"Woof! Woof!"

  Arka turned toward the source of the sharp barking.

  Near the gate pillar, a soldier stood rigid with a Doberman Pinscher beside him. The dog was sleek, muscular, and its gaze as sharp as its master’s. Truly the definition of a disciplined military canine, a far cry from the stray alley cat at the bus stop this morning.

  Cool, Arka thought, straightening his misshapen suit.

  He stepped back onto the front courtyard of the Meeting Hall.

  The sun was nearly set. Arka thought fast. From this courtyard, the only safe and unsuspicious exit was back through the main gate where he had entered. Pretend the party was over and he was heading home.

  He strolled casually toward the colossal gate, whistling softly as if he hadn't just smashed a noble's forehead in the back garden.

  "Oh, hold on, Young Man."

  Arka’s steps halted.

  He turned. A military agent stood blocking his path. The man wore a tight black suit hugging a hulking frame, complete with sunglasses despite the encroaching darkness.

  "Huh? What is it, Uncle?" Arka asked, his tone slightly disrespectful. He was tired and just wanted to find a public bus.

  The man didn't remove his sunglasses. His hand extended stiffly.

  "Show your invitation."

  "Hah..." Arka sighed lazily.

  He rummaged through his suit pockets. His hand slipped into the lining fabric torn here and there by his earlier acrobatic movements.

  "Wait... it’s stuck..."

  Arka pulled out a sheet of thick paper. Its condition was pathetic. The gold paper was crumpled, grimy, folded asymmetrically, and stained with transparent wet blotches—Arka’s own sweat.

  "Here," Arka handed over the disgusting invitation.

  The agent took it with two fingers, as if handling infectious waste. He scanned the barcode in the corner with a device in his left hand.

  BEEP.

  "Guest Code Z-134," the agent read flatly.

  Without ceremony, he pointed toward the highway in front of the gate.

  "Your bus is leaving. Get in, quickly."

  Arka followed the direction of the finger. There, a matte green military bus was idling.

  GRUNNNGG... GRUNNNGGG...

  The bus growled violently. Its exhaust vomited thin black smoke whose stench was instantly detected by Arka’s sensitive nose. Burnt diesel.

  Instantly, Arka’s stomach churned. The stomach acid previously calmed by Wagyu now surged back up his esophagus.

  "HUUH...?" Arka gaped, eyes wide with horror staring at the iron monster.

  "You are assigned to Gate 134. Iron Mountains, North Side," the agent continued in a robotic tone. "This shuttle bus will transport you to the military airfield immediately."

  "Huh?! Airfield?! North?!"

  Arka took a step back. Panic attacked.

  "Uncle, are you crazy?! I didn't bring anything! I haven't prepared!" Arka protested, his voice rising. "Uncle... hah... No way! I refuse!"

  Arka stared at the agent in front of him.

  Now, as he observed in more detail, this man was massive. Bodybuilder massive. His chest muscles seemed ready to explode and tear the tight suit every time he breathed. His neck was concrete.

  Gulp.

  Arka swallowed. His courage shrank a little.

  But he didn't want to surrender. He tried pleading for mercy with the poverty card.

  Arka leaned forward, then dramatically turned out both pant pockets. He pulled the inner lining out, showing they were completely empty. No wallet, no smartphone, just biscuit crumbs from last month.

  "Look, Uncle! I brought nothing..." Arka whined, his face pitiful. "My grandfather gave me just enough cash for a round-trip economy bus fare! Swear! Not even enough to buy candy!"

  The agent did not budge. His sunglasses stared at Arka coldly.

  He took one step forward. His shadow engulfed Arka’s body.

  "So..." his voice grew heavy, low and threatening, "House Sagara refuses an order from Ironseat?"

  Arka’s eyes widened.

  In his vision, blurring with panic, the officer seemed to grow. Taller. Larger. His shoulders broadened to block out the evening sky. He was no longer human; he was a stone mountain ready to crush Arka.

  The accusation of "refusing an order" carried immense weight. It was tantamount to treason.

  Arka looked up, neck stiff.

  Gulp...

  Damn it, he thought, resigned. I'm dead.

  Hell, it turned out, was not fire. Hell was a rolling iron box smelling of rotten diesel and human sweat.

  The military bus had no suspension. Arka was certain of it. Its wheels seemed made of square stones that punished every pebble on the asphalt with a personal vendetta.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  RATTLE... THUD.

