"Move faster! The Overlord won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
The new recruits—fresh-faced recruits who'd arrived at Frostholm just three months ago—were sprawled across the frozen training field, gasping for air.
A veteran ranger stood over them, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.
"Pathetic. You think this is hard? Let me tell you about the real monsters who trained here."
One recruit, a broad-shouldered farm boy named Tomas, managed to wheeze out: "The... the seniors?"
"The seniors." The ranger's expression shifted to something almost reverent. "Three years ago, we had a batch of recruits who made you lot look like kindergarten children. They trained three times harder than what we're putting you through."
"That's impossible," another recruit gasped. "We're already dying."
"You're not dying. You're just weak." The ranger gestured to the mountain range visible in the distance. "Those seniors? They'd finish your morning routine before breakfast. Then they'd do it again. Then they'd request additional training."
"Bullshit," someone muttered.
The ranger's gaze snapped to the speaker—a noble's son who'd thought military service would be easy.
"You think I'm lying? Let me tell you about Number One."
The recruits sat up, too exhausted to stand but too curious to ignore the story.
"Three years ago, a thirteen-year-old boy arrived in Frostholm. Son of a Duke. Could have spent his life in luxury. Instead, he chose the north."
"Lord Arden Valekrest," one of the smarter recruits said, recognition dawning. "The one who forged the dwarven alliance."
"That's one achievement. Want to hear the rest?" The ranger began counting on his fingers. "At thirteen, he completed both ranger and knight training simultaneously. At fourteen, he contributed monster combat theories that revolutionized how we fight. At fifteen, he led the assault against the Scarlet Giant's advance forces and held the line for three days straight."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"And at sixteen—right now—he's the youngest person in history to reach Peak Fourth Stage cultivation. He's sitting on a literal mountain of corpses from the latest monster wave, and he's STILL asking for more challenges."
Silence.
"You're joking," Tomas finally said.
"Do I look like I'm joking?" The ranger's expression was dead serious. "Lord Arden Valekrest is the reason half of you are still alive. The defensive strategies you're learning? He designed them. The monster weakpoint targeting protocols? He wrote them. The supply line efficiency that keeps you fed? He organized it."
"But he's only sixteen..."
"Exactly. He's sixteen and he's already accomplished more than most generals do in their entire careers." The ranger's voice carried a mix of pride and disbelief. "The soldiers worship him. The rangers respect him. The knights follow him without question. Even the dwarves—who haven't respected a human in sixty years—call him 'Forge-Friend.'"
-----
In the women's section of the training compound, a different conversation was happening.
A group of female recruits—farm girls, merchant daughters, and a few minor nobles—were gathered around a worn newspaper clipping.
"Is this really him?" A girl named Clara breathed, staring at the charcoal sketch.
"That's Lord Arden," another girl—Mira, a blacksmith's daughter—confirmed. "I saw him yesterday when he was inspecting the forges."
"And?"
"And he's..." Mira's face flushed. "The drawing doesn't do him justice."
"Details! We need details!"
Mira took a breath, clearly gathering her thoughts.
"He's tall. Really tall. Like, he has to duck under some doorways. White hair—not gray, pure white like fresh snow—tied back in a simple tail. Sharp features. Ice-blue eyes that look like frozen lakes but somehow still warm when he smiles."
"He smiled at you?!" Multiple girls squealed.
"Not at me specifically. At everyone. He was thanking the forge workers." Mira's blush deepened. "And when he smiles, he has these small dimples. Just barely visible. It's..."
"Unfair," Clara finished. "It's completely unfair that someone can be that talented AND that attractive."
"He's also built like a god," another girl added—Sera, who worked in the medical tents. "I've seen him training. Lean muscle. Perfect proportion. He moves like water—all grace and controlled power."
"I heard he doesn't even notice," Mira said. "Girls throw themselves at him and he just... doesn't get it."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Last week, Lady Catherine from House Marlowe tried to 'accidentally' bump into him three times. He helped her up each time, asked if she was alright, and moved on completely oblivious."
