Evening had begun to settle over Rathmoor Fortress, casting long orange shadows over the blood-stained fields beyond its outer wall. After the battle, the smell of ash, sweat, and iron lingered in the air like a ghost.
Axel stood in the field, his sword still dripping red. Soldiers whispered his name with awe. The officers couldn't look away from the carnage he'd left behind.
By sundown, six lieutenants, all veterans under General Arvund's command, had summoned him to the war chamber. Men twice his age, scarred and steeled by decades of battle, looked at Axel as though he were something carved from fire and vengeance.
"You tore through the cavalry like a blade through parchment," one muttered.
"He decapitated their commander... mid-charge."
"Give him a squad. No, better—put him in First Division."
General Arvund, a hulking man of one eye and two war axes, nodded without hesitation. "He's not just a soldier. He's the tip of the spear. From this moment forward, Captain Axel of Squad 12, First Division."
Axel didn't flinch. He simply bowed.
"I'm not here for titles," he said. "Just give me men who won't run when it matters."
The general smiled. "Then you'll meet them tomorrow. Your kind of men."
At dawn, Axel stood in the stone yard, sharpening his blade. Footsteps rumbled like thunder as his squad approached.
They were not ordinary soldiers.
Four of them towered nearly twice his height, their arms like tree trunks, clad in thick armor with spiked pauldrons and blunt greatswords. These were not men—they were the result of the Empire's "Juggernaut" initiative: engineered warriors bred for strength and pain resistance.
The rest were elite swordsmen. Agile, fast, and precise. Some bore tattoos from the capital's Blade Temple. Others wore masks, hiding faces scarred from years in the trenches.
Each man saluted him. But Axel didn't return the salute immediately.
Instead, he scanned them. Looked them in the eyes. Measured their resolve.
"I'm not your savior," he said flatly. "But I don't let those under my command die easily. If you follow me, you bleed with purpose. If you hesitate, you're dead before I even turn."
The tallest Juggernaut—his name was Bran—nodded slowly. "Understood, Captain."
By mid-morning, First Division had mobilized. There were 32 squads, split across 40 sub-divisions, positioned along the broken trench lines in the southern hills.
The earth trembled with movement.
From the horizon, dust clouds surged forward—the Aslaeyan army had launched a full-scale assault.
The horn screamed from the watchtowers.
"ENEMY INFANTRY, TEN O'CLOCK! CAVALRY FLANKING FROM THE EAST!"
Squad 12 was deployed at the western ridge—a crucial position connecting the central forces to the rear artillery. If they fell, the Picarion army would be flanked and crushed.
Axel raised his hand. "Hold formation."
Thirty enemy soldiers charged straight at them, howling with fury.
"Steady," Axel whispered. "...Now!"
He twisted low, blade flashing like lightning. The first enemy's legs were severed before he realized he'd been struck. Another raised his sword—Axel pivoted, ducked, and drove his blade upward, skewering through the ribcage.
Beside him, Bran let out a monstrous roar, grabbed an enemy by the shoulders, and crushed his armor inward with a brutal hammer-fist. Blood sprayed in arcs.
Axel moved like fire—slicing clean, stepping around his squadmates like water between stones. Every swing of his sword was art and death in motion.
Behind him, the morale of Squad 12 surged.
But all was not well.
Elsewhere along the ridge, other squads were breaking. The left flank had begun to retreat. One squad's banner dropped into the mud. Arrows rained from the hills as the enemy began to overrun the slope.
Only Squad 12 held the line—and held it fiercely.
A general on the ridge above took note. "Who is that boy down there, still fighting like the battle is his alone?"
A captain beside him answered, "The new one. Axel."
Axel noticed the line breaking.
He growled to his squad, "Form wall formation—Juggernauts front, swordsmen behind."
The massive warriors locked shields, and Axel stood between them, sword in hand.
"On me," he said. "We push forward. Not back."
The next wave of enemies came like a flood—forty or more. But Squad 12 charged instead of holding.
And they shattered the enemy ranks.
Enemy morale broke like a dam, and the tide reversed.
When the battle ended, Squad 12 stood alone on a hill of corpses. Not one of Axel's men had fallen.
Mud, ash, blood—all clung to their armor. Their eyes were hollow with the heat of survival, yet something in them had changed.
They had fought as strangers.
But now, they were something more.
Axel sat beside the fallen banner, sword driven into the ground. The sun dipped below the ridge.