3-6

Under the cover of night, Bossia hid behind a large rock, observing the situation at the entrance of a cave ahead. It was one of the Cenarion soldiers' hideouts in the desert, but now three Twilight cultists stood outside. After conversing for a while, they all entered the cave. Bossia hesitated for a few seconds, then cautiously approached the entrance. When she was about five steps away, she heard the sound of fighting from within and immediately rushed inside.

The battle ended before she could join. Inside the cave, the bodies of two Twilight cultists lay on the ground, only one holding a weapon. The third person, dressed as a Twilight cultist, pulled back his hood. It was Bassario.

"It's over," he said to Bossia. "No other enemies nearby, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"What?"

"You were supposed to lure one person into the cave, leave one outside for me to deal with, and try to capture both alive. That was the original plan."

"A plan is just a plan. I couldn't separate them."

"I don't believe you. You could have just told one to stay outside on guard. I think you didn't even try."

"If you don't believe me... there's nothing I can do. If we really need a live one, we'll find another. If you don't want the trouble, the mission is complete anyway. Marlis didn't specify they had to be alive. Let's go outside."

Bossia sheathed her sword, staring at Bassario without moving. Blood spread across the ground, filling a small depression.

"Marlis told me you always take unnecessary risks during missions."

"That's nonsense. He's never been out on a job with me. What does he know?"

"Maybe, but now I think he's right. Be honest, was it really necessary to go inside the house to set fire to the insect nest?"

"Of course. Why would I lie about that?"

Bossia frowned. It was a weak attempt to avoid the question.

"Ask yourself. Marlis said there was no need to go inside."

"He's the commander, but we're the ones on the scene. It's my judgment that counts, not his."

"Okay, then if I hadn't suggested that way to escape, what were you planning to do?"

"You deserve credit for that, no problem. But we could have escaped another way too." He paused and continued, "We might have gotten more injured, but I knew what I was doing. I wouldn't do anything suicidal."

"It's not just about life and death. We're talking about danger. Being cautious to avoid injury—what's wrong with that? This time, I know you could handle two Twilight cultists, but who knows what they might do in desperation? And besides..."

"Enough. We're different. Honestly, I didn't find setting the fire that dangerous. But for you, it's different. You're a woman. You can't tolerate even a scratch on your face. So, I did it your way and set myself on fire. In the end, you weren't hurt at all. Satisfied? Today, I even took care of two people for you. I don't know what more you could complain about."

"Are you saying I did something unnecessary? Or that I'm dragging you down to avoid injury?"

"Listen, I..." Bassario seemed to change his words mid-sentence. "I'm just used to working alone. I have my own methods. As for cooperation, constantly considering another person's actions, I'm not used to it."

"You're just trying to sound reasonable. You don't take your own safety seriously."

"Damn it, what's with your attitude..."

Bossia indeed grew more agitated as she spoke, but the argument didn't continue. "Behind you," Bassario suddenly shouted. Bossia sensed something behind her and immediately rolled forward, accidentally placing her right hand on a corpse's head before quickly retracting it. Another Twilight cultist had snuck into the cave, his axe missing its mark. As he prepared to attack again, Bossia drew her sword and pierced his throat.

She stood up, avoiding the fallen body, slightly embarrassed by the ironic mishap; arguing about safety had led to her being ambushed. She frowned at Bassario as if to say, "I understand what you're getting at, but our discussion is over."

"Nicely done. So much for capturing them alive," Bassario said.

Bossia exited the cave, walking alone towards the fortress.

At the water reservoir, Bossia handed her water bag to the person in charge of distribution. He took it and filled it from a large wooden barrel. He was a local. He never looked Bossia in the eye.

"It's full," he said, handing the bag back.

"It seems lighter than usual," Bossia weighed it. "Fill it up some more."

"I can't," the distributor lowered his head, waving his left hand at the air beside Bossia. "Once it's filled, we can't add more."

"You can't do that..."

"Hey, be flexible." Another voice sounded from beside Bossia. "Do as she says. Saving a tiny bit each day won't get you a raise from Marlis."

She turned her head and saw that it was Rahol, the man who had carried a head the other day. Rahol smiled at her with his lips tightly closed, the cut on his lip forming a thick dark red line. She turned her head back, and the water distributor quickly took her water bag, filling it until it slightly overflowed before handing it back.

