The sun was already at its zenith. And already, turmoil filled the courtyard.
From the window of his room, Guts watched.
Armed soldiers loaded carts. Earth dragons stamped impatiently. Shouts, orders, wheels on cobblestones—
The Karsten estate had turned into a disciplined anthill.
A different world from the one he had known just the night before.
Guts slightly pulled the curtain back, his face marked not by physical fatigue—but by waiting.
"They're all preparing for war… and I'm waking up from a dream."
He turned away from the window.
He wasn't hungry.
He didn't want to go outside, or help with preparations, or even breathe the evening air.
It wasn't his role.
He wasn't a soldier of this camp, nor an officer of this war.
His job would begin only when the blades would cross.
So he stayed there.
Sitting on the bed, hand resting on his sword.
Silent.
Frozen like a war statue.
He didn't sleep. He didn't dream.
He thought.
About the creature. That thing they called a "calamity."
A whale… on land.
It was absurd.
And yet—not to them. Not in this world.
They spoke of it like an ancient demon, a terror of the roads, a living nightmare.
And he… he imagined it.
He remembered another creature.
A god of the seas, massive and howling, that he had silenced once.
Maybe this fight would be the same.
Maybe not.
He wasn't afraid.
He was… curious.
How do you kill a legend?
The hours passed.
But he didn't feel them slip by.
Not the dimming light, not the wind rattling the windows.
Only the steady beat of his heart, calm like a blade before the storm, measured his waiting.
Time skip
The sun had slipped below the horizon.
The day had faded without him even noticing.
He had stayed there, eyes open, soul elsewhere.
Then suddenly… a sound.
Three knocks. Calm. Controlled.
Loud enough to break the silence. Not enough to disturb.
He stood. Walked slowly toward the door.
His shoulders cracked softly, stiff from stillness.
He opened it.
Rem stood there.
Hands clasped in front of her.
She didn't dare enter—remained at the threshold.
Rem (softly, almost shy):
"You haven't left your room… all day. I… I was a little worried."
Guts looked at her for a moment. Not coldly—but with that heavy gaze, always slightly distant.
He nodded slowly, offering no excuse.
Guts (low, rasping voice):
"I needed quiet.
Tonight, I probably won't sleep.
So… might as well get ready."
Rem lowered her eyes, then gave a faint smile.
She understood—though not entirely.
But what she did understand was that he shouldn't carry this alone.
Rem (hesitant, but gentle):
"I understand… but…
You should come to the great hall.
Crusch's speech is about to begin."
Guts let out a low grunt. Not quite a refusal—but almost.
Guts:
"I'm not one for fancy speeches.
Never needed motivation to fight."
Rem lifted her eyes a bit, determined despite her soft tone.
Rem:
"Then come, at least, for us.
You don't need to listen. You can stay near the door… or even outside, if you want.
But your presence… it matters."
He didn't answer immediately.
A silence. Then a sigh.
He grabbed his cloak from the foot of the bed, fastened it without a word.
He wasn't hungry. Didn't feel like it.
But he understood what she was asking—for what she was offering.
To be there. Just for a moment. Just… there.
Guts:
"Tch… Alright. I'll follow."
Rem smiled. Not a big smile. Just enough.
And she turned to go.
He followed, slowly.
Not for the speech.
Not for the crowd.
But because deep down, he knew:
Being alone doesn't mean being absent.
The hall was immense.
Larger than any ordinary castle's, and far more refined than the war rooms Guts had known.
White marble pillars held up a high ceiling adorned with green banners bearing the Karsten insignia.
The floor gleamed in the torchlight and hanging lanterns—and yet…
… it wasn't the room's beauty that struck him.
It was the presence.
The human density.
Dozens, hundreds of soldiers.
Veterans with steely eyes, officers in perfect uniforms, young faces tight with anticipation.
And up there, on a raised platform—her.
Crusch Karsten.
She no longer wore her duchess's uniform.
No—tonight, she was a general.
Her polished steel armor, engraved with ancient symbols, gleamed under the lanterns' glow.
No ornamentation, no unnecessary flair.
Only function, strength, the nobility of metal made to withstand blows.
She moved from one officer to another, issuing final orders, confirming formations, consulting maps with methodical precision.
She never raised her voice.
Yet everyone listened.
She had a few minutes before addressing the hall.
But already, every heart beat to her rhythm.
Guts, leaning against a pillar, watched silently.
He wasn't surprised.
He had known a woman like that, once.
Long ago.
Casca.
She too had led men in armor—not by brute strength, but by example.
By that calm, unbending force that never needed to roar to be heard.
And seeing her there—upright, focused, unwavering…
A memory brushed past.
A campfire.
A night without battle.
A clear laugh. A defiant glance.
He smiled.
A real smile. Faint, almost invisible.
But sincere.
A memory… that didn't hurt. Not this time.
It wasn't yet the silence of war.
Not quite.
Nervous laughs passed among the ranks.
Murmurs.
Quick exchanges between warriors, between brothers-in-arms.
A strange tension.
Like a storm that hadn't yet darkened the sky… but that everyone could already feel.
Guts stopped near a wall, slightly in the back.
He didn't want to mingle.
He wasn't looking for warmth.
But he was there. Present.
Rem settled not far from him, without a word.
Just within reach.
He observed the hall.
There was nothing to say.
A silence began to settle across the room.
Gradual, natural.
Like the sea pulling back before the wave arrives.
Guts understood immediately.
The speech was about to begin.
But he didn't need it.
Not like the men holding their breath to listen.
He had heard dozens. Hundreds, maybe.
Promises.
Words of honor.
Shouts meant to stir the heart, to give meaning.
Illusions to die for later—but standing tall.
He knew the worth of those speeches.
And he also knew that men needed them.
But he… didn't.
Not tonight.
So he quietly turned away and slipped out of the hall, without a sound—like a fleeing shadow.
He descended the steps, crossed the empty hallway, and pushed open the heavy doors that led outside.
Cool air brushed his face.
The moon reigned over the courtyard like a pale, silent queen.
The carts were ready. The campfires lit.
Everything was waiting. Suspended.
But no one was there.
Everyone was inside, hanging on the duchess's words.
And he…
Alone in that frozen night, he stared into emptiness.
Not the emptiness of the place.
The emptiness in his heart.
Fifteen minutes later, he was still there.
Unmoving, frozen beneath the moon.
His gaze searched the horizon.
He could see it.
Or rather, he was already looking for it.
The White Whale.
The abomination he was about to face.
In his mind, it swam through the skies.
Enormous. Blinding.
Like a memory of a nightmare—
A chimera that defied the laws of flesh and the world.
And the impatience was rising.
That moment he had waited for—
For days, hours, heartbeats…
It was finally drawing near.
He could feel it.
He was ready.
Not because he had been prepared.
But because he had known how to wait.
Because he had known how to remain silent.
Because he was alone.
As always.
A sudden shout broke his focus.
Then another. And more.
A burst of noise.
Applause. Cheers.
The speech had ended.
He could picture the final words easily:
A promise of victory.
Of glory.
Of triumph.
Of life.
He knew what those promises were worth.
And yet… he did not judge.
Because they needed it.
He didn't.
All he had was his sword—
And silence.