snow was falling heavier by nightfall. Chrome Hearts operated best in the cold—silent, unseen. Noah moved through the forest like a shadow, his black coat blending with the void between trees.

He reached the ravine quietly, crouching behind a snow-caked boulder. Below, fires flickered—a camp of deserters, armored and armed, laughing as they drank from stolen flasks.

Calen sat near the center, sharpening his sword.

A man in a Central uniform stood beside him, whispering. Noah couldn't hear the words, but he could recognize the insignia—a dagger over a sunburst. Central spies.

So that's it.

They hadn't just left out of ideology. They'd been bought.

Noah adjusted the gauntlet on his right hand. It hummed faintly as mana pulsed through it, veins of blue light crawling up his arm.

Then he moved.

No words. No warnings.

The first man fell before he could even scream, his throat crushed beneath Noah's gauntlet. Another lunged with a blade—parried, broken wrist, shattered jaw.

The camp erupted into chaos.

Noah moved like a storm, efficient and silent. His fists struck with terrifying precision—each blow enhanced by the gauntlet's resonance, amplifying kinetic force. Bones cracked. Ice split underfoot.

Calen rose, sword drawn, shouting for his men to hold formation. But formation meant nothing against someone like Noah.

A soldier charged—Noah pivoted, slammed his elbow into the man's ribs, grabbed his collar, and threw him into the firepit. Sparks scattered like embers of blood.

The Central spy tried to flee. Noah's gauntlet snapped forward, releasing a pulse of raw mana that sent the man flying into a tree, lifeless.

Then only Calen remained.

The two faced each other amid the burning camp, snow melting beneath their feet.

"You tracked us…" Calen said quietly. "You couldn't just let it end."

"I did let it end," Noah replied. "You're the one who reopened it."

Calen's expression softened, regret flickering for a heartbeat. "You used to fight for the same reasons as me."

"I still do," Noah said, voice calm. "The difference is—I stopped pretending that reasons matter."

Calen lunged.

Their clash was brief but brutal—steel against mana, conviction against pragmatism. Calen fought with passion, but passion burned out quickly in the cold. Noah caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and slammed his gauntlet into Calen's chest. The force threw him backward, his sword flying from his grasp.

Snow fell silently as Calen hit the ground, gasping.

Noah stood over him, the firelight reflecting off his gauntlet.

"I didn't want this," Calen whispered.

"Neither did I," Noah said softly. "But you made your choice."

He turned away. He didn't look back when the flames consumed the camp.

---

By morning, the ravine was silent again. Only ashes remained.

When Noah returned to Frostveil, his coat was singed, and his eyes were cold as the winter sky.

He entered the barracks where his soldiers awaited, their gazes uncertain.

"Chrome Hearts will move forward," he said simply. "If anyone else wishes to leave, now's your chance."

No one spoke.

"Good," he said. "Then we're done mourning."