The girls groaned collectively.
"A gentleman AND oblivious? That's a deadly combination."
"Forget deadly. That's mythical."
-----
"Attention!"
The recruits scrambled to their feet as a figure appeared on the training field.
And every single recruit—male and female—immediately understood what the veterans had been talking about.
Arden Valekrest, at sixteen, was striking.
Not in an ostentatious way. Not with jewels or elaborate clothing.
Just... presence.
White hair caught the morning light, seeming to glow. Ice-blue eyes scanned the assembled recruits with calm assessment. Tall frame wrapped in practical combat gear that somehow looked elegant on him. Lean, defined muscles visible even through his clothing—the result of three years of constant training and combat.
He looked like someone had taken the concept of "northern warrior" and perfected it.
Several of the female recruits audibly gasped.
One actually swooned, caught by her friend before she hit the ground.
Arden either didn't notice or pretended not to, his expression remaining professionally neutral as he surveyed the new troops.
"Welcome to Frostholm," he said, his voice carrying easily across the field. Calm. Confident. Warm despite the cold surroundings. "I'm Arden Valekrest. I'll be overseeing your advanced training for the next month."
Oh no, half the female recruits thought simultaneously. We're doomed.
------
Brick stood with several veteran rangers and knights, watching the demonstration with amusement.
"He still doesn't notice, does he?" One ranger chuckled.
"Not even a little bit," Brick confirmed. "Three girls confessed to him last month. He thanked them for their 'friendship' and moved on."
"How is that possible?"
"He's focused. Completely absorbed in preparation for what's coming." Brick's expression turned serious. "He doesn't have time for romance. In his mind, every moment spent on personal matters is a moment not spent making the north stronger."
"That's... actually kind of sad."
"Maybe. But it's also why we're still standing." Brick gestured to the fortifications surrounding Frostholm. "Every wall. Every strategy. Every innovation. He did that. Because he doesn't get distracted."
"What about Lady Elara? Or Lady Serra? They're always around him."
"He treats them like comrades. Valuable allies. Important people." Brick smiled slightly. "Which drives them crazy, I think. They want more, but he's just... oblivious. Or deliberately ignoring it. Hard to tell."
-----
The scene the veterans kept referencing—Arden sitting on a mountain of corpses—had happened just yesterday.
A massive monster wave had crashed against Frostholm's outer defenses. Three thousand creatures, ranging from lesser beasts to several Corrupted-rank threats.
The battle lasted eighteen hours.
When it ended, Arden sat atop a literal pile of monster corpses—at least one hundred-fifty he'd killed personally—calmly cleaning his sword.
His white hair was matted with blood and dirt. His armor was scratched and dented. His face bore several cuts that would scar.
But his ice-blue eyes remained clear. Focused. Unbothered.
Serra had approached first, medical supplies in hand.
"You're injured."
"I'm functional."
"Arden—"
"The wounded soldiers need treatment more than I do. I'll heal naturally."
He'd stood, surveyed the battlefield, and immediately began directing cleanup and defensive repositioning.
No celebration. No rest. Just work.
That was Arden Valekrest at sixteen.
Talented beyond measure. Handsome enough to make poets weep. Charismatic enough to inspire loyalty from hardened veterans.
And completely, utterly focused on a goal no one else fully understood.
------
Arden finished his inspection of the recruits, nodding to the training officer.
"They'll do. Start the advanced protocols tomorrow."
"Yes, Lord Arden."
As he turned to leave, Clara—the farm girl recruit—worked up the courage to speak.
"L-Lord Arden!"
He paused, turning back with that warm, professional smile.
Oh gods, the dimples, Clara thought, nearly forgetting her question.
"Yes?"
"Is it true you fought the Scarlet Giant's forces? For three days straight?"
"Not the Giant itself. Just its corruption-spawned servants." He said it so casually, like discussing the weather. "The actual Giant is still sealed. We're preparing for when that changes."