"That's better," Rahol said. "This doll face has a soft spot for you locals. Don't do anything stupid to disgrace yourselves."

Bossia said nothing. She sealed her water bag and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait." Rahol held her shoulder. "That's it? Not even a casual 'thank you'?"

"I was going to say it." She still didn't face him. "But I changed my mind after hearing your last comment."

He stepped in front of her and smiled again. It was a habitual, mocking smile. Bossia sensed that it wasn't because he disliked or intended to mock her, but because he couldn't rid himself of this attitude in every muscle movement and breath.

"You really are charming, or perhaps I should say," he switched to a more articulate, fluent, and bright accent, "Beautiful lady, your grace and manners have given me a pleasure as pure as the breeze on a mountaintop at dawn. Your heart, blending kindness and integrity, has bathed me in winter sunlight, dissolving my unbearable dullness into nothingness."

It was as if two different people were speaking, the difference far greater than the salty sea breeze and the desert heat. Ignoring the overly deliberate phrasing, Bossia understood that Rahol's second accent was not something a wandering mercenary would naturally possess. This person had undergone rigorous noble education—

"...What are you trying to convey?"

"The previous words were meaningless, just my homework from when I was nine. How about having a drink with me? It's been a long time since I've shared a toast with a woman."

The abrupt shift in tone left Bossia a bit off balance, but she still managed to refuse, "No."

"Just a drink and a chat. Nothing else."

"Not interested."

"I'll pay, of course, and..." Rahol pulled out a rolled-up paper from his pocket. "This is for you."

Unlike the water merchants swarming in Tanaris, in Silithus, water wasn't something that could be solved just with money. What Rahol held was a specialty: a bath coupon. Only with this could one enter the bathhouse for twenty minutes. A mercenary could only receive three such coupons a month from Marlis. For Bossia, she often had to save some drinking water just to wipe herself down.

She looked at the bath coupon, then at Rahol.

"I don't drink much."

"Don't worry, I'm not planning to get you drunk. My own alcohol tolerance isn't great."

"Where to?"

"My tent, I won't compromise on that. A bit of private time to bond as comrades. Next time, if we have a mission together, I'll have more reason to watch your back."

Bossia glanced around; no one was watching. She pursed her lips and took the paper.

"I humbly thank you for accepting my rude request. I apologize for my rudeness, but it's because of your..."

"Enough."

Ten minutes later, they sat on the ground inside Rahol's tent, separated by a piece of wood serving as a table. As Rahol prepared to toast for the first time, Bossia said, "Don't use that accent again. Absolutely not."

"Then, to surviving another month."

They clinked their cups; she barely extended her hand. When she placed the cup back on the table, he smiled mockingly again.

"You're really trying hard to avoid familiar things, aren't you?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Imagine this is a real round dining table. We're both dressed in evening wear. Imagine you're wearing a diamond necklace, and I have military medals and ribbons on my chest. A servant who has spent forty years mostly opening bottles for others stands beside us. Imagine..."

"I've never experienced such things."

"Really? Maybe I guessed wrong. Then you grew up in a military family? Or perhaps in a church..."

"None of what you said applies to me. We've only met twice, and you keep making wild guesses, trying to fit me into a role. Don't impose your imagination on me."

"Why be so defensive? I'm just trying... to find some common ground between us. And I know it's not a wild guess. It's not because I'm particularly insightful, but because there's something you can't hide. Want to know what it is?"

"I know myself well enough." She became annoyed and took a sip of the drink. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought the drink had a hint of insect wings. "And who are you? That accent couldn't just be something you learned for fun."

"See, that's unfair. You're not letting me guess about you, but... have you heard of the term 'information parity'?"

Bossia immediately looked up at Rahol, unable to hide her surprise. She remembered that term. Jorgen had explained its meaning to her.

"Ah, seems you understand. Don't worry, I have never, ever collaborated with the MI7. At least not directly. So, if one of the reasons for hiding your identity is the MI7, it has nothing to do with me. Don't think I'm in league with them."

Growing up in a military family, raised in a church, and entangled with the MI7. Though speculative, in five minutes, this man had nearly pinpointed the scope of her experiences. However, what now dominated Bossia's emotions was not the fear of having her identity exposed, but a peculiar sense of familiarity; it was like a child playing a guessing game, trying to make the puzzle tricky but secretly hoping the other person could guess the answer.