After the echo of King Eeza's proclamation faded into the vast landing grounds, the battalions behind him moved as one. Boots struck stone in perfect unison. Spears angled. Rifles locked. Shields grounded. The sound was not loud, but it was absolute—like the closing of a vault.
Instinct took over.
All of us snapped into formation.
Twenty-five bodies straightened at once. Spines aligned. Chests lifted. I raised my right hand, fingers together, and brought them sharply to the edge of my brow.
A full military salute.
My eyes burned, not from exhaustion, not from lingering recoil—but from the sheer gravity of the moment.
King Eeza stood before us in a cloak of immaculate white, layered with subtle runic embroidery that shimmered faintly with stabilizing Axiom. It was not ceremonial excess. Every stitch served purpose. His crown—golden, radiant—was not heavy with jewels, but with authority. Its glow was restrained, controlled, like a sun choosing not to blind.
His hair was red—deep and vivid, pulled back neatly, untouched by age. His gaze swept over us, sharp and assessing, yet not unkind.
When he spoke again, his voice carried without amplification.
"Cadets of Mythril," he said, arms lowering as his stance settled. "You arrive not as children seeking instruction… but as those who have proven they can endure consequence."
The wind stirred his cloak.
"Training teaches form. Doctrine teaches order. But war," he continued, "teaches truth."
I felt the words settle into my chest.
"You have crossed distance—physical and personal—to stand here. Know this: the ground beneath your feet has been paid for in blood, reclaimed through sacrifice, and preserved through relentless coordination."
He gestured behind him—toward the massive fortress stretching beyond the landing zone.
"This is the Grand Frontlines. The heart of Mythril's defense. And from this day forward, you are no longer spectators to its purpose."
His eyes met mine.
Not lingering.
But deliberate.
"Serve with restraint. Fight with clarity. And if you must fall—fall facing the Blight."
The silence afterward was reverent.
Then, with a single nod from the King, command shifted.
Officers moved forward. Orders were issued. We were guided—swiftly, efficiently—into the fortress proper.
—
The gymnasium dwarfed anything I had ever seen.
Calling it a "hall" felt insulting.
Its ceiling arched so high it disappeared into shadow, reinforced with layered trusses of steel and runic latticework that pulsed faintly with circulating Axiom. Massive banners hung along the walls—each bearing sigils representing different fronts, different campaigns, different sacrifices.
The floor itself was segmented with faintly glowing lines—tactical grids etched directly into the stone.
We were seated in squad formation.
Rows upon rows of cadets from different corps filled the space, their murmurs echoing softly before fading as the lecture began.
A senior strategist stepped forward—an older woman with iron-gray hair tied tightly behind her head, eyes sharp enough to cut through stone.
"The Grand Frontlines," she began, "are not a singular battlefield. They are a system."
With a gesture, the air above the floor ignited into layered projections.
Maps.
Dozens of them.
The central hub flared brightest—a massive sigil pulsing steadily.
"This base," she said, pointing, "is the Central Hub. It maintains stabilized Axiom frequency connections to every major frontline—north, east, south, and far west—as well as continuous communication with the Mythril Bastion Capital."
Lines of light branched outward like veins.
"Each connection allows for instantaneous strategic updates, reinforcement requests, purification calibration, and evacuation protocols."
My breath caught.
It was beautiful.
Terrifying.
"This is how we fight the Blight," she continued. "Not with isolated heroics—but with coordination."
She shifted the projection.
Territories glowed in varying hues—green, yellow, red.
"When the Blight shows dormancy, we advance. Purification teams establish barriers. Strike forces eliminate high-density clusters. Survey units reclaim territory chunk by chunk."
Another gesture.
"Each reclaimed area is reported back here. Maps are updated. Frequencies adjusted. The war moves forward."
I felt something stir in my chest.
Order.
Not chaos.
Then her tone hardened.
"Do not mistake coordination for invincibility."
The map flickered.
A section of the far west dimmed—then blackened.
"Months ago, a frontline base in the far west collapsed."
The room went still.
"Blight pressure exceeded projections. Communication frequencies were severed. Reinforcement failed to arrive in time."
She paused.
"The base fell. Most personnel were lost."
...My mind flashed—
A road.
A town.
Half-dead soldiers marching through Silia Town nearly a year ago when we first arrived in the Gilded Thistle Inn of Madam Rensha.
Yna beside me. Watching. Horrified.
...
The strategist continued.
"The survivors had no choice but to retreat directly to the Capital."
Understanding clicked into place like a blade locking into its sheath.
So that was it.
"So," she said firmly, "we adapted."
The projection shifted again.
Three months prior.
A counteroffensive surged across the map.
"Purification recalibrated. Strike doctrine adjusted. We reclaimed the territory. The base is operational once more."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Three months.
I clenched my fists.
Impressive.
But not perfect.
If one base could fall—
Others could too.
The lecture continued—detailing sub-base positioning, reinforcement intervals, purification overlap zones, emergency evacuation corridors. Every mile mattered. Every frequency alignment meant life or death.
When it ended, I felt like my understanding of war had doubled.
And fractured.
—
Outside the gymnasium, order reasserted itself.
