Randy

Randy's daily routine includes prioritising tasks first thing in the morning, a strategy that helps him distinguish between urgent duties and those that can wait. "Ignore the trivial tasks long enough, and they might just sort themselves out," Randy often preaches this life philosophy to you in earnest. He believes life is best lived when you focus only on the truly important tasks and enjoy the rest of your time at leisure, an attitude he often uses to dodge some of your requests. Surprisingly, things usually play out just as he predicts, with the smaller problems disappearing on their own.

Randy Howard, Lieutenant Colonel in the 13th Legion of the Hyperborean Empire, adjutant to Legion Chief Sibylle Mason.

Randy is often spotted relaxing around the bustling halls of the 13th Legion, enjoying a cup of tea. His relaxed demeanour is a striking contrast to the frantic soldiers around him. It's said that his dream job isn't being an adjutant or an officer of any kind, but a simple gatekeeper at the 13th Legion's barracks.

Curious new recruits enquiring about Randy's laid-back approach often receive a hefty stack of completed reports and a request to put the kettle on to make more tea for him. As they refill his cup, they usually marvel at the breadth and efficiency of his work, as well as the innovative problem-solving reflected in his reports.

The only one unimpressed by these reports is Lynn. After looking them over, she simply changed her unvoiced opinion of him from "an obnoxious golden retriever" to "a lazy yet reliable golden retriever."

Randy has developed his own methodology for slacking off, dubbed "Howard High-Efficiency Energy-Saving Mode." Those who try to follow in his footsteps often end up with a disciplinary warning for shirking their duties. After all, even for Randy, the master slacker, the art of doing as little as possible while still getting the job done is a craft that requires constant refinement.

For Randy, sleep is a sacred ritual. Before settling into his camp bed, Randy meticulously follows a precise routine: slipping on a silk sleep mask, lighting soothing sleep incense, and only then, with great reverence, does he allow himself to lie down. If anyone dares ask him about work during this sacred time, he'll quickly brush them off with an array of excuses: "I stayed up late working last night," "Some things just can't be rushed," "The stars advise against working today," or "Only those who appreciate the virtues of rest can achieve great things."

If you go along with his excuses, you'll likely find that Randy has already finished his tasks well before starting his elaborate bedtime ritual. His philosophy is simple: "Efficiency in work allows more time for rest." But don't get any ideas about assigning him more work to exploit his potential, Randy will immediately collapse onto his bed, feigning such deep sleep that no amount of calling or prodding can wake him.

The Howard name carries a significant weight within the Empire. The family's legacy stretches so far back that no one quite remembers when they first became the epitome of what is expected from a Laurelled Charon. What everyone remembers, though, is that generations of Howards have served as the Emperor's most loyal and fearless defenders, renowned for their tactical brilliance and unwavering valour. Randy's father was no exception, embodying all the traditional Howard traits: loyalty, strength, and bravery. Unfortunately, none of these admirable qualities seem to have been passed down to Randy: his loyalty is inconsistent, his vast potential is often obscured by indolence, and bravery is conspicuously absent from his repertoire.

"Disgrace to the Howard family" that's how Randy's father has described him since he was a child.

Randy has a way with women, and to most, he embodies the perfect gentleman.

In Randy's memory, rainy nights always evoke two distinct feelings: indoors, they are usually fragrant, peaceful, and perfect for sleep; outdoors, however, they bring chaos, tension, and the ever-present threat of crime.

A dark alley in the rain, the revolting smell of blood, a "mugger" with a foreign firearm, and an elegant lady seemingly in distress, these were the elements of his first encounter with manipulation since joining the legion.

He attempted to resolve the situation peacefully, but the mugger responded with gunfire. It took two canisters of tear gas for him to retrieve the lady's empty handbag. It was only then that Randy realised the entire ordeal was a well-crafted ruse, disguised by the lady's charming smile.

Every time he receives a thank-you card from the lady, expressing gratitude for handling her "pursuer," Randy can't help but recall that bizarre encounter. He sighs wistfully at his sisters, lamenting that they lack the elegance he admires, though a soft smile, reserved only for family, unconsciously spreads across his face.

Thanks to his sisters' "tutelage," Randy is well-versed in formal ballroom dancing. And as a result, he's often thrust into the spotlight at family galas, forced to take centre stage. However, by the second half of any ball, Randy typically enters a sort of autopilot mode, nodding and responding with nothing but "Mm-hmm," "Sure," and "Right" to everything said to him.

Despite Randy's privileged background, there aren't many things he's particular about, with one notable exception: tea. He drinks only Orange Pekoe, a delicate variety that can only be sourced from the Starweavers of Huaxu. But it's not because he has a demanding palate, this particular tea has no energizing effects whatsoever. It gives the impression that he's drinking it to stay sharp for work, while in truth, it doesn't interfere with his precious sleep in the slightest.

Randy has a penchant for crafting bizarre, often pointless contraptions. Occasionally, these inventions turn out to be useful, but more often than not, they're simply perplexing, like a lighter that eerily mimics Sibylle's voice counting down "three, two, one!" or a car jack that catapults itself at the slightest touch, aptly named after Lynn.

Every summer, Randy is haunted by memories of playing hide-and-seek with his two older sisters. What they recall fondly as sunny, laughter-filled days is, for Randy, a headache-inducing ordeal, a battle of dignity.

