The tent went quiet after Torvares’s decree. Captains grumbled, Arslan scowled, Viola smirked, but Ludger stood still, staring at the map. The arrowhead formation. Him in the center. He’d thought he was dragged here as a token, a child shoved into grown men’s games. But no—this wasn’t a council. This was a lesson. Lord Torvares wanted to teach him a bit.

The System agreed.

[New Job Unlocked: Tactician Lv. 1]

Bonus per Level: +3 INT, +3 DEX

Skill Acquired: [Tactical Insight Lv. 1]

Greatly accelerates comprehension of battlefield formations, strategies, and countermeasures. Allows faster adaptation when observing or devising tactics.

Ludger blinked once, steadying his breath. The map in front of him seemed to open like a wound—lines, shapes, possibilities crawling through his vision. The wedge formation sharpened in his mind, every flaw glowing faintly like cracks in glass. He understood why Torvares had dragged him here now.

It wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about forcing him to speak. It was about forcing him to learn.

One glance at the board was enough: where a flank would bend if the enemy pushed, where a shaman’s firestorm would tear through a cluster, where one wounded soldier would unravel five others. The System whispered the answers faster than instinct, faster than Arslan’s experience, faster than Torvares’s grizzled memory.

So this is what he wanted me to see. The war isn’t just muscle and mana—it’s patterns. And he’s making sure I see them before I’m old enough to drown in them.

Ludger’s jaw tightened as he raised his eyes to his grandfather. Torvares gave no sign, only the faintest narrowing of his gaze—as if daring the boy to put the vision into words.

Ludger clenched his fists inside his sleeves. The old man wasn’t training a soldier. He was sharpening a blade with eyes.

The soldiers clearing the area gave them space the moment Viola raised her blade. By now, word had spread: Lord Torvares’s grandchild sparring wasn’t just play, it was a show. Ludger was already tired of correcting them that he wasn’t the old man grandchild, and it was also annoying that the old man didn’t correct anyone else either.

But today, Viola’s face was stone. No scowl, no pout, no blazing temper. Just silence. That, more than any angry scream, unsettled Ludger.

He rolled his shoulders, letting the red-silver armguards catch the sun, and slipped into stance. “Careful, Viola. You’ve got that look—the one people wear before they swear vengeance oaths. And you don’t want to make me your life’s mission. I’m expensive to hate.”

No reaction. Viola simply lunged.

Her blade cut the air in a sharp diagonal, fast enough that dust followed the arc. Ludger parried with his forearm guard, the clang sharp, and twisted his hips into a counter jab meant for her ribs. She slid back a step, just out of reach, eyes never leaving his.

“Still nothing?” he prodded, circling her. “Usually you’ve thrown three insults by now. Did Torvares replace you with a body double?”

Viola ignored him and came again, footwork tighter, shoulders lower. The Overdrive hum in her veins made her faster than yesterday, stronger too. Ludger blocked, slipped, redirected, but he felt it—her intent had sharpened. No wasted movements.

He clicked his tongue. “So that’s it. You’re mad they won’t let you join the fight, but instead of throwing a tantrum you’re bottling it up. How mature. Terrifying, actually.”

Her blade whistled close enough to graze the silver of his guard. He grinned. “Guess if you can’t kill barbarians, you’ll settle for killing me. Good strategy, really. Less paperwork for your Grandfather.”

That earned him the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—half a smile, half a snarl. Then she stepped in, closing the gap with a sudden burst. Her sword drove at his chest with reckless precision, and Ludger had to slam his shin guard against her leg to deflect the momentum.

They broke apart, focusing hard, dust swirling between them. Soldiers muttered from the sidelines, bets already changing hands.

Ludger smirked, sweat dripping down his brow. “There you are. I was starting to think the shamans stole your soul early. Don’t worry—if you beg, I’ll lend it back after I win.”

Viola tightened her grip, eyes flashing now. The stillness was gone, replaced by something fiercer. She raised her sword again, Overdrive flaring hotter.

The duel was just beginning.

Steel rang against enchanted silver again and again, the rhythm of their clash drawing more eyes from the camp. Viola’s blade whistled in clean arcs, each one faster, heavier, more precise than yesterday. Ludger kept sliding back, turning her momentum aside with forearms and shin guards, his smirk sharp even as his arms throbbed from the impact.

“Not bad,” he said, voice steady between parries. “If you swing hard enough, you might even crack one of these guards. Then I’ll finally have proof you’re useful—for smiths.”

“Shut up.” Viola pressed harder, Overdrive sparking faint in her veins, her movements almost humming with raw energy. “If they won’t let me fight in the battle, then I’ll show my skill here.” She slashed, forcing him to duck low. “If they won’t see my strength against barbarians, then I’ll prove it against you.”

