The wind swept hard across the borderlands, rustling banners and cloaks, carrying the bitter scent of old blood and new resolve. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, far off over the Ascendrian lines. Rain would come again soon, but for now, the skies held their breath.
Achilles stood in the heart of the courtyard, surrounded by silence. The rest of the camp had long since risen, the sounds of drills and orders echoing beyond the stone walls. But here, in this moment, there was only him and the blade.
He drew it slowly, reverently.
The sword hummed. A subtle vibration in his hand, not from the steel but from the aura that ran through it—calm, deliberate, refined.
His feet shifted into stance.
A breath.
Then another.
And he moved.
His body flowed like water, guided by instinct, calculation, and something deeper—the unspoken language he had long understood as a programmer, now reborn as a swordsman. Every step was a line of code executed. Every slash a function perfected. Every pulse of aura, no longer a chaotic burst, but a precise command.
>>> Aura Integration: 91%
>>> Synchronization: Stable
>>> Overload Risk: Minimal
He moved faster.
Strike.
Turn.
Reverse.
Flare of aura.
He didn't stumble. He didn't cough blood. He didn't collapse like the last time he had pushed this far.
A barrier spell, cast by a practice dummy imbued with basic enchantments, reacted with a shimmer of blue light. Achilles stepped into range and swung.
The blade sliced clean through it.
The aura didn't destabilize.
He exhaled, deeply. A grin broke across his tired face.
Behind him, a slow clap echoed.
"That was either a miracle or the gods finally took pity on your stubborn ass," Kael said as he emerged from the shadows of the inner gate.
Achilles turned, wiping sweat from his brow. "No gods. Just refinement. Finally got the system to stabilize the feedback loop."
Kael crossed his arms. "Most knights spend years trying to do what you just did."
"I've only had one year," Achilles said quietly. "But I don't have time for ten."
Kael walked forward, inspecting the scorched training dummies and the broken remnants of the magical barrier. He whistled low. "You refined your aura to high-level stability in a few weeks. You realize what that makes you, right?"
"A target," Achilles said without missing a beat.
Kael gave a rueful laugh. "That too. But a threat to every conventional mage and swordsman out there. You're making history, Achilles."
"Let me survive it first."
---
By midday, a quiet murmur had spread across the fortress. Whispers among the troops. Something was different about the commander. The younger soldiers called it a breakthrough. The veterans were more reserved, but even they exchanged cautious nods.
In the war tent, Achilles stood before a war table with updated maps of Ascendria's supply lines. Kael, along with two newly appointed lieutenants, waited for his orders.
"Their left flank is underfed, undermanned, and under-defended," Achilles said, pointing to a ridge path marked in red. "They've routed their siege supplies too close to the riverbed. If we strike fast and hard, we can cripple their next assault."
One of the lieutenants, a broad-shouldered knight named Haldric, frowned. "But sir, the last time we attempted a raid that deep, we lost a dozen scouts."
"And we didn't have a magic swordsman with full aura mobility leading the strike," Kael replied smoothly.
Achilles tapped the path again. "We don't engage their main camp. We move like shadows. Disrupt, destroy, vanish. I'll lead it."
The lieutenants exchanged glances.
Haldric hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Commander."
---
Night fell with cloud-heavy skies, hiding the moon. A perfect night for a raid.
Clad in dark armor reinforced with muted enchantments, Achilles moved through the trees with twelve elite knights and four battle mages. Kael trailed near the center, ready with silent orders. No torches. No banners. Just steel, magic, and resolve.
The Ascendrian supply camp came into view after two hours of silent travel. Dozens of wagons. Minimal guard rotation. They were arrogant. Confident the border would not dare strike.
Achilles gave the signal.
The strike began like lightning.
Flashes of aura-lit blades tore through sentries before they could scream. Mages whispered compressed fire spells, engulfing wagons in controlled infernos. Within minutes, the entire camp descended into chaos.
Achilles moved like a phantom. He weaved between shadows, cutting down commanders with single, decisive strikes. Aura flowed along his limbs, guiding every motion with mechanical precision.
One enemy knight managed to block his blade—a captain by the insignia—but Achilles didn't flinch. He twisted, reversed grip, and pierced the man's guard. The blade slid through steel and bone. The knight dropped to his knees, beheaded before his body hit the ground.
An enemy mage began casting from a tower. Achilles flared aura into his legs and vaulted upward, scaling stone in four leaps. He crashed through the window and silenced the caster with one swift stroke.
By the time the sun threatened the horizon, half the Ascendrian supply route was engulfed in flame. Achilles and his men vanished into the forest just as reinforcements arrived too late to matter.
---
The return to camp was met with stunned silence.
No casualties.
Minimal injuries.
A dozen wagons destroyed.
Commanders slain.
Word spread like wildfire. Achilles, the Crimson Meteor, had become something more. His aura mastery was no longer rumor. It was reality.
In the war tent, Kael handed him a steaming cup of blackroot tea.
"One day, they'll write songs about you."
Achilles accepted the drink with a tired smirk. "Songs don't matter. Not until this kingdom is safe."
Kael nodded, but his expression was proud. "We'll hold the line. You keep breaking their rhythm."
Achilles stared into the flickering flames of the brazier. He felt the aura within him, steady now, stable. No longer a storm. Now a forge.
But he also knew the next battles would be worse. Ascendria would not forgive this.
They would come.
And he would be ready.