‘Is he taking revenge for brushing off his hand?’
Leonardo thought to himself as he stepped into the tent and scanned its interior.
It was spacious—more than enough to stretch your legs. The canvas was thick and tightly fastened, firm enough to keep out most of the outside wind. And perhaps because it was the Commander’s personal tent, it was outfitted with field beds, a side table, and even a pair of chairs.
The beds stood along the left and right walls. Judging by Agrizendro’s luggage laid out neatly on the right-hand bed, the one on the left was presumably meant for Leonardo.
He approached it and pressed down lightly on the mattress with his fingertips. It was unexpectedly soft—so soft it was hard to believe it was a field bed. A refined sort of comfort, the kind of arrangement one could never imagine finding in a place like this.
‘This is why it’s good to hold rank.’
Hugo had probably assigned him to this tent to keep him in sight. To prevent him from running off into the dark, disappearing without a trace. That much was clear. Still, if it meant getting to enjoy the Commander’s setup, there were worse fates.
And yet, even as he thought that, Leonardo sighed and accepted reality: tonight’s sleep was likely to be more restless than ever. He undid the fastener of his cloak and shrugged it off, then removed the magic rings and gloves he had kept on until now, placing them carefully on the side table beside the bed.
At that moment, the tent flap lifted, and someone stepped inside.
Leonardo instinctively turned his head.
Hugo entered, ducking slightly as he stepped through the canvas opening. He glanced briefly at Leonardo, said nothing, and crossed the tent to his own bed on the right. There, he began to remove his black protective vest, unfastening the clasps, then pulled off the additional layers of his combat uniform, piece by piece.
Leonardo, who had been in the middle of sorting out his things, found himself glancing at Hugo’s back.
Beneath the uniform, a sleek compression layer came into view—a high-elasticity undersuit, skin-tight. When that came off, he wore the standard black military T-shirt seen across all branches of the Imperial military: Council, Army, Knights. A garment so common it was practically invisible—except it didn’t look common on Hugo.
The shirt clung to him like it was painted on, emphasizing the powerful lines of his torso. Broad shoulders. A back like a carved slab. Forearms as solid as iron, now bare beneath the short sleeves. It struck Leonardo that this was the first time he’d seen any of Hugo’s body beyond his face and hands. Without meaning to, his eyes lingered.
Then, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, Hugo spoke.
"Is the sleeping arrangement to your liking?"
Leonardo blinked, came back to his senses, and answered,
"Uh... well. It’s not bad."
"Glad to hear it."
Hugo neatly folded his uniform and set it on the side table. Once his corner was in order, he turned toward the tent flap again.
"If you’re finished as well, let’s head out for a meal."
Leonardo nodded and rose from his seat. Hugo was already holding the tent flap open, waiting outside. As soon as Leonardo stepped through, Hugo let the canvas fall behind him.
Outside, the camp bustled in a quiet, firelit way. Bonfires crackled in front of tents. Soldiers were handing out meals, laying them across a large deck platform in the center of the camp. They were standard issue combat rations, reheated, nothing fancy—but everyone was seated in loose circles, eating as if it were a feast, their fatigue making the food taste better.
Right in front of the Commander’s tent, another circle of bonfires and makeshift chairs had already been arranged. Flynn, the adjutant, along with several others wearing armbands, was already seated, finishing their meals. Among them was a familiar face.
A woman with long black hair tied high looked up briefly as Leonardo approached. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—then she turned away with a cold expression and went back to her food.
Leonardo frowned slightly, trying to place the familiarity in her face. But before the thought could finish forming, Hugo pulled out a chair beside him and gestured.
"Sit."
He himself took the chair next to it. Leonardo would have preferred to put at least one seat between them—but refusing such a gesture outright felt... excessive. So he lowered himself into the chair Hugo had offered.
"Commander, here you go."
"Thanks, Flynn."
Flynn handed Hugo a preheated container of rations and utensils. Then he approached Leonardo and held out another.
"Here. Yours."
Leonardo accepted it with a surprised look and met Flynn’s eyes. He hadn’t expected the adjutant to prepare his portion too.
"Thanks."
Flynn gave a small shrug. "Yeah," he said, as if it were nothing, and returned to his seat. But a trace of a smile still lingered on his face.
Leonardo looked down at the steaming meal in his hands.
He had eaten more combat rations in his life than anyone here. He knew better than to expect anything decent. Military rations were designed for practicality—high in calories, built to last forever, indifferent to taste. Some even joked they were made intentionally bad, so no one could get addicted to them while stuck in the field.
So he’d assumed the taste would be no different here. Just another bland, rubbery lump of protein and starch. But to his surprise, the setup was varied. The portion generous. Flynn’s meticulousness was unmistakable.
There was a sealed pouch of hot stew, dry bread, omelet, sausage, and a scattering of neatly arranged side snacks, all plated with precision.
Leonardo scooped up a spoonful of stew and brought it to his nose.
Smells good.
The first impression wasn’t bad. Then he took a bite.
And everything he thought he knew about combat rations fell apart. The flavor was warm, rich—real. It tasted like actual food. A genuine, comforting meal.
He said nothing. But inwardly, he was startled.
Just then, he felt a gaze and turned his head. Hugo was watching him. Leonardo looked back, then glanced down again, noting that Hugo was eating the exact same rations as ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) the regular members.
"You eat the same thing too?"
Hugo nodded.
"Strange to see?"
"A little."
"In the Council, when you’re deployed in remote regions where food supplies can’t be guaranteed, rank doesn’t matter. Everyone eats the same. It’s one of the many ways we differ from the military you knew."
That was true.
In the military, it was unthinkable for someone of Hugo’s rank to eat the same field rations as common soldiers. Hell, someone like that wouldn’t even be in the field at all—they’d be back at headquarters issuing orders. Leonardo himself had rarely seen a Commander on the battlefield.
Thinking about it now, he realized again just how high Hugo’s rank really was.
But in the short time he’d spent with the Council, Leonardo had already come to see that its structure, its air, its spirit—were nothing like the military he’d known.
There were still ranks. Still order. But it didn’t feel rigid. There was flexibility here. Superiors weren’t just barking commands—they actually listened. At meetings, everyone put their heads together. Orders weren’t handed down like tablets from the heavens. Strategies were discussed, tested, refined.
And above all else, the phrase “the most capable Commander takes the lead” left a distinct impression. He didn’t know the Council’s full history, but the culture here felt younger. Lighter. Merit-based.
All the things that had quietly unsettled him began to gather, coalescing into something undeniable. Leonardo’s expression darkened.
Back then—on that day—he had made a judgment. One that others labeled a “wrong decision.” He hadn’t believed it was wrong. But after hearing the accusations, the condemnation, over and over again... even he began to question himself.
So when the Central Branch had shaped their operation around his assessment before entering the peninsula, he feared—truly feared—that he might be wrong again. That it would all fall apart.
But the man beside him had said: “It’s my job to verify it. To sign off on it. To take responsibility. You don’t need to worry.”
Leonardo had seen countless commanding officers who would throw their men under the bus to protect their own reputation. But he had never once met a Commander who would say something like that to a man with no position. No authority.
Staring at Hugo’s face, Leonardo thought vaguely:
If I’d been in the Council back then... would things have turned out differently?
Sensing Leonardo’s troubled expression, Hugo said nothing for a while. Then he asked casually,
"Does it suit your taste?"
Leonardo looked down at the stew, then nodded.
"It’s good."
To prove his point, he immediately scooped up another spoonful and brought it to his mouth. Watching him eat with quiet focus, Hugo let a faint smile slip across his lips.
"There’s plenty. If you’re still hungry, go back for more."