  Every jolt was an earthquake to Arka’s equilibrium system.

  In the very back seat—the most cursed position for those with motion sickness—Arka had lost his human form.

  He wasn't sitting. He was melting.

  His spine felt forcibly extracted. All his joints loosened, making him slide down the hard seat like a pile of dirty laundry. His head lolled sideways against the violently vibrating window glass, making the brain inside his skull feel like it was being blended at high speed.

  The handsome face of the Young Master of Sagara was now worthless.

  His skin was deathly pale, with a sickly greenish hue around his mouth and cheeks. His eyes were half-closed, watery, and delirious.

  Around him, the bus was packed tight.

  Arka glanced with blurred vision. In the front rows sat the destitute families. People who shared his fate—conscription via the poverty track. Their clothes were shabby, their faces bleak and resigned. Mothers hugged weeping teenage children; fathers stared blankly at the dirty bus floor. The musty smell of rarely washed clothes mixed with the rancid scent of old leather seats.

  However, what made Arka’s stomach churn even more was the sight in the center aisle.

  A military squad stood lined up holding the hand straps.

  They... made no sense.

  While Arka’s body was tossed about like jelly, the soldiers did not move a single millimeter.

  They were like iron statues nailed to the bus floor. Their faces were flat, covered by tactical helmets and sunglasses. Their backs were ramrod straight, assault rifles hanging steady on their chests. They didn't sway when the bus turned; they didn't stagger when the bus braked.

  Are they... hurk... robots or humans? Arka thought miserably.

  Seeing their solidity only made Arka feel weaker and more pathetic.

  Suddenly, the bus driver—who seemed to be a former street racer—yanked the wheel to avoid a pothole, but failed.

  BLAM!

  The rear tire slammed into a crater in the severely damaged asphalt. The bus jumped.

  The contents of Arka’s stomach jumped with it.

  His stomach, previously calm after the Wagyu, now rebelled. Acid, chunks of expensive meat, and leftover shrimp swirled up his esophagus, demanding to see the outside world.

  "HMPH!"

  Arka’s eyes bulged green.

  Both his hands reflexively moved fast. Not to hold on, but to choke his own neck.

  His fingers gripped his throat tightly, pressing his Adam's apple inward, manually blocking the esophageal passage.

  He dared not speak. He dared not open his mouth even to breathe.

  He held his breath, face turning greener, hands trembling violently choking himself so the vomit wouldn't spray out and hit the slick uniform of the "iron statue" in front of him.

  If he puked here, in front of the military squad and these families, the remaining dignity of House Sagara would be truly finished.

  Hold it... Arka... hold it... his inner voice screamed pitifully, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Don't come out... expensive Wagyu... don't come out...

  Focus on the nausea mixed with the humiliation of dignity. Arka was treated not as a human, but as a logistical commodity.

  The military airfield was the definition of organized chaos.

  Fuel tanker trucks sped by, forklifts shuttled back and forth carrying pallets of ammunition, and dozens of soldiers ran in neat formations. Whistles, shouted commands, and the roar of strong winds mixed together.

  However, all that commotion did not enter Arka’s vision.

  The world around him was blurry, distorted by the severe dizziness still gripping his head. His eye lens had only one focal point. Sharp. Full of hatred.

  At the end of the runway, a giant cargo plane was parked.

  And the thing... was ugly.

  Its military green paint was dull and peeling here and there, revealing bare, rusted metal. The fuselage was fat, swollen, and looked heavy. There were streaks of black oil stains running down under its wings, like the tears of a weary old machine.

  It was not a passenger plane. It was a flying coffin with wings.

  Bastard... Arka thought, teeth grinding against nausea and rage.

  The humiliation was not over.

  Arka realized he wasn't being directed toward a side stair for passengers. He was being herded toward the rear ramp of the plane's tail, gaping wide like the mouth of a whale.

  In front of him, a forklift was loading wooden pallets.

  Arka narrowed his eyes, reading the writing on the gunny sacks piled on the pallet. WHEAT. SOYBEAN. DRY RATIONS.

  He looked left and right. No soft seats. No pretty flight attendants. He was marching in line with sacks of rice.

  So this is my value? he thought bitterly. The heir of Sagara is worth only as much as soup kitchen stock?

