The clearing slowly settled into silence.
What remained of the demonic beasts lay scattered across the torn earth—split skulls, pierced hearts, bodies twisted at unnatural angles where spears had done their merciless work. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and burnt mana, drifting lazily as if reluctant to leave the battlefield.
At the center of it stood two youths.
They leaned on their spears, chests heaving, arms trembling from exhaustion rather than fear. Sweat streaked down their faces, mixing with dirt and blood, yet their eyes remained sharp—unbroken, burning with a stubborn will that refused to yield even when death had pressed its blade against their throats.
Daniel watched them in silence.
He had seen many fighters. Soldiers trained by academies. Mercenaries hardened by survival. Cultivators drunk on borrowed power.
But these two were different.
They fought with nothing but discipline, trust, and desperation—and they had not retreated even when outnumbered and cornered. That alone placed them above countless so-called elites.
When Daniel finally stepped forward and asked their names, the answer carried a weight far heavier than expected.
"Aarron Shieldbearer.""Eerren Shieldbearer."
The surname struck like an echo from a buried era.
Daniel's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Shieldbearers.
It was not a name spoken lightly in the past.
The truth followed soon after, as the two brothers led him to a half-collapsed farmhouse on the edge of the forest. Inside, time itself seemed to have settled into decay. The walls were cracked, the roof patched repeatedly with scavenged wood, and the air smelled of herbs, old parchment, and lingering illness.
On a narrow bed lay an old man.
His body was thin, ravaged by age and wounds that had never healed properly. His breathing was shallow, each inhale sounding like it cost him effort. Yet his eyes—those eyes—were sharp and alert, filled with a quiet fire that refused to be extinguished.
A soldier's eyes.
He was their grandfather.
Once, he had been an assistant commander under a renowned general, a man whose tactical insight had turned impossible battles into victories. His strategies had saved armies, preserved cities, and crushed demonic advances before they could take root.
But brilliance without backing was a crime among nobles.
He had been betrayed.
Accused of overstepping authority. Stripped of rank. Exiled before his name could ever be etched into history. While others rose through corruption and lineage, he was cast aside—forgotten while the kingdom continued bleeding.
Unable to fight again, his body broken by wounds and neglect, he poured everything he had left into his grandchildren.
Every technique. Every formation. Every ruthless drill meant to ensure they would survive where he could not.
"To reclaim our name," he had told them. "To restore the honour stolen from us."
Daniel stepped into the room quietly.
The old man's gaze locked onto him immediately, sharp and calculating. He studied Daniel the way a commander studies an unknown force—measuring posture, breathing, presence.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Daniel reached into his storage and withdrew a pill.
It glowed faintly, swirling with condensed life essence and refined mana—far beyond anything a border village should ever see. When Daniel placed it into the old man's trembling hand, confusion flashed across the veteran's face, followed by hesitation.
Years of suffering had taught him caution.
But one look into Daniel's eyes erased that doubt.
The old man swallowed.
The change was instant.
Mana surged through his body like a long-dammed river finally released. Brittle meridians widened and repaired themselves, organs strengthened, bones reinforced. His breathing steadied, deepened, no longer strained. Colour returned to his skin as vitality flooded back into him.
He gasped—not in pain, but in disbelief.
Slowly, trembling hands pushed against the bed.
He sat up,.
Arron and Erren froze, their eyes wide.
The old man stood.
Not fully restored to his former peak—but alive. Strong. Present.
Tears carved silent lines down his weathered face as he straightened his back for the first time in years.
He bowed.
Deeply.
Not as a weak elder, but as a soldier acknowledging a superior commander.
Daniel stopped him with a raised hand.
Daniel told him about wanting his grand children to join his army, the old man hesitated but then accepted remembering that Daniel wasn't like normal people, he was special and the old man could smell it in his bones, he only gave Daniel the responsibility of his grand children's lives in his hands.
Daniel said i know they are hesitating because they fear for your life, the old man said with the help of the pill, he can now take care of himself, but just to put some peace in the young youths heart, he sent his wolves to scout the entire village and eliminate any demonic beasts, and bring the heads, after hours of roars of pain from demonic beasts in the distant forest, the wolves consumed the demonic beasts, they brought back fifteen heads of Demonic beasts, and the two recruits were finally at peace.
Before leaving, The old man handed Aarron and Eerren weathered tome.
The remaining half of the Spear God Technique.
The book thrummed faintly the moment it changed hands, resonating with the siblings' blood and years of relentless training. It was as if the technique itself recognized its rightful heirs.
"This path rewards discipline," Daniel said evenly. "then smiled. You already have both."
Aarron clutched the book as though it were sacred scripture. Eerren's fingers tightened around her spear, his breath unsteady—not from fear, but from the weight of possibility.
Their destiny had shifted.
—
They had not gone far when the royal guards arrived.
Polished armor gleamed in the sunlight. Banners of the kingdom fluttered proudly—symbols of authority, wealth, and power far removed from the blood-soaked forests and dying villages.
The guards delivered the king's invitation with practiced humility. An offer of alliance. Recognition. Resources. Authority within the kingdom's hierarchy.
Daniel listened without interruption.
Then he laughed.
It was not loud. Not mocking.
It was cold.
"Tell your king," Daniel said calmly, his voice carrying absolute certainty, "that I do not negotiate with cowards who hide behind walls while their people die."
The guards stiffened.
"If he seeks my alliance," Daniel continued, eyes like tempered steel, "he will speak through men of honour. The Elvaren."
The name struck like thunder.
"I am Daniel Bellhem," he finished. "Last of the bloodline."
Shock rippled through the guards' ranks.
They bowed deeply before retreating, fear and awe mixing in equal measure.
—
The impact was immediate.
In the capital, the court erupted.
Whispers turned into arguments. Dismissed houses were reconsidered. Opportunists fell silent. The Elvaren name—once hanging by a thread—suddenly carried weight again.
Titus Elvaren's defiance was no longer seen as foolishness.
It was foresight.
And somewhere beyond the walls of politics and power, riding atop a massive silver wolf, Daniel allowed himself a rare smile.
For a brief moment, his thoughts drifted to a polite smile, gentle yet resolute.
Mimi.
He thought ,did she forget abought me, its been months ever since we saw each other.
And this time, the Red flags were rising.