"Are you out of your mind, Paul Brown?"
"Do you even realize what this decision means?"
The narrow-eyed deputy slammed the heavy desk, as if trying to shake some sense into Paul Brown's head.
Paul Brown stood ramrod straight, wearing his patched but clean military uniform.
He spoke clearly, one word at a time: "I'm requesting to retire and return home to inherit the family estate."
"Inherit the family estate?" the deputy spat, spraying tea across the room.
He sneered repeatedly.
"You think you're some big shot?"
"You're a Knight of Honor—the imperial military spent a fortune training you."
"Now, with the front lines stretched thin, you think you can just walk away?"
"Your 'family estate'—can it compare to the glory of the battlefield?"
The room's air seemed to freeze instantly.
Paul Brown's gaze didn't waver, as if he had anticipated this reaction.
He said no more, instead presenting a letter wrapped in worn cloth with both hands.
The letter bore a wax seal with a crest, its edges slightly cracked, revealing faint traces of tear stains.
The deputy glanced at the envelope, his brows furrowing sharply.
"Your mother's letter?"
"You really think a single letter will get you out of this?"
"Paul Brown, these days, retirement isn't something you just decide."
...
When Paul Brown left the office, it was nearly evening.
The camp's iron gates creaked in the wind.
He passed the training ground, where recruits were sweating and shouting, their battle cries tinged with youthful vigor.
He had once been a green kid like them.
Now, he only wanted to return home, to protect the crumbling ancestral house and his mother.
"Old Paul, you really leaving?"
The voice came from behind.
It was Andre, leaning tiredly against a rack of muskets, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
"I'm leaving."
"If I wait any longer, my mother won't hold on."
Andre fell silent for a moment, then handed over a flask of wine.
"Parting with a comrade calls for a farewell drink," he said softly.
In that moment, Paul Brown saw something unspoken in his eyes—envy, regret, and deep reluctance.
...
The wine was strong, like fire.
They sat around wooden crates behind the barracks, the campfire crackling.
A few veteran soldiers joined Paul Brown, drinking through the night.
Someone said, "Paul Brown, you're a real fool."
"If the higher-ups won't let you retire, you should request a transfer to another unit, not ram your head against a wall."
Another chimed in, "Or take the old route."
"You know, that guy last year—he got out through the 'shadow list.'"
"That takes money, doesn't it?"
"Sure does," a scarred veteran grinned.
"But it's better than dying on the battlefield."
Paul Brown downed a cup in silence.
"My mother said life comes first."
"She was widowed young; I can't let her mourn at my grave too."
The group fell quiet.
Andre suddenly looked up.
"I know someone, a retired company commander."
"He's got connections and can arrange a shadow retirement."
"But—you'd have to take a detour."
"What detour?"
"To the 'Forge Hall.'"
At the mention of that name, everyone went silent.
...
The Forge Hall was a secretive place outside the military's official system.
On the surface, it was an equipment reclamation center.
In truth, it handled "less honorable" procedures.
Three days later, Paul Brown, dressed in plain gray clothes, entered the Forge Hall with Andre.
The sound of hammers echoed in the vast hall.
Several one-armed retired soldiers were busy sorting damaged armor and weapons.
A limping old man sat on a high stool, his eagle-like eyes scanning them.
"You want to retire?" the old man's voice was hoarse.
Paul Brown nodded and handed over a small bag of gold coins.
"This won't even buy me a coffin," the old man sneered.
Paul Brown said firmly, "That's all my family's savings."
"I don't want glory; I want to go home alive."
The old man stared at him for a few seconds, then dropped his smirk.
"You're just like your father."
The words hit Paul Brown like a thunderbolt.
"You… knew my father?"
"Raymond House Brown."
"Died in Frostwolf Valley, thirty-seven wounds, never took a step back."
"You're his son, and if you want to leave, I'll make it happen."
The old man stood, calling over a young clerk to begin registering, stamping, and signing.
"From today, you're a shadow retiree, your file marked 'missing.'"
"If the empire comes asking, we deny everything."
Paul Brown clasped his fists in gratitude.
"Thank you."
...
When he returned to the camp, dawn was breaking.
At the camp gate, Andre leaned against a flagpole, waiting.
He held a sheathed sword in his arms.
"For you, a keepsake," he said, pressing the hilt into Paul Brown's hands.
"Hope you never need it, but if you do… don't swing at our own."
They shared a smile and bumped fists in farewell.
In that moment, there was no honor, no medals—only brotherhood.
Paul Brown set off on his journey home, his silhouette sharp as a blade, cutting through the dawn.