CHAPTER 75: STRENGTHENING THE COMMANDERS

Kaelor stood in the outer section of the town, where the rising sun spilled golden rays across the earth, casting long shadows behind the ranks of warriors before him. A hundred Guardsmen stood with unwavering discipline, their majestic yet formidable forms proudly arrayed in an elite row of five.

Their wooden shields gleamed in the light, held with practiced ease, while their Mountain Sabers, curved, brutal weapons designed to cleave through flesh and steel alike, rested ready at their sides.

Their posture spoke of tireless drilling and sharp discipline, shoulders square, chins raised, the air around them practically humming with readiness. Dust rose faintly from beneath their wide pawed feet, and in the silence between heartbeats, Kaelor could hear the creak of armor and the faint clink of scabbards.

Just five meters from them stood thirty Bloodstone Archers, a contrast in form yet equal in presence. These men were lean and wiry, forged by speed and precision rather than brute force. They carried longbows crafted from strong wood, weapons that required strength to draw and skill to master.

Before these elite units stood two men, Hound and Soren, each holding a leather-bound booklet. The Saber and Bow booklets, written by veterans who had survived dozens of battles, each page a distillation of killing wisdom. With the impending expedition into Ivory Hill, Kaelor knew they needed more than strength, they needed mastery.

’System, fuse everything there with them.’

[70 FP deducted!]

[1400 FP remaining]

Instantly, the transformation began.

As though the very air thickened with power, blue flames erupted from the booklets. The letters on the ancient pages glowed, then lifted from the paper like spirits freed, coiling through the air before diving into the men’s foreheads, specifically, the glabella.

As the energy entered them, both men leaned backward unnaturally, their bodies rising into the air, feet leaving the ground as though gripped by some divine force.

Blue fire surged wildly around them, licking at the earth beneath and making nearby soldiers instinctively take a step back, eyes wide. The flames didn’t burn but radiated a pressure that made the weaker onlookers marvel.

Then, slowly, the flames began to die down. When the last tongue of fire vanished into the wind, both men descended gently, like feathers guided by an unseen hand.

The moment their feet touched the earth, Hound was the first to stir.

His eyes snapped open, and they shimmered with a strange luminescence, wild and intelligent all at once. A grin slowly stretched across his lips, exposing his sharp canines. He stared at his palms, flexing his fingers slowly, deliberately.

The knowledge was there. Deep, thorough, and instinctual. It hadn’t just entered his mind, it had become part of his blood, his bones, his breath. It was like dozens of battles had played in his soul all at once, every parry, feint, and riposte encoded into his muscle memory.

He looked down at the thick sabers strapped to his waist, and his hand twitched. He craved the test of steel against steel.

On the other hand, Soren’s reaction was more subdued but no less telling. He opened his eyes with serene composure, the calm of a man who had seen beyond the bowstring, beyond the arc of arrows, into the very theory of battle. He slowly turned and bowed low.

"Thank you, My Lord," Soren said, voice steady, the weight of his new strength hidden beneath poise.

Seeing his peer’s composure, Hound quickly schooled his expression and bowed as well, though his grin still lingered at the corners of his mouth.

Kaelor, his hands resting on Keranous pommel, examined them both with Mana Vision. Their auras were no longer faint flows of energy. Now, they were torrents, pulsing, controlled, yet undeniably powerful. Their will had evolved, becoming dense, focused... refined. Kaelor could feel it as well as see it.

His eyes lingered on Soren, the Bloodstone Commander, and his smile grew faint but genuine.

He had his first Bow Expert.

"Move out."

Kaelor mounted Titan, his colossal, three-headed beast, whose presence alone dwarfed everything and everyone around it. As the great mount rose to full height, its clawed feet thudded into the ground, and all three horned heads turned in synchronized attention to the gate ahead.

Astride his fearsome companion, Kaelor led the way. Behind him marched a hundred and thirty men. They followed in silence, pawed feet and boots thudding in rhythm, forming a tide of determined men.

Soren, his second, rode a sturdy draft horse just behind Kaelor. Hound, however, walked, massive as an ox, his muscles bound in cords beneath his loose jerkin. There had been no other option. The last horse Hound attempted to mount was still recovering in the stables, its spine nearly snapped under the brute’s absurd weight.

Osric, seated among a cluster of chained slaves, squinted under the glare of the morning sun. The sight before him, the silent march of these warriors, their eyes set forward, their formation unbroken, gripped the old man with awe.

Even after all his years in the harsh world, he felt something stir deep in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t known since he was young: wonder.

The discipline of the Guardsmen shimmered like legend made flesh. The slaves had watched them train since dawn, blades flashing, arrows thudding, bodies moving in perfect, practiced motion.

Beyond their monstrous strength, it was their unity that struck the heart. Many of them were once slaves themselves.

Yet now, they walked as brothers in arms, not broken men in chains.

Osric tilted his head and lifted his gaze to Kaelor, who by then had vanished through the open gate. The old man let out a long breath and pushed himself upright, knees popping with age. "I’m done sitting in one place," he muttered, wiping his palms on his ragged tunic.

He turned his eyes to the men building the new barracks and began moving toward them, the weight of chains clinking with every step. Though the guards were gone, none of the slaves dared move beyond permitted zones. The walls still bore sentinels, not men, but strange tree-formed creatures with bows of living wood. Silent and still, yet every slave knew they could end a life with a single blink.

Even worse, the whispers of Redwood told of a powerful Acranist, said to reside among their ranks. A master who could tear a man’s will apart with a whisper.

Still, for now, they were well fed. No beatings. No screaming overseers. Just work. Order. Peace. Only a fool would try to disrupt that.

And yet... Osric paused, glancing back at the vanishing column of soldiers.

’What could make him gather all his men?’ he wondered, squinting with worry.