One day had passed since Kalem's confrontation at the eastern flank, where fire, frost, and force met the oncoming tide. He'd returned dust-covered, mentally drained, but not a scratch on him—a fact that drew curious stares from the soldiers stationed at the frontline fortress.
He now stood inside the logistics center, arms folded as he stared at the Lunarian officer in front of him. The officer's skin was a deep, starless gray, eyes a dim shade of lavender under the glow of the high-hung oil lamps.
"What do you mean I'm not allowed to go back?" Kalem asked.
"It's protocol," the officer replied calmly, checking through the thick parchment scroll in his hand. "Pseudos and above stay stationed at the frontline camps. You're considered a special operations asset now. Standard rotations don't apply to you."
Kalem frowned. "So what, I don't even get to go back to file my own commission?"
"You can send requests through military channels. We have a smithy on-site—you can use it. But if you need particular materials, you'll have to order them in advance. Delivery takes time."
Kalem rubbed his temples. "And this 'Pseudo' rank—what exactly is it? Everyone keeps saying it like it means something."
The Lunarian officer gave him a long, quiet look, as if weighing whether he was being sarcastic. When Kalem's expression remained blank, the officer finally sighed and leaned forward.
"You really don't know?"
Kalem shrugged. "Didn't think it was a big deal."
"It is." The officer's voice dropped slightly. "Pseudo isn't just a placeholder—it's transitional. It's the last designation someone gets before they're either inducted into a Legion, marked as an Abyss Hunter… or declared Desperado."
Kalem's brow arched. "Declared?"
"Officially recognized as someone who operates outside all standard chains of command. Independent. Unrestrained. Useful… but unpredictable."
"I see," Kalem said, filing away the information. "So I'm in a holding cell made of tents and prestige."
The Lunarian officer chuckled dryly. "Something like that."
Kalem didn't say anything further. He left the administrative quarters with an order slip already filled in—request: densest metal available in stockpile, special forging-grade only. Fulfillment requested in two weeks.
Back at his tent, Kalem tethered Onyx to the shaded side of the structure. The armored bull snorted, shaking its plated head before settling down.
Inside the tent, Kalem removed his gear, neatly stacking his weapons at the foot of the cot. The whip was coiled tightly, the crimson spear propped in the corner beside the fire sword and the frost rapier. Each one had survived the field test, but not without revealing a host of inefficiencies.
Kalem sat on the edge of the cot and stared at his palms for a moment. His fingers twitched with the ghost memory of battle—each swing, throw, and recall. I'm getting faster… but not fast enough.
There was nothing left to do for now. The materials wouldn't arrive for a while, and none of his current weapons needed urgent repair. So, Kalem did what he rarely had time or reason to do—he stepped outside the tent and walked.
The frontline camp was quiet at midday. Most patrols were out; the remaining troops were either on break or repairing fortifications. Kalem wandered between sandbag barriers, walking past open storehouses and barracks. The walls of the fortress were reinforced with layered stones and enchanted steel mesh, glowing faintly in places with runes meant to repel or slow abyssal creatures.
As he walked by the outer ramparts, he saw a group of soldiers trying to reinforce a segment of the wall that had partially collapsed from a previous siege. The support beams had been misaligned, and they were struggling to raise one of the larger metal plates into position.
Kalem paused.
Then without a word, he stepped in beside them, gripped the far edge of the plate, and lifted.
The soldiers stared for a second.
"You with us?" one finally asked.
"Just until the next shift," Kalem replied, expression neutral.
It took twenty minutes of manual effort and some improvised engineering, but the segment was fixed. Kalem wiped sweat from his brow and moved on.
He found himself doing similar small tasks as the day wore on—realigning broken barricades, sharpening dull blades in the forge when no one else was using it, even helping the quartermaster sort through damaged armor sets. It wasn't glorious, but it was grounding.
In the absence of battle, the rhythm of maintenance filled the gaps.
That night, Kalem sat outside his tent, polishing the frost rapier. The weapon shimmered faintly under the moonlight, the runes on its edge slowly cycling through a cold hue.
A young soldier passed by and paused. "That your weapon?"
Kalem nodded.
"It's… really well made."
Kalem glanced up. "It is. But I need better."
The soldier blinked. "Better? That thing froze a Mawborn in place this morning. I heard from the scouts."
Kalem returned his attention to the blade. "It froze part of it. Didn't stop it."
The soldier hesitated, then gave a quiet laugh. "Guess that's the kind of talk you'd expect from a Pseudo."
As the soldier walked away, Kalem sheathed the blade and leaned back against the tent post. The firelight from nearby lanterns flickered across his features.
I've fought monsters. Killed horrors that would have shattered me a few months ago. But this isn't the end. They're getting stronger. Smarter. And the Abyss... it doesn't sleep.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the sounds of the camp wash over him—muted conversations, the distant clang of metal, the low rumble of Onyx breathing.
I'm not done yet.
In two weeks, the materials would arrive.
And when they did—he would build a weapon that could stop the real monsters.
Not just fight them.
End them.