"How... how do you do it? The training. The battles. The leadership. You're only sixteen..."
Arden's expression shifted slightly. Still kind, but with an edge of steel underneath.
"Because someone has to. Because the north needs to be ready. Because when the real threats arrive, I want every person here to survive." His ice-blue eyes met hers directly. "That includes you, recruit. So train hard. Learn fast. And don't die on my watch."
He walked away, leaving Clara standing frozen.
"Did he just... care about me personally?"
"He cares about everyone," Mira said quietly. "That's why people follow him. He doesn't see soldiers or recruits or resources. He sees people he needs to protect."
"That's..."
"Unfair? Attractive? Inspiring?" Mira smiled slightly. "All of the above. Welcome to Frostholm, Clara. Where we're all a little bit in love with our commanding officer and he doesn't even notice."
------
Arden sat at his desk, reviewing reports.
Three years of constant work had changed him.
Still the same person underneath. Still Marcus, the author who'd transmigrated into his own novel.
But layered over with experience. With responsibility. With the weight of leadership.
At sixteen, he'd reached Peak Fourth Stage—an achievement that should have taken decades.
At sixteen, he commanded the respect of warriors twice his age.
At sixteen, he'd become a legend in the north.
And he felt... tired.
Three years of nonstop preparation. Three years of battles, training, politics, infrastructure.
And we're still not ready.
The Scarlet Giant stirs. The Abyssal Flame draws closer. Kael Thorne is graduating from the Academy soon.
The real story is about to begin.
A knock at his door.
"Come in."
Elara entered, followed by Serra and Seravelle.
All three had changed over three years too.
Elara—now nineteen—had become a true Sword Master. Cold, competent, deadly. And still avoiding any discussion of that drunken confession three years ago.
Serra—now sixteen—had matured significantly, her ice magic reaching impressive levels. Still shy, but confident in combat.
Seravelle—still appearing eighteen but actually five centuries old—had rebuilt enough power to reach Third Stage. Still enthusiastic about magic, but with better control over when to show it.
"The new recruits are asking about you," Elara said, her voice professionally neutral. "Half of them are already forming a fan club."
"Again?" Arden sighed. "Can we discourage that? It's distracting."
"We've tried. They don't listen." Serra smiled slightly. "You're... you have an effect on people."
"An unfortunate side effect of leadership."
Seravelle laughed—that musical sound that made her seem much younger than five centuries.
"You really don't see it, do you? The way people look at you?"
"I see respect. Loyalty. Trust."
"And nothing else?"
"Should I be seeing something else?"
The three women exchanged glances.
He genuinely doesn't understand, their expressions said.
"Never mind," Elara said finally. "We came to report. The dwarven forge completed its first masterwork today. Thorin wants you to see it."
"Good. I'll visit tomorrow." Arden returned to his reports. "Anything else?"
"The Academy rankings came in. Kael Thorne still top of his class."
Arden nodded, unsurprised.
"Progressing smoothly. He'll join the Imperial Army soon. Probably get assigned to monster suppression in the eastern territories."
"You're very calm about your rivals sucess."
"He's not my rival. He's the protagonist." Arden's voice was matter-of-fact. "And I'm the support character who makes sure he has what he needs when the real story starts."
The three women stared at him.
"You have a very strange way of viewing the world," Seravelle said finally.
"I have an accurate way of viewing the world. There's a difference."
He returned to his work, dismissing them without another word.
The three women left, closing the door behind them.
"He's impossible," Elara muttered.
"He's focused," Serra corrected.
"He's oblivious," Seravelle added with amusement. "Five hundred years, and I've never met anyone so completely unaware of romantic interest."
"Should we do something about it?"
"Like what? Hit him over the head with a sign?"
"Might work."
They walked away, leaving Arden to his reports.
Unaware that half the fortress was infatuated with him.
Unaware that his legend was growing beyond the north.
Unaware that in three years, he'd become something more than just a talented noble.
He'd become a symbol.
A hope.
A monster in human skin who protected other humans from actual monsters.