Chapter 12: Supply Outpost
“Are you ready?” Captain Sullivan asked.
All of us nodded.
He looked at each of us for a second, then raised his hand and signaled the driver.
“Aren’t we missing something?” the captain asked.
It was obvious that we didn’t notice one important fact here.
The captain was angry since we did not notice such an obvious flow, but he did not reprimand us very much due to this incident.
“We need to extract the bones here, before moving.”
He pulled the military knife from his belt and walked toward the female Ossarian I had killed. The blue glow in her protruding bones was already fading, but it was still there, pulsing faintly beneath the gray surface like trapped light.
“Only glowing bones are worth taking,” Sullivan said, crouching beside the body. “If there is no glow, there is no usable Radiance left. Don’t waste time carving dead bone.”
Sullivan pressed the knife against the base of one of the protruding bones and cut with practiced force. It was not clean work. The blade scraped against flesh and hard tissue, forcing him to twist and pull until the bone finally broke free with a wet crack. A faint blue light ran through it for a moment before dimming again.
He wrapped it in a thick cloth and placed it into a sealed pouch.
“Now you try it.” he said.
The process was ugly, but necessary. Each glowing bone meant more Radiance. More Radiance meant more capsules. More capsules meant a better chance of surviving the next encounter.
Alexander and Aaron moved toward the two male Ossarians they had killed.
From what I could tell, extracting bones from male Ossarians was far more difficult than extracting them from females. Their protruding bones were thicker, denser, and rooted deeper into the body. Even with knives, both of them had to use more force, cutting and twisting until the bones finally came loose.
I went toward the other female Ossarian I had killed.
Her body was still warm, and the faint blue glow inside her protruding bones pulsed weakly, already fading. I swallowed down the nausea rising in my throat and crouched beside her. Then I pressed the knife against the base of one of the glowing bones and started cutting.
The blade scraped against hard tissue.
I had to saw through flesh, pull at the bone, then twist it until it cracked free with a wet snap. The sound made my stomach turn, but I forced myself to keep going. When the bone finally came loose, I wrapped it in cloth and shoved it into the sealed pouch Sullivan had given us.
Once I finished, I moved toward the last female Ossarian, the one that had attacked Harper.
One look was enough.
Her protruding bones were dull. No glow. No faint pulse of blue Radiance. Nothing worth taking.
I stared at her corpse for a moment, my grip tightening around the knife.
So that was it.
She had nearly killed one of our own, and left us with nothing in return.
Useless till the end.
Once we were done, we wiped the blade against the dirt and stood.
Only then did Captain Sullivan raise his hand and signal the driver.
“Then let’s move.”
The tanker engine rumbled back to life, and once again, we continued down the ruined road. This time, no one spoke.
The journey to the outpost was smoother than expected.
No Ossarians appeared. Only the sound of the tanker, our footsteps, and the wind passing through the ruins accompanied us.
Eventually, the outpost came into view.
It was smaller than Beacon, surrounded by rough barricades and scrap-metal walls. Before we could get too close, a guard positioned on a small hill raised his rifle and signaled for us to stop. A moment later, another guard stepped out from behind the gate and approached us carefully.
Captain Sullivan did not seem bothered.
Instead, he looked at us.
“There are three gunmen guarding this outpost, not counting the one approaching us,” he said. “Can you see them?”
Aaron narrowed his eyes and scanned the area.
“Well, there’s one up on that hill,” he said, pointing toward the guard who had stopped us. “Another one is near the broken wall to the right, behind those metal sheets.”
Captain Sullivan waited.
“And the last one?”
“Hm…”
He looked around again, but this time he found nothing.
To be honest, neither did I.
Then Alexander raised his hand and pointed toward a cluster of bushes and half-dead trees near the left side of the gate.
“There,” he said. “He’s camouflaged. I barely caught the shape of his rifle.”
“Nice observation,” Captain Sullivan said, giving Alexander a small nod.
He pointed toward the bushes.
“Camouflage is not about becoming invisible. It is about breaking the shape people expect to see. A human body, a rifle barrel, a helmet, a straight line, those things stand out if you know what to look for.”
He crouched and picked up a few dry leaves and thin twigs from the ground.
“With something as simple as a knife, some rubber bands, and whatever the terrain gives you, you are able to change your outline. Leaves, grass, cloth, branches, tie them around the weapon, the shoulders, the head, and suddenly the eye stops seeing a person. It sees part of the environment.”
