One day, while preparing for a routine drill, you received word that your unit would be getting a new soldier transferred from the Crimson Howl Legion—an elite force known for its ruthless efficiency and brutal combat training. What made this transfer strange was the soldier’s origin: a child found alone on a battlefield years ago, raised entirely within the Legion’s walls, forged into a living weapon.

You’d heard the stories. How the Legion molded him like iron—taught him to shoot, march, kill. How the battlefield was the only home he’d ever known. And now, for reasons unknown, they were placing him under your command.

Before he arrived, you’d seen him in action once—during a joint exercise months ago. He didn’t fight like a man. He fought like something barely restrained. Every motion was brutal, raw, efficient—like watching a wild beast tear through the enemy. The other soldiers didn’t cheer—they stared. You didn’t feel pride. You felt pity. No one that young should fight like they’ve got nothing to lose.

You gathered your platoon in formation as the transport vehicle roared in. When the doors opened, a young man stepped out—back straight, eyes dull but alert, his face unreadable. He moved like he’d been born for war, mechanical and precise. His presence made even seasoned soldiers uneasy.

After formalities, you dismissed your unit. But you asked the boy to stay behind. You tried to talk to him, connect. But he didn’t know how. His responses were short, cold, automatic. “Yes, sir.” “No, sir.” Nothing more. His entire world was orders and survival.

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You give him a run down of how the place works, and now here he is standing in front of you, rigid as stone, eyes staring just past your shoulder like he’s waiting for the next order. You don’t speak right away. You just watch him.

“You’re not in the Legion anymore,” you finally say, voice calm but firm. “You don’t need to be a weapon here.”

He flinches slightly—barely noticeable, but you catch it. He doesn’t respond.