[ROBERT KRATER (Rayon's Father)]
[SAME DAY WHEN SUPREME SLAYERS WERE FIGHTING DEMONS]
Morning light spilled across the vast training ground, stretching golden fingers over the packed earth and the long shadows of men who stood at rigid attention. The air was dry, the wind sharp—carrying with it the mingled scents of sweat, dust, and cold steel. The symphony of discipline, as I liked to call it.
Before me stood the capital's guards—my soldiers. Every man's armor gleamed under the rising sun, and every face bore that look of silent determination… and exhaustion. Today was punishment training. No mercy.
"As of yesterday," I'd barked before dawn had fully broken, "your swordsmanship couldn't intimidate a dying turnip! So today, you'll swing. Until your arms forget what rest even feels like."
And so, they swung. Dozens of blades sliced through the air in rhythmic unison, each motion followed by a sharp grunt. The sound echoed across the field like the steady beat of war drums. I'd drilled it into their bodies—loose shoulders, grounded stance, eyes forward, never flinch. One misstep in training was a death sentence in battle.
I paced between the lines, boots crunching against compact soil, every step heavy with intent. My eyes scanned their movements with the precision of a hawk. Posture, form, breathing, timing.
At least now, no one was cutting off the arm of the man beside him—that was progress. Small victories mattered. Discipline was built brick by brick.
Then I heard it. Soft. Melodic. Completely out of place.
"♪ La lala la lala… hm hmn… ♪"
My stride stopped mid-step. My jaw tightened. The field went silent in my mind as the tune continued—a lazy hum that floated through the morning air like a fly begging to be swatted.
I turned slowly. Of course. Back row. Corm.
The man had talent—one of the best swordsmen in the capital guard—but he carried the discipline of a drunk bard. There he stood, sword swinging loosely, eyes half-closed, humming as though he were on a peaceful stroll rather than in a live training session surrounded by deadly weapons.
I didn't shout. I didn't even speak. I just walked up beside him, raised my hand, and brought it down—smack!—on his head with the flat of my palm.
He jerked upright instantly, eyes wide, face contorted in shock. Then, slowly, that familiar grin crept across his mouth—the same one that always made me question why I hadn't retired yet.
"You came here to train," I said flatly, my tone cutting like a whetted blade, "not to serenade your sword."
Corm rubbed his head and had the audacity to grin wider. "Can't help it, Instructor. You were humming it too, weren't you? Same tune?"
My brow twitched. "What did you just say?"
He straightened up, trying to feign innocence, though that smirk at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "I mean… I thought I heard something in the wind."
"Oh, the wind, huh?" I raised an eyebrow, expression flat as stone. "So now the wind sings like a bard?"
"Very musical wind, sir," he muttered under his breath.
I struck him again—harder. "Try saying that again."
He flinched, clutching his head. "I—uh—won't, sir."
Before I could press the point further, a shout pierced the field. "Instructor Robert!"
Liam, came sprinting from the main gate, sweat glistening on his forehead, his breath ragged. His urgency was enough to make every soldier still mid-swing freeze.
"Speak," I commanded, stepping forward as he stumbled to a halt before me.
"Guards on the eastern wall sent word," he panted, trying to steady his breathing. "A high-rank demon has been sighted. It's coming—fast. Straight toward the capital."
A chill crept through the air. I felt every soldier's gaze shift eastward, tension rippling through the formation like a live current.
"High-rank?" I asked slowly.
Liam nodded grimly. "They say it's… massive. Nearly as tall as the capital wall."
For a moment, no one moved. Even the wind seemed to still. The rhythmic sound of training was gone, replaced by the heavy thud of dread in every heart.
I turned my head slightly, eyes narrowing toward the horizon.
The faintest ripple in mana brushed against my senses. A distortion in the air. The light wavered, ever so subtly, as if the world itself feared what approached. Yes. I'd felt this before. That oppressive, crawling presence that only came before carnage.
"All of you," I said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence, "drop the act. This isn't training anymore. This is real."
Instantly, the men straightened. Swords raised. Faces hardened. The air crackled with sudden resolve.
"Liam," I continued, eyes never leaving the horizon, "notify the inner barracks. Mobilize the second and third units for civilian evacuation. I'll hold the line."
Liam frowned, hesitating. "You can't go alone. We don't even know what that thing is capable of. It's—"
"I said I'll hold it," I interrupted. My tone left no room for argument. "A swordsman of my caliber is enough to stall it. There's no need for more casualties."
Liam's lips twitched into a strained grin. "Heh. And here I thought you'd let me have some fun too."
Corm, still rubbing his head, muttered, "If that thing sings better than me, I'm quitting."
I turned slightly, deadpan. "Corm."
"Yes, sir?"
"If we survive this, remind me to ban singing permanently." He smirked faintly. "Even the wind, sir?"
I raised a fist in silence. He shut up instantly and went to gather the others.
The men began to scatter, shouting orders, moving civilians, and securing the perimeter. Dust rose in clouds under their boots. It was a familiar rhythm—organized chaos. Soldiers preparing for war.
And I… stood still. My hand went to the hilt of my sword resting against the wall nearby. The leather grip was warm against my palm, familiar. Comforting. The blade had seen countless battles beside me—against beasts and demons. But this… this was different.
I could feel the mana pressure now—dense and heavy, pressing down like a stormfront. The horizon pulsed faintly with crimson light. Even the birds had fled.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. "So, the demons are getting bold again." I drew my sword slowly. The steel whispered as it left its sheath, catching the sunlight. My reflection in the blade stared back—older, harder, but still burning with purpose.
I rolled my shoulders once, feeling the weight settle evenly. "All right then," I murmured to no one in particular. "Let's see what kind of test dares to test my wall."
As the first tremor rolled across the ground and distant roars echoed from the east, every instinct screamed that this would not be an ordinary battle.
But I was Robert Krater—the man who guarded the capital and third unit military commander of the Kingdom. And as long as I drew breath, no demon—no matter how high-ranked—would lay a hand on my city.
The earth shuddered again, louder this time. Dust scattered. The guards braced themselves. I tightened my grip, feeling the pulse of mana resonate through the air.
"Form up!" I shouted, my voice thundering over the wind. "Today, we stand. Not for glory. Not for praise. But because this is our wall. And no one crosses it while I'm here."
The men roared back in answer. And as the light of morning gave way to the shadow of the approaching demon, I raised my sword high—ready to meet whatever hell had come knocking.