The flames had died down, but the tension had not.
Maria sat against a broken stone marker at the edge of the clearing, her injuries bound and her breathing finally steady. The villagers stood nearby—silent, shaken, alive only because she had refused to fall. Their eyes followed her every movement with reverence bordering on worship.
Daniel stood apart, listening.
Maria spoke with emotions, but every word carried weight.
The nobles had abandoned them.
Not metaphorically. Not indirectly. Entire houses had sealed their gates and withdrawn their private guards, choosing to protect estates and vaults rather than border villages. Achilles was not the only settlement left exposed—it was simply one of the first to bleed.
Her own house, Ashford, had never been a military house. They were merchants, administrators, logistics handlers—useful in peace, disposable in war. Still, they had sent what they could.
Two sons.
Her elder brother, Noel, had died on the front lines days ago. Cut down during a demon advance meant to test the kingdom's outer defenses. There had been no heroic retrieval, no honored procession—only a name listed among the fallen.
Her second brother had survived, barely. Brutal injuries had shattered his body, leaving him confined to a recovery camp near the capital. From there, he had written to Maria. Not comforting words—but truth.
The Kingdom of Astrid was losing its grip.
The demon armies were no longer probing. They were advancing with intent. Entire divisions were being erased. Supply lines were collapsing. Worse still, new horrors had appeared on the battlefield—entities that dwarfed even high-ranking demon commanders.
Demon Monarchs.
One such existence had confronted General Ragna himself.
Ragna, whose name alone had once been enough to steady a wavering frontline, had lost his left arm in that encounter. Torn away as if it were nothing. And yet, he had not retreated. He had continued to fight, bleeding and broken, slaughtering demons until his very presence became a rallying banner.
Morale had surged.
The army had held.
But afterward, Ragna was sent back to the capital—not as a hero, but as a liability. A living symbol of how dire the war had become. A general reduced to a reminder that even legends could be maimed.
Politics had moved swiftly after that.
Each noble house was ordered—no, pressured—to send their strongest forces to the front lines. Refusal was branded as treason by implication. Compliance, however, was selective.
House Elvaren had no powerful cultivators. No martial lineage. They were a business house, wealthy but combat-poor. Other nobles seized the opportunity immediately.
They proposed disqualification.
Elvaren was given forty days.
Forty days to produce a capable fighter—or lose their noble status entirely. Their lands, rights, and protections would be absorbed by neighboring houses under the guise of "restructuring."
It was legal.
It was ruthless.
And it was happening while demon beasts tore through villages like Achilles.
The hypocrisy sickened Daniel.
Even with annihilation looming, the nobles were still calculating profit. Still maneuvering for advantage. Still sharpening knives meant for each other instead of the enemy.
As Maria spoke, Daniel's thoughts drifted—unbidden—to a memory he had not allowed himself to linger on.
Mimi.
Her gentle manners. Her polite smiles. The way she bowed her head slightly when thanking others, as if the world had not yet taught her how cruel it could be.
She existed somewhere within that same capital. Within that same rotting system.
The realization hardened something in him.
When Maria finished, silence followed. Not because there was nothing more to say—but because the truth had already landed.
Daniel broke it.
He told Maria that strength was not something reserved for bloodlines or ancient houses.
Human potential had been deliberately misunderstood.
Most cultivators were taught to refine what already existed—mana circulation, external techniques, borrowed power. Very few were taught to unlock what lay dormant within the human body itself.
He told her he had a method.
Not a miracle.
A process.
Her whip had already proven her affinity. Precision. Control. Pain tolerance. Intent. All the foundations were there. What she lacked was depth—internal reinforcement, neural synchronization, muscular resonance with mana flow.
Daniel's method focused on three stages.
The first was Body Awakening.
Every human body contained sealed pathways—latent circuits formed not by mana, but by survival instinct. Trauma, exhaustion, and near-death experiences weakened these seals naturally. Maria had already torn several open through sheer will alone.
Daniel would finish the job.
Through controlled stress, resonance breathing, and mana infusion synchronized to her heartbeat, her muscles would be reforged from within. Not enlarged grotesquely—but condensed. Hardened. Responsive.
Her whip would no longer merely wound.
With proper circulation, the force she delivered would carry cutting intent capable of slicing through demonic hide, tree trunks, even reinforced armor.
The second stage was Perception Expansion.
Maria already fought intelligently—targeting eyes, joints, weaknesses. Daniel would push that further. He would teach her to feel hostile intent before it manifested. To sense killing zones. To move not in reaction, but anticipation.
Her battlefield would slow.
Enemies would feel sluggish.
The third stage was Will Imprinting.
This was where most failed.
Power amplified the true nature of its wielder. Without an anchored will, strength shattered the mind. Daniel required loyalty not as a chain—but as a foundation.
He told her plainly: he would not force obedience. But if she accepted his method, she would walk a path that no longer allowed retreat. She would grow strong enough to stand among those who decided wars.
Maria did not hesitate.
She had already lost too much to fear the cost.
What surprised Daniel was not her acceptance—but her reaction afterward.
She sought out Eseren.
Not for power. Not for strategy. Simply companionship.
Despite blood, death, and politics closing in around them, Maria laughed softly at Eseren's animated descriptions of future battles, of dragons and arrows raining from the sky. The presence of someone her age—someone unburdened by noble games—lifted a weight Maria had carried alone.
Daniel observed from a distance.
The villagers, meanwhile, gathered fully around Maria.
They called her their savior.
Not quietly. Not formally. It spread through the settlement like wildfire. Mothers clutched their children and wept openly. Old men bowed despite trembling knees. Wounded survivors pressed their foreheads to the ground.
Maria did not reject them.
She understood something Daniel respected deeply—hope required visibility.
She made an announcement.
She told them reinforcements would come. That they were not abandoned. That they should remain calm, fortify what they could, and trust that Achilles would not fall.
The people believed her.
Not because of words—but because she had already proven she would bleed for them.
As the sun dipped below the treeline, Daniel looked over the village, the forest, and the distant road leading toward the capital.
The political rot was clear now.
The war was not just against demons.
It was against decay.
And Maria—merchant-born, whip-wielding, unbroken—was proof that the system's greatest mistake had always been the same.
It had underestimated human potential.
Daniel intended to correct that.
One cultivator at a time, then Daniel told her that he can use his special domain to upgrade her cultivation to the peek potential and become a strong warrior who will bring honour to your house Ashford, this suggestion moved maria and she accepted to follow him in building his own garrison.