Oswald sat alone inside one of the war camp's tents. The air was thick with the scent of tal, oil, and unease. Rows of canvas shelters stretched in neat lines across the muddy field, but even here, far from the front and surrounded by soldiers, the tension was suffocating. The faint creak of armor, the dull thud of boots outside, even the distant clash of training weapons seed muted, as if the world itself were holding its breath. This place would soon beco chaos.
Years spent working for Bartholow as one of his administrators had taken their toll. After his friend, the King of Bastion, was killed, Oswald had been thrown into prison and beaten by those who despised the late king, especially mbers of Haven. Eventually, Erza Grimhart took him under her protection, sparing him from torture, though the irony wasn't lost on him. Being in the care of soone who was an expert in pain was hardly comforting.
He was one of the few remaining Alchemists in the entire tutorial, actually, the last since Bartholow's death. It was thanks to Bartholow that he'd beco one at all. Oswald could still recall the faint sll of parchnt and dust when the man handed him that ancient to, its cover stiff with age, its ink faded to near invisibility. The book had felt alive, humming faintly as if reluctant to share its secrets.
The man had entrusted him with a rare book on alchemy, and after months of studying its teachings, Oswald had managed to awaken the profession. That was the beauty of it: anyone could beco sothing extraordinary if they were truly dedicated. Bartholow had believed in him, handing him a forbidden craft he had deliberately erased from public reach. Alchemy was too dangerous; it could teach the art of poison.
Only three had ever mastered it: Kruger, Bartholow, and Oswald. Kruger specialized in liquid toxins, Bartholow in gas-based poisons, while Oswald had taken a different path, volatile compounds, incendiary mixtures, gunpowder, and other materials capable of destruction.
Oswald had always known Bartholow was delaying the activation of the tutorial's chanisms. But he also knew the man wasn't a fool. Bartholow had been a visionary, soone who turned chaos into community, building Bastion from the wreckage of despair. If not for Marshall's ddling, the Safe Zone might have beco a paradise. Oswald rembered those early months — laughter echoing through unfinished streets, the steady rhythm of construction, the fragile illusion that survival could turn into civilization. It had almost worked. Almost.
It was growing, thriving even. Bartholow had been so close to creating sothing lasting, until Haven intervened.
Oswald bore no resentnt. Not toward Bartholow, nor the survivors who condemned him. He believed his friend could have survived, could have returned to Earth and built his paradise there. Bartholow could have joined Allison Rhiannon, left the tutorial a hero. Even after years of obstructing the search for an exit, people would have followed him. He had the mind for leadership, the charisma to shape an empire.
But that wasn't the path he chose.
Still, Oswald liked to think there had been a reason. Maybe a misguided one, but a reason nonetheless. Because to him, Bartholow had never stopped being a friend.
"I ca for the last shipnt," said a voice from behind.
Oswald turned. One of Erza's attendants stood at the entrance, a woman nad Christine, Ronan's fiancée.
"They're all in the chest, in the corner," he replied.
Christine nodded curtly. She was the kind of person who didn't waste words. Barely twenty, yet she carried herself with a composure and weight that made her seem older.
She knelt by the chest, lifted the lid, and opened a small box inside, silently counting its contents. The faint rattle of glass vials was the only sound between them. The light from the lantern caught on the liquid surfaces, bending and breaking across the glass like tiny shards of fla.
"E-exactly eight vials, just like we planned," Oswald said, watching her inspect them—lifting each one, even checking beneath the glass as if the liquid might be hiding secrets.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
"Everything's correct. These were the last of the flammables," she murmured, not really to him but to herself, as if ntally ticking off the final line of an invisible checklist.
The liquid had been brewed from salamander fat, harvested from their corpses. It was the most potent incendiary ever made in the tutorial. Oswald had tried helping others awaken the Alchemist profession using the manuals found in the second fortress, but only he had managed to specialize successfully in volatile compounds. He was the only one capable of producing consistent results without wasting materials—an invaluable trait now that resources were scarce. Training more alchemists was out of the question. No one with only three months of experience could rival soone who'd spent years refining the craft. That alone made Oswald one of the most crucial figures in the entire tutorial.
He had a hand in everything—trap construction, weapon refinent, explosive cannon rounds, even improving the alloys for the cannons themselves. He'd developed new gunpowder through transmutation and countless other alchemical processes that kept the army supplied and alive.
"C-could you remove the chains from my feet now?" he asked quietly.
The maid placed a small key on the table. "Once we return to Earth, Lady Erza will fulfill her end of the deal."
"Thank you," Oswald replied.
"You'll have a place in her faction, under the Grimhart family," Christine added. "The New World awaits. Survive—and reaching the castle will be your true test."
She set a bracelet on the table next, his personal storage item, which was always confiscated while he worked.
"This might interest you as well." She laid down an envelope beside it.
Then she left, her footsteps fading into the corridor.
Oswald unlocked the shackles and rubbed his ankles before slipping the bracelet back onto his wrist. A faint shimr of light flickered as it synced. Peering into the pocket dinsion, he found his supplies: four healing potions, each capable of restoring a hundred and fifty HP—the standard issue for the war.
But when he picked up the envelope, sothing on the back made his breath catch.
If you're reading this, it ans I'm dead. This is why I did what I did, Oswald.
– Bartholow
Oswald froze. He knew that handwriting. It really was Bartholow's.
"What…? He left this for ?" he whispered, disbelief breaking through the practiced calm in his voice.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
"Hello, my friend. By now, I imagine you hate . You probably think I'm a monster, or a madman. And, in a way, everyone who says that about is right. Because I was the only one in this place willing to do what had to be done, to truly prevent the Fifty-One from happening."
Oswald slipped a monocle from his storage item and fixed it over his right eye, the good one. The left had been clouded since birth. He'd ant to read the letter later, sowhere quiet and proper, but ti had run out. At any mont, the war trumpet would sound.
Had Bartholow given this letter to Lady Erza before he died? Or had he written it long ago, knowing this day would co?
Oswald pushed the thought aside and kept reading.
"I need to ask you a favor, Oswald. As you know, back when I lost my daughter and sank into that pit of depression, I worked for a ti at an orphanage, the Moon Orphanage, in Maine. I want you to find them and donate all the money I earned during the tutorial to that institution. They'll need it for what's coming. My fortune is currently in Lady Erza's possession. She'll hand it to you, if you survive."
"There's also a separate portion for four orphans I t back then. By now they must be grown, maybe even with families of their own, I hope. Find them, and give each a share. Their nas are Elizabeth Moon, Audrey Jones, Liam Clark, and..."
The last na was struck through. Not erased, crossed out with intent. And the mark didn't look like Bartholow's handwriting.
The letter went on, detailing how Oswald was to deliver the funds to the orphanage. There was even an address written neatly at the bottom.
"I know this is a heavy burden, Oswald," it continued, "but you'll be compensated for it. Now, I want to tell you about the Fifty-One."
A sudden chill pressed against his spine, cold and sharp as steel. The tent's air seed to collapse inward, silence falling like a weight. Even the canvas walls stopped moving, and the flickering lanternlight froze in place, caught in the stillness of that instant.
Oswald froze, raising both hands, trembling.
"Don't move," a voice ordered from behind him. "You know who I am, don't you?"
With a faint motion, Oswald flicked the letter into his pocket dinsion.
"I said don't move!" The voice grew harsher, the blade biting lightly against his back.
"S-sorry," Oswald stamred, "I just didn't want anything in my hand. I'm not resisting, please… don't hurt , Jonathan."
Reviews
All reviews (0)