Ludger tilted his head as he straightened, sweat stinging his eyes. He blocked another thrust with his forearm, the impact buzzing through the metal. “So that’s it. You’re not sparring—you’re campaigning. Bold move. Shame you’re wasting it on your younger brother instead of the enemy.”

Her teeth clenched, and she drove forward again, footwork hammering the dirt into clouds. Ludger slipped sideways, letting her blade whistle past his cheek, and tapped her shoulder with his guard as if mocking her effort. “Careful, Viola. The more serious you look, the funnier it’ll be when you trip over your own ego.”

That finally sparked a reaction—her eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat her sword came down like she meant to cut him in half. He parried, but the force drove him back two steps, his boots carving lines in the dirt.

Soldiers murmured. A few even whistled.

Ludger’s smirk didn’t fade, though his chest rose and fell faster now. “There it is. That’s the fire I was worried about. Don’t lose it—but don’t burn yourself out either. The battlefield doesn’t care how angry you are.”

Viola’s breathing was sharp, shoulders heaving, but her voice cut through steady:

“Then I’ll keep burning until they can’t ignore me. I’ll show my strength one way or another, Ludger. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not against the enemy, then against you.”

For once, Ludger didn’t joke. He met her eyes, reading the weight behind her words. She wasn’t pouting anymore. She was promising herself a place, no matter who stood in her way.

He finally cracked a dry grin. “Fine. Just don’t get too strong, Viola. It’ll be embarrassing if I have to start making excuses when you beat me.”

The duel wound down with no clear winner—both standing, both sweating, both knowing they’d go again. Around them, the camp’s whispers thickened. Neither of Torvares’s grandchild looked like children anymore.

By the time their sparring ended, Viola was drenched in sweat, her face pale and her arms trembling from the weight of her own sword. She stood stubbornly, swaying like a reed in the wind, refusing to let herself fall. Ludger wasn’t much better—his forearms ached from parrying her relentless strikes, his shins buzzed from deflecting her charges—but she had pushed him further than he expected.

When she finally staggered back, breathing like a hunted beast, Ludger let her go without chasing for a final blow. Victory wasn’t the point. He watched her knuckles whiten around her hilt, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with that stubborn fire. Even on the brink of collapse, Viola wanted to keep going.

Later, when the crowd dispersed and she collapsed into her tent, Ludger sat alone under the dim light of the campfires. His arms rested on his knees, the red-silver guards streaked with dust. He replayed every strike in his mind, every desperate push she made.

Her offense is strong. Stronger than mine in raw power. He frowned, tightening his fists. If she keeps this up, she’ll be undeniable. They’ll have to acknowledge her.

But power wasn’t enough. Not here. Not in war.

Viola could drive forward with Overdrive and sharpened steel, but she had nothing to fall back on. No tricks to survive when a blade slipped past her guard. No instincts to retreat and fight another day. Just stubborn momentum.

That kind of strength only carried you until the first spear went through your ribs.

Ludger leaned back, staring at the smoky night sky. If I keep pushing her offense, she’ll stand out. She’ll prove herself. But without survival skills, it won’t matter. She’ll end up in the ground before anyone remembers her name.

The thought dug under his skin. He’d planned to make her strong enough that even Torvares couldn’t deny her a place. But now… he hesitated. Did he really want to sharpen her so fast, knowing she was only eleven, knowing the field waiting ahead wasn’t a practice yard but a graveyard?

He rubbed at his face, sighing through his teeth. “Am I really supposed to throw her into that mess just to prove a point?”

The fire popped beside him. No answers came, only the weight of the decision. For the first time, Ludger wondered if training Viola harder was helping her—or simply arming her to die faster.

The camp had gone quiet, only the distant groan of watchtowers and the shuffle of guards breaking the silence. Ludger sat cross-legged near a dying fire, eyes half-lidded, mind still replaying the spar. His arms throbbed from blocking her relentless strikes, but it wasn’t the pain that gnawed at him—it was the question.

What am I even trying to shape her into?

Viola had skill with fire magic, at least up to the basics. Arrows, spears, controlled flames—things most kids her age couldn’t touch without burning their hands off. Yet she rarely used them. She fought with her blade like it was all she needed, fast and sharp, reading the rhythm of a fight with quick instincts most grown warriors lacked.

Maybe he should push her into learning new tricks. Healing, wards, anything to keep her alive when her sword couldn’t. If she could patch herself up mid-battle, or throw a shield of flame between her and a spear, she’d last longer. She’d be harder to kill.

But Ludger rubbed his jaw, frown deepening. That might just break her focus.