  Arka stood frozen at the edge of the ramp, his weak legs refusing to step into the dark, musty iron belly.

  "OY KID! GET ON QUICK!"

  The shout exploded right beside his ear.

  Arka jerked in shock, shoulders jumping.

  He turned slowly with a stiff neck. A loading officer in an orange vest barked at him. The man’s face was oily, neck veins tense.

  Somehow, the sound of the man’s snapping voice sounded louder and more painful than the roar of the warming up jet turbines beside him.

  Arka wanted to retort, wanted to scream that he was an Aksesa, that he was human.

  But what came out of his mouth was only short vapors of breath and the sound of a choked throat.

  He had no strength to fight. with a stumbling gait and trampled dignity, Arka dragged his feet up the steel ramp, into the darkness of the cargo hold, following the piles of grain sacks that became his travel companions.

  The condition inside the plane’s belly was relentless acoustic torture.

  No soundproofing. No aesthetic interior panels.

  Only bare steel frames and thousands of bolts vibrating in unison.

  WHEEEEEE... ROARRR...

  The sound of turbines outside was not mere noise. It was a giant drill gouging his eardrums repeatedly. The sound entered through the ears, traveled to the jaw, and vibrated his molars until they ached.

  Arka gave up. He couldn't stand, he couldn't sit straight.

  He threw his battered body onto the logistical pile.

  His back landed on a stack of gunny sacks.

  Wheat... he thought, smelling the musty scent of raw grain.

  It felt strange. The surface of the gunny sack was rough, sharp fibers pricking his neck skin and piercing his torn thin shirt. But at the same time... it was soft. The grains inside conformed to his body curves, hugging him like a giant dirty beanbag.

  Comfortable.

  An ironic and pathetic comfort.

  Arka closed his eyes, letting the plane’s vibration forcibly massage all his muscles.

  Who knows how many hours he flew.

  Time became an abstract concept inside this windowless iron box.

  Maybe two hours? Four hours?

  He woke up due to turbulence shocks, then fell asleep again from exhaustion, then woke up again because the engine pitch changed. A repeating cycle of hell.

  When he woke up for the umpteenth time, Arka reflexively lifted his left wrist. He wanted to know the time.

  Empty.

  There was only wrist skin striped from a watch tan line.

  "Ah..."

  Arka stared at his wrist with a blank gaze.

  His cheap watch... a digital watch the price of a rice packet he had worn since high school... was gone.

  His memory replayed back to the palace garden. When he rolled, when he jumped, when he smashed that Blond’s forehead. The clasp must have broken then.

  "That damn Blond..."

  The youth’s face crossed his mind. His smile, his sword technique, and his bleeding forehead.

  I'm so stupid... Arka cursed inwardly. Why didn't I ask his name? Just left like a wannabe hero.

  He felt a loss. Not for his watch, but for the only human who "connected" with him today.

  Arka felt his trouser pocket, looking for a distraction. He needed his phone. He needed music, or the snake game, anything to kill this engine noise.

  Pat. Pat.

  His trouser pocket was flat.

  His heart dropped. His hands felt his suit pockets, back pockets, inner pockets.

  Nil.

  "My phone..."

  Arka stared in horror at the cable-filled cargo ceiling.

  His phone was left on that damn bus. Fell out of his pocket while he was busy choking his own neck holding back vomit, or maybe slid out when he slumped in the seat.

  Gone.

  Communication access, maps, entertainment... all gone.

  Panic began to creep in, but was soon replaced by weary resignation. Arka reached into his last pocket. The only treasure remaining.

  A peeling synthetic leather wallet.

  While still lying flat on his back on the wheat sacks, Arka lifted the wallet high above his face. He opened it slowly, hoping for a miracle.

  Clink... Plop.

  Gravity worked cruelly.

  Because it was upside down over his face, the wallet contents spilled out.

  A crumpled banknote—just enough for the return fare Grandfather gave—drifted down onto his nose. Followed by three metal coins that smacked his forehead and cheek.

  Tink. Tink.

  Arka didn't blink. He let the coins sit on his eyelids. He let the banknote cover his nostrils.

  Empty. Zonk.

  He was truly poor, alone, isolated in a decrepit cargo plane, without a watch, without a phone, and heading to mountains in the middle of nowhere.

  Arka took a deep breath, then screamed with all his might, his voice racing against the roar of the engines.

  "BASTARDDDD!!!"