As a young boy, Randy desperately tried to outwit his sisters inside the house. He resorted to using a mini noise radar to track their movements and set booby traps with ropes in his bedroom to fend off his ever-vibrant eldest sister. But after narrowly escaping her clutches, he soon found himself at the mercy of his smiling, poised second sister, who played him like a fiddle until he conceded defeat. As punishment, he had to try on new dresses for his sisters and pose for pictures, which were then framed and proudly hung in the family's main hall for all to see.

Thankfully, the photo's display was short-lived. Its reign ended the moment their father returned home, marking the abrupt end of that embarrassing episode in Randy's childhood. It was also that summer when Randy and his sisters learned just how unforgiving a military officer's belt could be.

To this day, Randy still hasn't managed to memorise the Legion's oath of allegiance, a stark contrast to his father, who could recite it backwards with ease. For someone who remembers every detail about every legionary, family backgrounds, areas of expertise, salaries and mortgage payments, to name a few, there seem to be two apparent explanations for this: laziness and disinterest.

However, upon closer discussion, you'd realise that it's neither, he simply doesn't understand the whole thing.

Memorising an oath isn't like assembling a machine where you follow a step-by-step process, nor is it like piecing together clues or drawing up a detailed plan, it's more about faith and passion. It's not that Randy is emotionally tone-deaf, he simply can't fathom the fervour and fanaticism soldiers feel for that kind of devotion. It baffles him, much like how he never understood why his father would reduce himself to a mindless instrument of war just for an abstract notion of honour propagated in the oath, ultimately paying the price with his life, left in a vegetative state.​

Randy had never quite lived up to his father's expectations. He wasn't tall, he wasn't particularly muscular, and despite enlisting in the military, he had no intention of sacrificing himself for the Empire as his father did. The only area where Randy truly excelled was swordsmanship, a skill honed to the point where he could peel an apple with a sword in one continuous stroke. But now, with his father lying comatose, there was no one left to feed that apple to.

Rebellion against a father is often a rite of passage for sons. What begins as a reaction to perceived neglect matures into the recognition of an inevitable clash between two too-similar souls.

Randy joined the military expressly to prove he was nothing like his father. But as he stood amidst the disciplined ranks of Hyperborean soldiers, terror gripped him, a force that seemed to pull him in, seeking to bind him to the armoured tanks, artillery, and hulking airships surrounding him. It was as though the machinery was trying to absorb him into its cold, unfeeling core.

In that moment, Randy understood what his horns and inherited magic powers truly meant. They weren't for decoration or pulling off party tricks. They were a cruel curse, a mark of damnation placed on him from birth. Though his stern father had pushed him through gruelling combat training, he had also shielded him from the Empire's darkest truths.

The gleaming medals his father had once cherished suddenly made sense to him, they were mere bones tossed to sheepdogs by wolves. Scraps that spared the dogs from the predators' jaws and occasionally gave them the illusion of power.

Randy now grasped the full weight of his father's insistence on training him. He was meant to take up the mantle, to uphold the Howard name, the model family of Laurel Charons. To protect everything that came with that title: a comfortable life, dignity, his sisters' carefree laughter, and, ultimately, survival itself.

To preserve those things, Randy would have to become part of the Hyperborean war machine, just another cog in the empire's iron will. Or, if fortune smiled on him, perhaps rise above it all, a cresting wave amidst the tide.

He was meant to be the next iteration of his father.

But... what would that make him? Who exactly is this Randy Howard?

"Wake up, old man," Randy muttered, sitting by his father's bedside, staring at the man who now was little more than an unresponsive husk. "You know the answer, don't you? Please... tell me."

But the man in the bed remained silent.

With a heavy sigh, Randy placed a small toy pistol on his father's chest, the very keepsake his father had carried in the pocket closest to his heart, the one he had tried desperately to protect as he fell critically wounded. It had been the first gift Randy had ever given him as a child. Randy turned to leave, then paused, returning to adjust the pistol's position one last time.

You've gradually picked up on a pattern: when Randy tries to weasel out of tasks with his flowery excuses, they often involve innocent Charons.

Perhaps it's just a coincidence, or maybe it's the work of a cunning sheepdog quietly putting his paw on the scale. A small smile curls at the corner of your mouth, you decide to keep this observation to yourself. After all, some secrets are best left untold.

As a child, Randy harboured a dream: to create the world's most powerful weapon, one that could bring global peace. Maybe then his father would be home more often, and perhaps he wouldn't be so obsessed with pushing his son to grow stronger through endless training. But after learning the history of Atlasia's constant wars, Randy abandoned this naive ambition. He realised that for humanity, there's no such thing as an "ultimate weapon" there's always a stronger one on the horizon. Weapons are just instruments of power, and they can never truly bring peace. Now, grown-up Randy believes that being a half-hearted legionary might just be a novel approach to pursuing peace, one worth celebrating and promoting worldwide.

At some point in the past, something began to bother Randy deeply.

At first, he assumed that the tension between you two could be smoothed over like all the other bumps in his life. He was even willing to engage in a little negotiation and break a light sweat for you occasionally. But as time went on, he realised this connection was going to cause far more complications than he'd expected. His instinct to avoid hassle kicked in, telling him to cut ties before things spiralled. Yet, ending a relationship, even a budding one, is just another form of hassle.

Unable to decide, Randy left it to fate. "Heads, we keep things going; tails, we part ways," he thought, flipping a coin.

But before the coin even hit the ground, Randy already knew what his heart wanted.

Never borrow trouble from the future, things have a way of working themselves out. That's the ultimate philosophy of slacking off.

"Meh, I'll just let it be." Watching the coin land, balanced perfectly on its edge, Randy mused to himself.