CHAPTER 47: TRAINING THE GUARDSMEN

Kaelor slowly brought his sword down, the blade glinting under the morning sun as he studied Hound through his mana vision. Streams of pale energy pulsed faintly around Hound’s heels, dense, focused, signs he was about to propel himself forward at blistering speed.

It was a refined technique, precise and explosive, capable of closing gaps and landing a sudden, decisive blow.

Exactly what Kaelor had anticipated.

Knowing this, Kaelor didn’t flinch. He merely lifted his sword with casual grace, holding it upright like a man accepting a duel on his own terms. His stance was loose, but there was steel in his calm.

In that heartbeat, Hound shot forward. The air cracked around him as his body blurred into motion. His twin sabers sliced out in a lethal crisscross, aiming to cleave through Kaelor in a blink. But just before contact, Kaelor’s sword shot forward in a flawless, effortless thrust.

Hound froze mid-strike.

The sharp tip of Ignis hovered just inches from his exposed throat, humming with dormant heat.

Kaelor’s voice was low, composed.

"You’re a talented fighter, Hound. But before you stands a man with a mind as sharp, if not sharper than yours. You cannot win by relying on brute strength alone."

He stepped a little closer, his tone cool and instructive.

"You charge in with power, but you leave your defenses bare. From start to finish, you fought like a beast relying on its fangs, never once thinking like a warrior."

Hound lowered his head and bowed.

Kaelor raised a brow, intrigued.

’So, this is what it means to have someone truly devoted to me,’ he mused inwardly. ’This... it’s a league above mere loyalty. It’s something deeper. Fiercer. Almost reverent.’

He shifted his gaze to the gathered soldiers, their eyes wide and focused.

"We shall start from the basics!" Kaelor’s voice rang out with command, his presence suddenly towering. "When you swing your sword, think of what drives you! Not power. But purpose!"

He paced before them, his voice sharpening.

"As Guardsmen, your strength must come from the will to kill anything that dares threaten our home. Your purpose is to stand between the predators and the prey. You are the chosen shields of every living thing within these walls. Every last subject entrusted to your lord!"

His gaze swept across their faces like a scythe.

"Your desire must roar through every strike you make. Your swing should scream, ’Not on my watch.’ Let that desire seep into your muscles, fuel your movements, and sharpen your instincts."

Kaelor stepped back, folding his arms as they assumed stances. With a shout, the men began to swing their sabers.

The air around them howled with each slash.

Kaelor walked in-between their lines, his eyes dissecting every movement. He watched as their faces contorted with focus, teeth gritted, brows furrowed. Each man seemed to envision a threat, wolves breaching the gates, monsters clawing at the innocent, raiders cutting down the helpless.

And they struck harder.

So hard the very air trembled with every swing.

The rhythm of training became like thunder, steel sweeping through the wind, echoing like war drums.

An hour passed.

Some collapsed to their knees, gasping for air, their arms limp with exhaustion. Others wobbled, barely able to hold their sabers upright.

But Hound did not falter.

He continued, unwavering, drenched in sweat, his breath heavy but unbroken. Behind him, even the Alpha Dreadclaws, hulking warriors who prided themselves on endurance were panting, their bodies slick with perspiration and fatigue.

After each break, they returned without hesitation, driven by something deeper than routine. They practiced with their swords until the sun dipped below the horizon and dusk painted the sky in crimson and gold. The next day, Kaelor had them running, lap after lap around the inner wall, from the break of dawn until the shadows grew long. Some dropped to the ground from sheer exhaustion, unable to move by the end of the day, but remarkably, they returned on the third.

It was as though they were bound by something more than duty, a curse, perhaps, or an unseen flame that refused to let them quit.

A few began to question their place, wondering if there were easier paths than this grind. But Kaelor and Hound never relented. Day and night, they pressed the ideal of what it meant to be a Guardsman into the hearts of each one. Like the Human Emperor once said, and Kaelor often quoted, "The heart is the true weapon. The sword only answers to it."

If Kaelor could shape their minds, then he knew he could lay the first stone of a bastion defended by elite warriors, men forged not just by steel, but by purpose.

Two weeks passed. Sixty strong male slaves joined the ranks of the Guardsmen. From dawn to noon, they ran with thick logs strapped to their backs like cruel packs, the weight dragging against them like a silent taskmaster. After noon, they picked up their sabers and trained till dusk under the harsh sun and stern reprimands.

When night fell and the world dimmed, Kaelor practiced alone with his sword, the edge of the blade gleaming in the dark. The men would watch him in reverent silence, learning not just technique, but presence.

In the third week, with generous amounts of milk from Colossal Urus and Mountain Urus added to their diet, change came fast. Their bodies hardened. Muscles wove tighter across their frames. The Dreadclaws, already monstrous in their builds, grew tougher, more imposing.

Hound’s weapon mastery finally broke into the Expert rank, and the men roared when Kaelor announced it, more motivated than ever.

By the end of the third week, Kaelor introduced round wooden shields into the Guardsmen’s arsenal. A small team of twenty was tasked with carving them from the thick stumps of the fallen trees. The wood was brown, coarse, and heavy. Their size and weight gave the shields a grounded, earthen quality, natural yet smooth. Over three hundred were made, each durable enough to stop a beast’s charge.

The final week flowed like a tide.

Kaelor stood once again on the same practice field. But this time, he faced one hundred hardened Guardsmen, each of them transformed.

They held their Mountain Sabers, crafted by Vulcanus, in one hand. In the other, a round shield made of wood and sweat. Right-handed or left, they all stood in formation like soldiers carved from one will.

No one moved. No one spoke. Their breathing was calm, but their eyes glinted with the weight of responsibility. They were no longer peasants or commoners but soldiers, a title much different than the first two.

Their hearts beat with one purpose: To protect.