After Reiner finished speaking—after his voice, steady and annoyingly reassuring, drifted through the tense air like so divine decree—I could almost feel the atmosphere shift. It was subtle at first, like the faint loosening of a clenched fist, but then it spread.
The cursed children, who only monts ago looked like they were bracing for slaughter, began whispering to one another in hushed but eager tones. Little knots of conversation sprouted everywhere, murmurs rising and falling like restless waves.
I stood there, watching them from the corner of my eye, and honestly, I had to admit—Elijah had a way with words. After what felt like an eternity of back-and-forth deliberation, heated exchanges, and exaggerated hand gestures, they finally ca to a consensus.
"Okay, we all agree."
The words rang out, simple yet monuntal. And Reiner, ever the opportunist, struck while the iron was still burning hot. Without missing a beat, he began assigning minor missions—small, manageable tasks—to those he deed worthy of being seen as "elite." I knew exactly where that script ca from; the black knights had drilled it into him. Still, watching him distribute responsibility so confidently, as though he had been born to command, was strangely impressive.
Inside a dimly lit carriage not far away, the world felt entirely different. The faint clanking of boots against the tallic wooden floor echoed in the confined space, rhythmic and deliberate, like the ticking of so ominous clock counting down to disaster.
"Originally, I had planned on forcing them to fight," one of the black steel knights muttered, helt resting beside him, voice heavy and contemplative. "But this... this seems much better."
I could picture him perfectly—the way he casually reached for a silver cup from the shelf, the quiet confidence in his movents as he approached another knight. That other one, helt still on, was polishing a long, rough-edged whip with slow, ticulous strokes, as though he were tending to sothing precious rather than a weapon ant to tear flesh.
"Is it true," the heltless knight asked, his tone laced with disbelief and grudging respect, "that every ti a rank 2 knight corps ventures deep into the desert, there are casualties?"
The whip paused mid-polish. Just for a second.
"Of course," the black steel knight replied flatly. "Best case? One or two die. But there have been tis five... even ten perished."
He shrugged as if he were discussing spoiled rations instead of human lives.
"Why else do you think I was sent with you?" he continued, a slow smirk forming beneath his cold eyes. "For a rank 3 knight corps to be dispatched like this, it ans the situation is beyond what even several peak rank 2 corps can handle."
And that—oh, that said everything.
Being the only rank 3 knight corps assigned to escort us, he wore his pride like a second suit of armor. And honestly, he had every reason to. The gap between rank 2 and rank 3 might look insignificant on paper—just a single level—but in reality, it was like comparing a candle to a blazing inferno. It wasn’t rely more strength. It was deeper reserves of mana, sharper instincts, refined skills that bordered on the absurd.
There was even a saying—one that circulated among the ranks like gospel truth—that a single rank 3 knight corps was worth a hundred rank 2 corps.
A hundred.
And in the Desert of Death, that wasn’t hyperbole. It was survival math.
To beco rank 3 wasn’t just about prestige or honor. It ant transcending a barrier—of strength, of mortality, even of lifespan. A rank 2 corps dying in the desert? Replaceable. Tragic perhaps, but manageable.
But losing even one rank 3 knight corps? That was a wound that couldn’t be stitched up with re resources. It took years—decades—to nurture one.
As for us—the cursed children—we were laughably ignorant of what truly awaited us in the depths of that cursed desert. Ignorant might even be too generous. We were blind.
The deeper we traveled, the more intense the patrols beca. Soon, the black steel knights had the night watch running twenty-four hours without pause. Sleep beca a luxury no one could afford.
Our alliance had already suffered casualties. So were caught unaware—too slow, too distracted, too naïve. And the carriages... the marks on them multiplied with each passing day. Scratches, dents, claw imprints like signatures of death.
The worst was the siege.
The mont we reached a certain stretch of desert, a pack of vicious wolves descended upon us like a living tide of fangs and fury. They nearly tore one carriage apart. The screams of horses still echo in my mory if I let myself think about it too long.
After that, camping at night was completely forbidden. We traveled continuously or clustered tightly under guard. No fires. No lingering. No chances.
Under the guise of being a vice-captain, I—Ragna—was permitted to assist with carriage riding. Officially, it was responsibility. Unofficially, it was my escape.
The fresh desert air, dry and sharp as a blade, filled my lungs whenever I rode outside. It tasted of sand and danger, but it was infinitely better than the suffocating stench inside the carriage.
Ironically, sitting outside was safer. With a black steel knight right beside , radiating pressure so suffocating it made my skin prickle, nothing dared approach too closely. Their re presence was a warning to the world.
Strangely enough, that constant sense of danger helped . The fear they inspired sharpened my mind, forced my rationality to hold firm against the... urge simring within . It was like balancing on the edge of a blade—painful, but stabilizing.
As for riding skill? I barely had any. But I had watched Elina ride before, morizing her posture, the tension of her hands on the reins. Add to that the fragnts of instruction the black steel knight threw at , and sohow, absurdly, it was enough.
"It’s getting dark. Knights corps, gather around!"
The command rang out from the front, slicing through the desert wind. Imdiately, boots shuffled, armor clinked, and the atmosphere tightened. Traveling at night wasn’t just dangerous—it exhausted the horses. And if they collapsed in the middle of this cursed wasteland, we wouldn’t just be inconvenienced. We’d be dead.
"Your carriage riding skill is quite good," the black knight beside said quietly, his gaze unreadable.
"Thank you," I replied, my voice cold but steady.
Praise ant little. Survival ant everything.
When my shift ended, I stepped down and opened the carriage door. The sll hit instantly—dirt, sweat, fear. Thick, oppressive, almost toxic. It invaded my nostrils like an attack.
I had to hold my breath before stepping inside.
The others looked at —wide-eyed, exhausted, scared. And strangely, the foul odor beca a blessing. It gave the perfect excuse to shut everything out. I dulled my senses deliberately, sealing them off like wrapping myself in thin layers of iron. The less I felt, the less the urge could consu .
After steadying myself, I walked over to Reiner and Berthold.
"Keep watch," I told them quietly. "If I’m needed for patrol... or to ride again, let know."
And as I sat there among the stench, the fear, and the suffocating silence, I couldn’t help but think—
This was only the beginning.
And the desert had not yet shown us its true teeth.
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