JULIEAN EVERLONGS :-
AGE - 23
HEIGHT - 5'5
Weight - 62 kgs
FAMILY - Everlongs
Daughter of - Duke Kasper and Elena.
Specialties - Close hand combat, Tactical brilliance, strategist.
"I, Juliean Everlongs, hereby acknowledge my destiny and solemnly pledge my unwavering loyalty to the Rotangs. I vow to serve them with utmost devotion until the end of my days."
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Adrik Goodmen leaned over the intricately carved desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the polished wood. The room smelled of aged parchment and freshly made files - that clung to the air like cobwebs. His boyish face belied the weight of his responsibilities; a soldier by rank, but more—a confidant, a shadow to the Deadly General Valerian.
His gaze fixed on the name inscribed in bold ink: Juliean Everlongs. "Everlongs," Adrik mused, his voice a soft rasp. "Do you really think she'll remain loyal?" His fingers brushed the edge of a battle report, its ink still fresh. The words spoke of skirmishes, alliances forged, and lives lost. But Juliean's name danced through it all. General Valerian's gaze remained fixed on the parchment—a report detailing Juliean's capture. "Her loyalty," Adrik ventured, "is a delicate thread. One tug, and it unravels."
The ink had dried, but defiance lingered. "Loyalty," general murmured, "is a luxury we can't afford in these fractured times." His fingers traced Juliean's name, as if testing its edges.
The candle flames danced, casting shadows on the stone walls. "Sergeant Edward," the general commanded, "to regiment 45." His voice held no warmth, no hesitation. "That woman will work under him."
Adrik leaned across the desk, his gaze unwavering. "General," he began, "Edward still lacks experience. Juliean Everlongs—"
General Valerian cut him off with a raised hand. His eyes, pale as frost, bore into Adrik's. "Experience," he said, "is a blade that sharpens with each battle. Edward's scars tell stories—of survival, of sacrifice."
"But Juliean—" Adrik persisted.
"Juliean Everlongs," the general interrupted, "is fire and shadow. Her loyalty dances on a precipice, but Edward?" He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Edward is the bedrock of this regiment. His silence speaks volumes."
Adrik's brows furrowed. "But—"
"No room for discussion," General Valerian declared. "Edward is perfect. Juliean will learn from him—the art of survival, the weight of duty." His gaze returned to the parchment, where Juliean's name stood like a sentinel.
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It's been a handful of days since they whisked us from the bunker to this cracked refuge—a small apartment, away from the city, in the soldier's quarter. The walls sag with stories, and the floor groan beneath our boots. They've given us the basics: a bed, a table, and a single window that peers into an alley where soldiers can be seen - laughing, cursing, walking here and there. The neighbors are like shadows—faces etched by war, eyes that have seen too much. They nod in passing, their silence a shared language.
And then there's the matter of my assignment: Regiment 45. I've researched—their reputation, their purpose. They call it a training ground for rooks, a crucible where green recruits forge their mettle. But for me, Juliean Everlongs, it's an insult, a bitter pill. To think that I, who once commanded a hundred, will now take orders from another. The thought ignites a fire within me. But as they say - Revenge demands patience so I will wait.
Lost in my thoughts, I was startled by a knock at the door. It could be someone from the regiment or one of my acquaintances. Regardless, caution was necessary; none of them were fond of me anymore. I slipped a knife into the sleeve of my top for protection. Upon opening the door, I was met with a youthful face, likely in his twenties. His gaze was intense, almost a glare, as if trying to assert dominance over me.
"I hope you're comfortable in this quarter. Even if you're not, it doesn't matter to me. Understand that we don't trust you and—" he paused, leaning against the door frame as if he owned the place.
"My time is precious, so get to the point," I stated in a stoic voice.
He glared at me once more and cleared his throat before speaking. "Very well, I came here to inform you that training will begin tomorrow at 5 AM. Mr. Edward values punctuality. And by the way, how do you feel about being a rookie again?" he asked in a condescending tone.
"That's it? If there's nothing else, you may leave."
"One more thing," he said as he tried to punch my face. Just when he did, I brought out my knife and injured his hand. I've never encountered such a hysterical person before.
He laughed with a melancholic tone and said, "Just wanted to check if you really live up to your image. The name's Adrik." With that, he departed abruptly. I closed the door almost immediately.
I've encountered people like him before, but the madness in his voice and the hatred in his eyes were beyond anything I've seen. Life is going to be tough. He's just one person I've met who hates me, and I'm living in a country full of such people. The very thought is ironically comical.
With a sigh, I sat at the table, possessing nothing. No weapons, no plan, no allies, absolutely nothing. What I do have is the experience and intelligence I've gathered over the years. Yet, one enigma persists in my mind: this individual named Edward. Who in the world is he? I nearly know every official here, having memorized them as children learn multiplication tables. I'm familiar with the king's lineage, though I've never seen them myself. But this Edward, I've never even heard of him before.
Judging by his rank, if he has been assigned a Rookie badge, then he likely lacks experience. Typically, officials over 40 are appointed to prominent positions. The role of commander is not usually assigned to someone without years of experience. However, since this position oversees us, the outcasts, it should be held by someone with high loyalty to the country. Nearly 75% of commanders are over the age of 50 when they secure their posts. This suggests that this individual must be close to my age and quite respectable. The issue, however, is that I don't know who they are.
Patience, Julian, patience. Only tomorrow can reveal who or what this person is.