She wasn’t like him. He could compartmentalize, weave healing between strikes, balance tactics with fists. Viola’s strength came from throwing herself wholly into her sword, from trusting her instincts to carry her through when others hesitated. Diluting that with spells she didn’t have the mind to blend into her rhythm… that might blunt her edge.

Take her focus from the blade, and she’ll lose what makes her dangerous. But leave her as she is, and the first spear that slips past her guard could end her for good.

Ludger pressed his hands together, staring into the dim embers. He didn’t want to make her into a weaker mage or a half-baked hybrid. He wanted her to live. But every path he imagined seemed to carry its own risk.

He leaned back, exhaling. “Damn it, Viola. You’re strong, but strength without a way to survive is just a blade waiting to snap.”

For the first time, he admitted to himself that he didn’t know whether helping her meant teaching her more… or holding her back.

Dawn came with a sky the color of steel. The camp stirred to life in waves—first the cooks and quartermasters, then the squires and stablehands, and finally the soldiers themselves. Armor plates clinked, straps tightened, and war banners snapped in the chill wind.

Ludger stood near the edge of the formation, the earth trembling beneath his boots as the cavalry mounted. Horses snorted clouds into the air, their riders pulling reins tight, lances rising in sharp rows like a forest of spears. They moved to the flanks and front, forming the teeth of the wedge. The ground shook under their hooves, a steady drumbeat of power.

Behind them, infantry closed ranks—shields and spears locking together, the sheer mass of men forming the body of the arrowhead. Faces were grim, eyes hard. Some muttered prayers, others chewed on leather straps, but none looked relaxed. Every soldier knew what was coming.

Lord Torvares’s banner, black, red and silver, rose over the center of the formation. Arslan’s party gathered close—Arslan rolling his shoulders, sword in hand, grinning like a wolf; Selene tightening her gauntlets; Harold laughing too loudly; Cor focusing mentally, and Aleia checking her arrows..

Eighty percent of the army. That was how much Torvares had committed. Nearly everything they had at this camp. The message was clear: this wasn’t a probing attack, wasn’t a feint. This was a hammer strike meant to shatter the barbarians outright or break the Torvares line trying.

Ludger felt it in his bones. This was going to be one hell of a battle.

He tugged at the strap of his armguard, gaze drifting to the ruined town in the distance. Smoke curled from its broken walls, a sign of the shamans waiting inside, their tricks ready to unravel formations if given the chance. His jaw clenched. If my plan works, we’ll break through before they can drown us in fire and bones. If it doesn’t… He let the thought die.

The horns sounded. Deep, rolling notes that crawled down the spine. The arrowhead began to move.

The wedge rolled forward, iron and leather grinding against the frozen earth. Each step sent shivers through the ground, shields clattering in rhythm. The horns had faded, leaving only the dull thunder of marching feet.

The soldiers weren’t silent. Men always spoke before battle, as though words could anchor them to life. Some cursed the barbarians in hoarse voices, others muttered about wives and children, promising to return. A few laughed too loud, masking the tremor in their throats. But most fell into a grim murmur—stories from the last few months of blood.

“Remember the river crossing? When the shamans turned the water red?”

“Three whole companies lost in that swamp ambush. I still see it when I close my eyes.”

“My brother’s unit got burned alive in the fields. Not even bones left.”

The words weren’t meant for comfort. They were reminders of the cost, carried forward so none would forget what waited at the end of the march.

Ludger walked near the middle, where the arrowhead would narrow into a killing point. He tuned out the chatter, eyes locked on the distance—the ruined town squatting behind broken palisades. Smoke curled above the jagged walls. Shadows moved between them, the shamans already stirring, their tricks ready to pour fire and bone over the Torvares charge.

His fists tightened. This is the test. If the wedge holds, we cut through them. If it falters, the cascade will eat us alive.

His gaze drifted back along the formation, and he froze.

At the rear, high on horseback, rode Lord Torvares. Stern, immovable, silver hair like a banner of its own. Beside him, clinging to her reins with fierce eyes, was Viola. She wasn’t in the wedge. She wasn’t allowed to fight. But she was here—close enough to see every scream, every drop of blood, every man torn down by spell or steel.

Ludger’s frown deepened. Of course he brought her. He wants her to watch. To learn. Just like he dragged me into that war council.

It was worrisome in its own way. Viola wasn’t angry now. She wasn’t even pouting. She was serious. Too serious for a girl her age.

Ludger turned his face forward again, jaw tight, the System’s faint pulse humming in his chest. Ahead lay the town. Behind him stood the eyes of his grandfather and sister. And between them—thousands of soldiers carrying their last words on their tongues.

The march didn’t slow. The arrowhead kept grinding forward, straight toward the enemy walls.

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