Commands echoed. Boots aligned. Squads reorganized with practiced efficiency, each group forming beneath floating markers that pulsed softly with identifying runes. The noise of the lecture hall faded behind us, replaced by the open air of the fortress interior—vast corridors, steel walkways layered above one another, distant engines humming like a living thing.
Captain Renia took point, arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert.
"Cadet Squad 28," she said. "Hold position."
We did.
As we waited, personnel from other corps streamed past—infantry, support units, reconnaissance specialists, mage detachments. Each carried themselves differently. Some with rigid confidence. Others with quiet focus. All of them marked by the same truth:
They were here to fight something that did not care who they were.
Then—
"Elrin?"
The voice was familiar.
I turned.
Tairi Enon stood a few paces away, adjusting the strap of his pack. He looked… different. Taller, maybe. Leaner. His armor bore fresh scuff marks, his expression sharper—but when he saw me, his face broke into an unmistakable grin.
"Tairi," I said, surprised. "You made it."
"Barely," he laughed, stepping closer. "I heard someone in Cadet Squad 28 blew up the sky during the final exam. Figured it had to be you."
I exhaled through my nose. "It wasn't like that."
"Uh-huh. That's what they all say before history starts arguing back."
We shared a brief silence—comfortable, familiar.
"You look… solid," he said after a moment. "Different from when you pulled me out back then."
I remembered it clearly. The first military exercises. The rubble. His pinned leg. The way he'd looked at me afterward—not like a savior, but like someone who had been seen.
"You didn't quit either," I replied.
He shook his head. "Couldn't. Not after that. Figured if someone like you could keep standing… I didn't get to run."
That meant more than he probably realized.
An officer barked an order nearby.
Tairi glanced over his shoulder, then back at me.
"Guess this is where it gets real," he said.
"It already is."
He smiled, then snapped into formation with his unit, giving me a short nod before turning away.
I watched him go.
Another thread anchored.
Another reminder that the path I was walking wasn't empty.
Then—
Movement again.
Different uniforms.
Different cadence.
The air changed.
I felt it before I saw her.
Arcanum Spiral.
Mage Corps.
My breath caught in my chest—not sharply, not painfully—but like something old had been gently struck awake.
And then—
Yna stepped into view.
Her hair, same as I remembered, blue strands woven with thin sigil-thread that glimmered faintly when she moved. Her uniform was reinforced now—structured, practical, etched with layered enchantments that spoke of discipline and refinement rather than raw power.
She wasn't the same girl who had stood beside me in Silia Town.
She was stronger.
Sharper.
Alive in a way that only survival could forge.
Her eyes lifted.
Found mine.
And the world—
Stopped.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just… paused.
The vastness of the fortress, the endless movement of soldiers, the weight of war—all of it blurred at the edges. Her expression froze for half a heartbeat, then softened. Her eyes widened just a little, like she was afraid the moment might vanish if she blinked.
I smiled.
Not the careful smile I used with officers.
Not the controlled one shaped by discipline and restraint.
A real one.
Unfiltered.
Her lips trembled.
She pressed her hand lightly to her chest, as if grounding herself.
We didn't speak.
Didn't wave.
Didn't break formation.
But the distance between us—months, battles, fear, collapsed into nothing.
For that single breath, we existed outside the war.
Captain Renia noticed.
She followed my line of sight, one brow arching slightly.
"…What a lady," she muttered. "Your girlfriend?"
"W—What?!" I blurted. "No—!"
Too fast.
Too loud.
My squad pounced instantly.
"OHHHH?"
"Elrin had someone before the military?!"
"Wait, so the berserker has a soft side?"
Captain Renia laughed and smacked my back hard enough to jolt me forward.
"Relax," she said. "I'm teasing."
I laughed too.
Not forced.
Not defensive.
I felt warm.
Like I belonged somewhere again.
Eventually, the moment passed. Orders resumed. Lines shifted.
But even as Yna disappeared into the crowd, the echo of that shared glance stayed with me.
—
Our quarters were assigned shortly after.
Functional. Reinforced. Clean.
I set my pack down and sat on the edge of my bed, the faint hum of the fortress resonating through the walls. I removed my gloves slowly, then rested my hands on my knees.
I stared at them.
These hands had torn the sky.
These hands had held shields steady.
These hands had been chained.
Thrown.
Condemned.
My thoughts drifted—unbidden, unwelcome.
Sunspire.
The execution platform.
The way Lord Marius Therion smiled as I fell.
Not triumphant.
Amused.
As if the world had finally bent the way he wanted.
I closed my eyes.
"I haven't forgotten," I whispered.
Not him.
Not my parent's blood soaked into marble floors of our manor.
But vengeance was not something to be rushed.
I understood that now.
Revenge without structure was just another lie waiting to consume its bearer.
The military wasn't just a refuge.
It was leverage.
Power.
Information.
Identity.
Here, I could grow without being hunted.
Here, I could learn the world's fractures from the inside.
Here, I could become something that could not be erased with a verdict.
The Blight was the enemy of the world.
But some evils wore crowns.
And when the time came—
I would be ready.
Not reckless.
Not blind.
Prepared.
Patient.
The sky had not broken.
And neither had my resolve.