The Cold-Faced Captain of the Deathsworn Battalion

Gabe Quinn sat cross-legged on the felt rug, carefully wrapping wild vine around the handle of his blade, circling it again and again with special care, pulling it tight with each turn. This vine, unique to the Fallen Blossom Mountains, is boiled for hours and dried, becoming as soft as hemp rope yet tougher than steel. Its countless tiny bumps give it a textured grip—on the battlefield, even when soaked in blood, it never slips from the hand.

The blade in Gabe Quinn’s hand was three feet long, the handle two feet—standard issue in the Deathsworn Battalion, from captain down to common soldier. Molded in one piece, it weighed twelve pounds and nine ounces, with a thin edge and thick spine, perfect for chopping. Gabe’s blade had been with him for six years; a faint red hue lingered along its length, the mark of countless bloodstains soaked in over time.

Loop after loop, Gabe wrapped the vine to the end of the handle and tied a dead knot. He stood, spun the blade in a few practiced arcs, and nodded in satisfaction. He stabbed the blade into the ground beside him, then picked up his armor, carefully wiping it down with a rag. The armor was dark and heavy, each oval plate overlapping, the whole set weighing thirty-eight pounds. For a thin soldier, it was a heavy burden—but for anyone in the Deathsworn Battalion, it was never an issue.

Gabe Quinn, captain of the Deathsworn Battalion, a veteran who joined the army at sixteen and has served for six years straight. He enlisted directly into the Deathsworn Battalion, rising from a lowly runner to captain—an officer rank that is the highest battalion-level command in the Kingdom of Chu’s army.

To every soldier in the Deathsworn Battalion, Gabe Quinn was a legend. No one else had ever survived six years in the unit with their limbs intact. The Deathsworn Battalion—by its very name, everyone knew its purpose: spearhead every assault, cover every retreat, a force whose existence was to die for the army’s victory or survival.

The soldiers of the Deathsworn Battalion were hardly saints. They came from two sources: first, death-row convicts from the Kingdom of Chu, who could earn a pardon by volunteering for the unit and surviving a few battles; second, troublemakers in the army, sent here as punishment by their commanders. Even the most cunning veterans had little hope of survival—after one or two major battles, the unit would be completely replaced.

A few did manage to rise above the rest. With enough luck to survive two years, a man could be promoted to vice-captain, and then usually transferred to another unit. By then, these survivors were famous for their toughness—every commander wanted to recruit such battle-hardened men.

But for Gabe Quinn to last six years in the Deathsworn Battalion, never leaving his post, that was unprecedented. In those years, three vice-captains—Gabe’s own deputies—had been transferred to other commands as main officers.

To command the Deathsworn Battalion, Gabe Quinn relied not on words or charm, but on raw strength. In this unit, only fists mattered. As captain, if your fists weren’t hard enough, you’d end up dead. Every soldier here was a desperado; killing their commander meant nothing, since hope was scarce—if you’re doomed anyway, what’s there to fear?

Yet no one dared provoke Gabe Quinn. Every newcomer to the Deathsworn Battalion would challenge anyone—except Gabe. Even if beaten like a dog, they wouldn’t submit, but the moment Gabe appeared, they’d shrink like mice before a cat.

Gabe Quinn’s name was famous not only in the Deathsworn Battalion, but throughout the entire Chu Western Frontier Army. This was the man who once overturned the Grand Marshal’s table in the command tent—and lived to walk out unscathed, a feat that made his reputation even greater.

Many believed that was why Gabe was stuck in the Deathsworn Battalion like a nail—unless the Grand Marshal was transferred away, which seemed impossible now. Most thought Gabe would eventually die in battle, ending his military career on the field.

Gabe never paid any attention to these rumors. Whatever had passed between him and the Grand Marshal was known only to the two of them.

Armor cleaned, Gabe donned each piece, cinched his armor sash tight, flung open the tent flap, and strode outside.

Whenever Gabe Quinn appeared before the soldiers, he was always stone-faced and cold—a commander with a frozen heart. He treated his men with relentless severity.

Normally, you’d never see much discipline in the Deathsworn Battalion. Soldiers lounged or sprawled everywhere—some cursing, some roasting a chicken they’d scrounged up, most just glaring and squaring off, ready to brawl at any moment. Fights were a daily routine; lose, and it was your bad luck, get killed, and it was just fate—nobody cared, not even Gabe Quinn.

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There was only one rule in the Deathsworn Battalion: no gang fights. If two men had a problem, they’d settle it one-on-one. But if anyone dared gang up, they’d meet cold steel—Gabe’s usual response was to kill both sides outright. The unit never lacked for new recruits; lose a few, and command would send more.

Wherever Gabe Quinn walked, those lying down squeezed their eyes shut, the chicken-roasters stared fixedly at their birds—letting them burn rather than move—and the glarers shifted their gaze to follow his path. Even the brawlers froze: a kick suspended in midair, a fist halted inches from its target’s face.

Only after Gabe’s footsteps faded did the fighting resume, with both sides cursing and swinging again.

The Deathsworn Battalion numbered fifteen hundred men; after a single battle, more than half would be lost. Even in peacetime, two or three died every day.

Every day, bodies were carried out, and new recruits arrived with their bundles, entering the camp.

The Deathsworn Battalion camped several miles from the main army; no one wanted their troops corrupted by proximity to these men, so they kept their distance.

After a round of inspection, Gabe Quinn returned to his tent. Eight men shared each tent in the unit—except Gabe, who had a large tent to himself. Technically, his rank didn’t entitle him to such space, but no one wanted to bunk with him, preferring to crowd together elsewhere. So Gabe benefited by default.

Lifting the tent flap, Gabe found someone already inside. He wasn’t surprised—he entered, removed his armor, and sat across from the visitor.

This was the only man in the Deathsworn Battalion who dared face Gabe directly. Not because he was strong, but because he was the unit’s sole doctor—Sean Shu, known as Mad Shu.

Mad Shu had been with the Deathsworn Battalion for three years, second only to Gabe in longevity. His survival wasn’t due to fighting prowess, but because everyone in the unit protected him. In three years, he’d earned universal respect—if you weren’t unlucky enough to die instantly, as long as you had a breath left, Mad Shu could drag you back from death. Who wouldn’t want to protect him? No one believed they’d never face death; as long as Mad Shu was around, he might save you. So, though he’d barely touched a blade, he lived better than anyone. Every new recruit learned: in battle, the man to protect was Mad Shu.

Even Gabe Quinn couldn’t claim absolute safety—some lunatic might sneak in and try to stab him in his sleep. But Mad Shu? No one would ever dare touch him.

"Done for the day?" Gabe frowned at the bloodstained man across from him. "Mad Shu, every time you come here, can’t you change clothes and wash the blood off your hands and face?"

Mad Shu—Sean Shu—grinned and shook his head. "What’s the point? Haven’t you seen enough blood yourself?"

"That’s exactly why I hate it."

"So that’s why you scrub every plate of armor spotless after every battle? Tsk, tsk—if outsiders heard that the Deathsworn Battalion’s captain, killer of countless men, actually hates blood, they’d never believe it."

Gabe snorted and sat across from Sean Shu. "Mad Shu, you’ve been here three years—don’t you want to leave? I’ll tell you, we’ve received marching orders. This time, it’s a real war with Western Qin, not some small skirmish. Even if everyone protects you, it might not be enough."

"No way. Why leave? Where else could I find a testing ground like the Deathsworn Battalion? No one cares if men die, and every day brings strange new injuries. Nowhere else could I see such things. I’m not leaving."

"Then stay. Just don’t regret it when you finally kick the bucket." Gabe said coldly.