The academy grounds were quiet when Ash stole away to the old tower. Dawn had not yet broken, and the halls were deserted, the great dining chamber still empty, the noble-born still curled in silk sheets. The cold stones of the tower floor greeted him with dampness as he sat cross-legged, the Strategos Codex resting on his knees.
His hands trembled slightly as he raised them. A faint flame flickered to life in his palm — weak, wavering, as if the slightest breeze might extinguish it. He pushed harder, veins bulging at his temple, until it sputtered out with a hiss.
"Damn it…" Ash muttered, his voice swallowed by the shadows.
He tried again, this time with water. A droplet formed in the air, swelled into a trembling orb — then splashed uselessly across the stones.
Hours passed like this, his failures mounting. Sweat dampened his shirt. His arms felt leaden. It wasn't that he lacked will, but that the flow of mana seemed to resist him, slipping through his grasp like sand. The duel with Caius replayed in his mind — that desperate rush of instinct, the way his body had answered with something beyond his training. Why couldn't he call on it now?
His frustration built until he slammed his fist against the floor. The Codex stirred.
The pages glowed faintly, sigils crawling from the parchment as though alive. They slithered into the air like luminous serpents, circling him. Ash froze, heart hammering. He'd seen the Codex react before, but never like this.
The room melted away.
The damp tower stones dissolved, replaced by an endless plain under a blood-red sky. He stood ankle-deep in churned earth. All around him, armies clashed — thousands of men in formation, shields locking, spears thrusting. Archers loosed volleys that blackened the horizon. Mounted knights thundered across the plain, their charge as steady as a heartbeat.
And at the center of it all, a figure stood.
He was armored in obsidian traced with veins of gold, a helm crowned with a serpent-plume. His very presence bent the air around him. Ash could feel it — the absolute command that radiated from this man, as though even the earth itself recognized him as master.
The chaos of battle obeyed his gestures. A wave of his hand shifted entire phalanxes; a snap of his fingers turned tides of cavalry. Magic crackled in the air, not wild but ordered, drilled into obedience like soldiers at parade.
Ash's throat went dry.
A voice rolled across the battlefield, filling the air, the ground, his very bones.
"You seek to wield magic as one wields a sword. But you misunderstand. Magic is not a sword. It is an army. And armies demand command."
Ash staggered back. "Who… who are you?"
The figure turned his gaze upon him. Those eyes — they burned like twin suns, but not of fire. They were stars of intellect, terrible in their clarity.
"I was called many things. To kings, a savior. To tyrants, a curse. To history, I am the Archstrategos."
The name struck Ash like thunder.
"This Codex is my legacy. My memory. My tactics. My soul's echo. I carved my genius into these pages so that I would not die with the dust. You hold it, and so you carry me."
Ash clutched his head as visions overwhelmed him. Cities aflame, fleets torn apart by storms conjured from a single hand, serpentine colossi battling winged titans in skies split by fire. Armies bowed to that solitary figure, their loyalty absolute, their fear greater still.
"I'm just… me," Ash whispered, voice hoarse. "A boy from the slums. Not a general, not a king—"
The Archstrategos raised his hand, and silence fell upon the battlefield.
"The Strategos is not born. He is forged. Fire tempers steel. Trial tempers men. You are the ember. The Codex is your forge."
Ash's heart pounded, torn between awe and dread. "Then what am I becoming? You? A shadow of a dead man?"
For the first time, the figure's expression shifted. Not kindness, but a softness sharp as light flashing on a blade.
"You are not my shadow. You are the next verse of my design. I was the Archstrategos of my age. You will be the Archstrategos of yours."
The battlefield wavered, folding back into the tower chamber. The vision dissolved, but its weight lingered, pressing down on Ash's chest until he could barely breathe.
The Codex whispered once more, words cutting into his soul:
"Lead. Or be led. There is no third path."
Ash sat frozen, sweat dripping down his face, his body trembling. He could still see the armies kneeling. He could still feel the terrible weight of destiny.
Something inside him shifted.
He closed his eyes, inhaled, and reached again for mana. But this time, he didn't try to force it like a wild beast. He commanded it. Not as a supplicant, but as a general would order troops.
Mana surged to him.
A sphere of fire blossomed in his palm, no longer sputtering but steady, disciplined. With a flick of thought, he dispersed it, reshaping it into a barrier of force that held fast against his push. Water followed, condensing into a perfect orb, smooth and gleaming, rotating in rhythm with his pulse.
The air itself thrummed in obedience.
A brilliant light flashed across the Codex's pages. A circle of radiant sigils bloomed beneath him, binding itself to his soul.
The Second Circle.
Ash gasped, the weight of the new power coursing through him like molten iron. His veins sang, his mind sharpened, the world itself seeming clearer. Yet beneath the exhilaration was a heavy dread.
The Archstrategos's words echoed: Lead, or be led.
Was this ascent a victory? Or the first link in a chain tightening around his throat?
Ash rose slowly, the Codex's glow dimming but not gone. For the first time, he realized that every step forward bound him not only to strength but to the will of the ancient soul whispering in his ear.
And he wondered, as he looked out the cracked tower window at the rising dawn — was he still himself? Or already the shadow of the Archstrategos reborn?