Aaron frowned, looking back toward the hidden gunman.
“So he wasn’t actually hidden that well?”
“He was hidden well enough,” Sullivan replied. “Most people would miss him. Alexander caught him because he noticed what didn’t belong.”
He looked at us again.
“That is what you should train your eyes to find. Not the enemy himself, but the mistake in the scenery.”
“What about the paint on his face?” I asked. “How would you make something like that out here?”
“You don’t,” Sullivan answered. “Not properly.”
“Real camouflage paint is made for that purpose,” Sullivan continued. “It is usually a thick, dull paste designed to cut the natural shine of skin. The colors depend on the terrain: green and brown for forests, tan and gray for dry ground, darker shades for night operations. It is not just random paint. It has to stay on through sweat, rain, and movement, while also avoiding strong smells that could give someone away.”
He dragged two fingers across his cheek as an example.
“You apply darker colors to the parts of the face that stick out, the nose, cheekbones, chin, forehead. Then you use lighter or earth-toned colors on the shadowed areas. The point is to break the shape of the human face. From a distance, the enemy should not see eyes, nose, mouth, and skin. They should see dirt, leaves, and shadow.”
“But out here, we don’t always have proper paint. So we improvise. Dig a shallow pit, add a little water, and mix it with soil until it becomes a muddy paste. It won’t be perfect, but it can dull the shine of your skin and give you a brown texture close enough to blend with the ground.”
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, as if remembering something.
“And that reminds me. Never wear anything that reflects sunlight. Watches, glass, polished metal, jewelry, anything like that can give away your position from a distance.”
He looked at us.
“Eyeglasses count too. That is why reconnaissance teams usually avoid taking someone who needs glasses on high-risk missions.”
“You’ll learn more about this during reconnaissance trial missions later in your cadet term.”
Once Sullivan finally finished his sudden camouflage lecture, the guard at the gate finally stepped closer.
Captain Sullivan exchanged a few quick words with him, then gestured toward the tanker.
“We have one critically injured cadet,” he said. “She needs immediate medical attention.”
The guard’s expression changed at once.
He turned toward the gate and shouted for his teammate.
There were no proper medics in this outpost. From what I understood, the place only had seven men assigned to it in total: one captain and six guards rotating in three-man shifts. It was not a medical facility in the real sense, but it had enough supplies and basic equipment to stabilize someone until they could be moved.
At least, that was what I was hoping for.
The guard at the gate and his teammate hurried toward the tanker. We pulled out the stretcher we had brought with us and handed it over. They moved quickly. One of them checked Harper’s breathing while the other helped lower her from the back of the tanker as carefully as possible.
“She’s still alive,” one of the guards said, though his voice did not sound reassuring.
Alexander let out a breath he had clearly been holding.
They secured Harper onto the stretcher and carried her toward the gate. Her face was pale beneath the blood and bruises, her body almost swallowed by the blanket we had wrapped around her.
The camouflaged captain emerged from the bushes and approached Captain Sullivan.
Unlike the guards, he did not salute.
“Sullivan,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You know this is not a medical post, and yet you brought a critically injured cadet here. Why didn’t you return to Beacon?”
Captain Sullivan did not flinch.
“The mission won’t take long. It’s an F-rank supply run.”
The other captain’s eyes narrowed.
“An F-rank mission, and you already have one cadet almost dead? Did something go wrong?”
“None of your business, Captain Varga,” Sullivan said coldly. “We’ll finish the mission quickly and return.”
For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other.
Then Captain Varga sighed.
“Do what you deem necessary. But understand this clearly: we will not take responsibility for what happens to the girl. This outpost has supplies and basic equipment. It is not a medical facility. We’ll try our best.”
Sullivan gave a single nod.
“That is all I am asking.”
From where we stood, we could not hear most of the exchange. The two captains spoke in low voices near the gate, their expressions hard and unreadable. All I could tell was that the conversation was tense, and that neither man seemed satisfied by the end of it.
A moment later, Sullivan turned back toward us and raised his voice.
“We’re moving out.”
The driver stiffened, then climbed back into the tanker. Aaron, Alexander, and I checked our weapons one more time before taking our positions.
The riverbank was only 2 kilometers away.
As the tanker started, Aaron glanced down the road and muttered, “Hope the rest of the journey is smooth.”
I looked at him.
Then at the road ahead.