Move it! Containers loaded before the last transport leaves, now!
Outside the gates of New Sophiasburgh, over a dozen small trucks sit crookedly in the snow. Their cargo beds are only half-full, but no one dares pause for rest. Beside the vehicles, the Logistics Captain shouts orders, his voice already raw and hoarse.
Captain, this truck isn't filling up. Let me roll out now, and you start loading the next one.
You think I haven't tried hurrying them along? All our real fighters are at the front! You know who we've got left here.
Ouch!
Chaos erupts. One man staggers under a box of compressed rations, another—breath clouding in the frigid air—drags a heavy medical kit through the snow. Then, a sharp cry cuts through the noise as he stumbles and falls.
Hey, you okay there?
I'm alright. Tripped over a damn brick.
The man kneads his sore knee, and as the pain sparks into anger, he lashes out, sending the brick skittering away.
Who the hell left this thing right in the middle of the road?!
The brick clangs against exposed rebar in a nearby foundation, scattering ice shards. The sound makes everyone pause.
Their gazes sweep across what they call a "city." Apart from the relatively impressive gate before them, the place is little more than a field of uneven, half-dug foundations.
Rebar juts from the frozen earth like rusty bones. Building materials are piled in chaotic heaps. Further back, rows of cold-weather tents dot the ice plain, a sight no better than the shacks they once lived in while working on ships.
Whose bright idea was this? Build a fancy gate before putting up livable buildings?
Quit whining. You voted for it, too, didn't you?
Well...
The man's protest dies in his throat. He had cast his vote for that very gate, believing in New Sophiasburgh's need for a dignified front.
Now, the irony was bitter. They have built a city, yet their daily reality is just as harsh. Basic supplies are scarce; a simple hot meal remains a luxury.
Hey, you lot! Eyes on the job! No stopping. You know how bad it is up front!
Yeah, yeah. We're moving.
Urged on, the men cease their complaints, heft the supplies, and quickly rejoin the line.
Evan, can you help me? This is too heavy...
Alright, we each take one side.
To support the front lines, even children have joined the transport effort. Lifting their side of the package, Evan and his friends resume moving toward the trucks.
Then, near the gate, they spot several men huddled in conversation at an alley entrance.
The reports from the front lines... If that really is General Zack, wouldn't surrendering be the smart move?
Evan recognizes them as veteran Border Commune members who once fought on the front lines. Though now assigned to the Civilian Guard, they're far more obstinate than Antonov ever was.
Have you lost it? He controls the Corrupted. He's an enemy of humanity.
If he were truly our enemy, wouldn't he have ordered a sneak attack on our rear already?
You know how thin we're spread. If General Zack—no, the Frostheart Emperor—really wanted us dead, this place would be rubble!
But look. For all the fighting, he's deliberately avoided hitting anything beyond the battlefield. Why? It's obvious.
To realize the ideals of the Arctic Route Union, the Frostheart Emperor needs its people. This is the conclusion the men have reached.
For those who remember the Sophiasburgh era and knew both the Frostheart Emperor and Zack personally, surrender has emerged as a viable alternative to the front lines.
They are, after all, Union people, citizens of Sophiasburgh. So why fight against Zack? Why battle their own home?
If they simply surrendered, wouldn't the killing stop? Wouldn't the sacrifices end?
You...
What do you think you're doing? Civilian Guard doesn't mean slacking off! Get back to moving supplies, now!
The three men blanch, hastily straighten their uniforms, and scurry from the alley like chastised dogs.
Yet their words linger behind, striking Evan's heart like thrown stones. A ripple of anxiety, a pang of hesitation, and a thread of inexplicable confusion settle within him, then seem to drift away with the wind across the snow-blanketed grounds of New Sophiasburgh.
Evan! Why'd you let go?!
The boy's shout jolts Evan back to reality. The package has slipped from his hands and hit the ground; the boy is now straining to lift it, his face pale with effort.
Sorry! I'm sorry!
With a grunt, he lifts the package again. Yet the words linger, ice-sharp, scraping at his resolve from within.
