Winter arrived, but it brought no peace.
Snow layered the battlefield, mixing with ash and dried blood. The once fertile land between Ascendria and the kingdom of Verentis had turned into a perpetual killing field—a no-man's land scorched by spells, steel, and suffering.
And at the center of it stood Achilles.
The enemy had stopped calling him by name. Whispers across enemy lines called him the Crimson Reaper. The Blade of the Border. The Merciless Flame.
But within the fortress, among his men, he remained simply:
Commander.
---
This morning, he inspected the new recruits. Fresh faces. Young. Nervous.
He stood in front of them, silent.
Letting the snow speak for him.
Then his voice cut through the cold like a dagger.
"Most of you won't survive. If that frightens you, go home. There's no shame in it."
No one moved.
He nodded. "Good. Then listen well. I won't promise you glory. I won't promise you recognition. But if you follow orders, if you fight smart—not just hard—then you'll live long enough to see your enemies burn."
He left them with Kael.
Kael, now his second-in-command and most trusted companion, approached once the recruits dispersed. "You could soften your tone. They're just boys."
"So was I," Achilles replied without looking at him. "And no one softened their tone for me."
Kael sighed, knowing there was no arguing with that.
---
Later, in the war tent, the atmosphere was tense. Maps lay open on the table, strewn with figures, reports, troop movement indicators. Smoke curled from the brazier, perfuming the air with the scent of cedarwood.
Kael entered with a parchment sealed in crimson wax.
"From the capital," he announced.
Achilles took the letter, eyes scanning every line.
Then, to Kael's surprise, he smiled.
"They finally acknowledge the border's stability."
Kael crossed his arms. "Took them long enough."
"They want a report. An audience."
"Will you go?"
Achilles looked toward the window, the cold glass showing nothing but snow and grey sky beyond. For a moment, he was quiet.
"No. My family is handling the capital. I stay here. As long as Ascendria draws breath, my place is here."
Kael studied him. There was no bitterness in his tone—only resolve.
---
Outside, the fortress stirred. Veterans trained new recruits, while mages reinforced the outer barriers with fresh enchantments. The defensive wall had grown threefold over the past year, built with a combination of traditional stonework and mana-infused sigils etched by Achilles himself.
Under his command, Verentis had not only survived—the border had transformed into an immovable bastion.
That evening, a meeting of officers was called.
Achilles sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by faces worn by battle but loyal to the core.
"Ascendria's supply chain is weakening," reported Captain Darrek, a grizzled knight from the northern plains. "Our recent raids disrupted their winter stores. They're not starving yet—but close."
"They'll grow desperate," said Lieutenant Maren, the youngest among them but sharp-eyed. "That's when they'll risk the forbidden again."
A silence followed.
They all remembered the last time Ascendria used forbidden magic—the necromancers, the undead rising from the battlefield.
Achilles's fingers drummed once against the wood.
"Let them come. We are stronger now. Prepared. But we will not be the ones who break first."
Kael leaned forward. "And what of the reinforcements promised from the capital? Still nothing?"
Achilles shook his head. "The nobles are content to celebrate peace while we keep bleeding. No aid will come. We are the line."
The officers nodded grimly.
---
That night, Achilles walked the perimeter alone.
Snow fell lightly, a quiet contrast to the tension boiling beneath the surface.
He passed soldiers huddled around fires, young men singing quietly, others sharpening blades, writing letters home. Some still looked to him with awe. Others with fear. But all obeyed. All followed.
He reached the tower wall and looked across the no-man's land.
The enemy's lights flickered in the far distance, their silhouettes little more than shadows against the stormy backdrop.
Then he closed his eyes and activated the system.
>>> Border Defense Protocol: Active
>>> Territory Control: 61%
>>> Aura Synchronization: Stable
>>> Physical Fatigue: 17%
>>> Threat Index: Ascendria Level 4
He read through it with practiced ease.
All green. All ready.
His eyes opened slowly. A flicker of fire danced in his gaze.
"They'll come again. And when they do, we finish what we started."
---
[Timeskip: Five Years Later]
The snow was gone.
In its place was hardened earth, fortified trenches, and a wall that stretched across the border like a scar carved by the gods.
Achilles stood atop the central watchtower.
No longer a boy.
No longer just a commander.
Now twenty years old, clad in obsidian black armor streaked with gold filigree, the mark of an elite warlord. His hair was longer, tied back with military precision. His face was sharper, gaze colder.
He was no longer a prodigy.
He was a legend.
Under his command, Verentis had not only held the line but pushed it forward. His soldiers now guarded territory deep within former Ascendrian land. The enemy empire had fractured, their generals dead or disgraced.
But the war wasn't over.
Because from the shadows of Ascendria's ruins, a new threat stirred.
One with knowledge of forbidden rituals. One that whispered of ancient kings and gods lost to time.
Achilles turned from the tower, cape fluttering behind him.
Kael stood nearby, a few new scars crossing his face, his once-black hair streaked with silver.
"It's never quiet for long, is it?" Kael asked.
"Quiet is the breath before the scream."
"And you think they'll scream next?"
"They have no choice. They've lost everything else."
Kael handed him a fresh scroll. Reports. Names. Symbols etched in ancient language.
Achilles read it in silence.
Then: "Prepare the battalions. The enemy rises again. And this time, we'll bury them so deep the gods won't find them."
The era of survival was over.
Now came the era of conquest.