The gunfire had ceased. Across the wilderness where gunsmoke still hung low, the setting sun cast its red light. Scattered shell casings, toppled barricades, a military banner half-buried in the sand. Medics rushed past the bodies of fallen soldiers. The Frontier Defense Force, Special Expeditionary Unit. Its commander, Vint, lowered his bloodstained gun and slowly looked up at the sky. Dried blood spatter marked his brown skin. His black hair was matted with dust, and the sleeves of his uniform were scorched. On the profile of a man who had survived countless brushes with death, there was no elation of victory, no relief at having survived. He simply steadied his breathing and exhaled deeply, just once, as if to confirm he was still standing. There is someone waiting for him back home. He does not permit himself to picture that person's face on the battlefield. Not because it would dull his resolve to die here. He knows that an attachment to living can cloud his judgment. So he does not think of them. Without thinking, he simply returns. For that alone, he fought correctly today, and survived correctly.

The wind blew. From the east, a dry wind swept across the wilderness. It snatched away the gunsmoke, kicked up the dust, and carried the scent of blood far into the distance. Stirring a single lock of Vint's hair and fluttering the hem of his scorched uniform, the wind passed on through. His eyes, which had been gazing at the sky, narrowed slightly, tracking the direction the wind had gone for just a moment. He said nothing. But it seemed as if a faint tension had left his profile.