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"All in." The man said, pushing all his chips to the middle the table. 

"Fold," said another man. 

"Same here." Said another before slamming his deck of cards on the table. "Man, you should wash your hand. My deck smells like shite today." He grumbles before protectively reach out to rearrange his chips. 

"Ain't my bad you dumb." Said the deck handler before looking toward the final guy on the table, "how about you, Genor? All in?"

"Nah, I fold." Said the one-eye man before handing back the cards. 

It is during these days that the soldiers found themselves nothing to do. The Crusade had just ended, and with that, nothing to fight against. While some decided to pay a visit to their family or outright calling a retire, for most soldiers here, who survived the Fourth Crusade, the barrack is their house. And of course, with the rumor of the Fifth Crusade just around the corner, the barrack welcomed a new wave of new faces and babbling babies. So while the commanders getting ready for the recruit's routine and daily training exercise, these veterans found themselves almost nothing to do with. Especially in the middle of noon in this blasting desert. 

"You think we are gonna get draft for the next crusade?" Arthur asked before giving each man his deck. Something to keep the convo going, he thinks while handing out the cards. 

"Nah," said Arab, "we got John on our side. He should give us something easy. He owed us."

"I don't know," said Genor, before slamming his deck of cards just as he picks it up. "Again?" 
[hr] 
Genor didn't know what he was expecting when he started packing up his stuff. Goodbye? Condolences? A warm farewell party? Maybe all of that. But all he greeted with was the snoring from his teammates and the morning dew of the desert. Like a good soldier, he had fought for this city. He did missions without any questions, carrying out each order like a sentient golem. And like any sane person, he thought it was enough. That, finally, after all these fighting, he deserved some rest, perhaps a dispatch but with pay, or even a title if the commanders and the lords would be so generous of his work. 

And this is what he gets?

The Fifth Crusade? 

A chance to kill more demons? For what? To spike them on his field back home like a scarecrow? 

The man sits on his bunk bed, rocking himself front and back, soundless words made its presence in the morning light. He was shivering in the middle of the desert, a lonely man in the city of millions. Nobody knew him. Nobody knew what was going on in his brain. And as such, when he picking up his belongings and headed toward the wall opening, no one said goodbye. 

The only goodbye he heard was the rusty bunk bed giving its final groan, and Abram's sleep talking. So maybe goodbye, just not the sensible one.