The sudden silence that descended upon the road was more deafening than the chaos it replaced. The wild, desperate cries of the bandits had faded into the deep woods, leaving only the ragged, panting breaths of the surviving guards, the whimpers of the injured, and the soft sigh of the wind through the trees. The immediate, physical threat was gone, but a new, more complex tension had taken its place, centering entirely on the small, open window of the Croft carriage. Ray’s mind felt like a battlefield in the aftermath of a war. The high-octane personas of the Veteran and the Conman receded, leaving the core of Ray Croft trembling and nauseous from the adrenaline dump.

He quietly slid back from the window, his body feeling boneless, his forehead slick with a cold sweat. He had done it. He had faced a real, life-or-death battle and, through a combination of practiced skill and supernatural aid, he had won. But as he looked at Rina, who was staring at him with wide, terrified, unblinking eyes, he knew the cost of that victory was still being tallied. Outside, Sergeant Borin was the first to move. He ripped a strip of cloth from his tunic and tied a crude tourniquet around the gash on his forearm, his movements professional and economical. He then did a quick headcount.

“Jorun, status!”

He barked. The guard who had rolled under the carriage scrambled out, his face pale but his eyes blazing with adrenaline.

“Alive, sarge!”

“Took a cut on my calf, but I’ll live.”

He gestured with his bloody dagger.

“Their leader got careless, Torvin is down!”

Another guard shouted, kneeling beside the man who had taken an axe to the shoulder.

“He’s bleeding badly.”

The fourth guard was leaning against a carriage wheel, clutching his side where a club had clearly connected with his ribs. They were battered and bloodied, but they were all alive. It was a miracle. Borin knew it wasn’t a miracle. It was tactics, he walked slowly toward the carriage, his expression a mixture of profound gratitude and deep, unnerving confusion. He stopped at the window, his gaze meeting Ray’s. He didn’t address him as "young master" or "my lord." He addressed him as an equal.

“How?”

Borin asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. It was the same question his father had asked all those years ago, but this time it was not an accusation. It was a soldier’s request for a battlefield report. Ray knew this was his next performance, and it was just as critical as the battle itself. He couldn't show weakness or fear. But he also couldn't claim the knowledge as his own. He let the Scheming Courtier’s influence bleed into his Ambient Presence, guiding his words.

“Master Theron,”

Ray began, his voice quiet but steady.

“He taught me the basics of the shield line, he said a carriage is a fortress on wheels if you use it correctly.”

“A natural choke point.”

Borin nodded slowly. That made a degree of sense. The old Master-at-Arms was a legendary hard-ass. It was plausible he would drill a lordling on such things.

“And the call-outs?”

“The focus on their leader?”

“Master Gideon has been teaching me history,”

Ray continued, weaving his second thread of truth into the lie.

“We have been studying the great battles of the Unification Wars.”

“He says that most undisciplined forces, like bandits or peasant levies, have no real command structure.”

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“They are a mob led by the strongest bully, if the bully falls or shows fear, the mob dissolves.”

He looked at Borin, his expression one of a student proud to have gotten the answer right.

“The man with the horned helmet… he was the only one giving orders.”

“I assumed, if he was… discouraged… the others would lose their nerve.”

The explanation was extraordinary. It painted a picture of an eleven-year-old boy with a genius-level intellect, one who could absorb theoretical knowledge from history lessons and apply it with flawless precision in the midst of a terrifying, real-world battle. It was unbelievable, but it was far more believable than the truth: that a weary, cynical ghost of a fifty-year-old soldier had been whispering in his ear. Borin stared at him for a long moment, his mind struggling to reconcile the small boy before him with the commanding presence whose orders had just saved all their lives. He finally seemed to come to a conclusion. He straightened his back and gave Ray a short, sharp, formal bow, the bow of a soldier to his commanding officer.

“Your assessment was correct, my lord,”

Borin said, his voice now filled with a new, unwavering respect.

“You have our thanks.”

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[EVENT: POST-ACTION DEBRIEFING]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: ADEPT]

[Host successfully crafted a plausible, albeit extraordinary, explanation for his advanced tactical knowledge, satisfying a suspicious subordinate and cementing his new authority. Standard Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: Deception +5%. Performance +5%.]

The immediate challenge was over, but a new one presented itself. Torvin, the guard with the shoulder wound, let out a pained groan. The bleeding was not stopping.

“We need to bind that wound properly or he’ll bleed out before we reach the next town,”

Borin said grimly. Before anyone could suggest their crude methods, Ray spoke again, his voice now imbued with a different kind of authority. He activated the World-Weary Healer.

“Rina,”

He said calmly.

“Bring me the water skin, the clean linen from our packs, and the small bottle of wine.”

Rina, who had been watching him with a frightened, almost worshipful silence, snapped into action immediately. She retrieved the items from the carriage.

“The wound must be cleaned,”

Ray instructed, his voice taking on the Healer’s clinical, calming tone.

“The wine will serve as an antiseptic, pour it directly into the gash.”

The guards looked at him, then at their grizzled sergeant. Borin hesitated for only a second before nodding.

“Do as he says.”

Ray then proceeded to direct them through a textbook battlefield medical procedure. He had Rina tear the linen into precise strips. He had Jorun apply direct, firm pressure above the wound to slow the bleeding. He explained how to pack the wound tightly and bind it to prevent further blood loss, his instructions clear, concise, and utterly alien coming from the mouth of a child. He was no longer just their commander; he was their medic.

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[SKILL ATTEMPT: FIRST AID (WORLD-WEARY HEALER)]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: INSPIRED]

[In a post-combat scenario, host successfully directed untrained individuals to perform a life-saving medical procedure using limited resources, demonstrating clear communication and expert practical knowledge. Largest Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: First Aid +15%. Calming Presence +10%.]

By the time they were done, Torvin was pale and weak, but the bleeding had stopped. The guards looked at Ray with open awe. The boy wasn’t just a prodigy; he was something else entirely.

They made camp a mile down the road, pulling the carriage into a defensible clearing well away from the main path. The atmosphere around the campfire was subdued. The easy camaraderie from the earlier days of the journey was gone, replaced by a respectful, fearful distance. The guards spoke to Ray only to ask for orders or to give reports, their deference absolute. Later that night, as Ray sat staring into the flames, Rina approached him. She sat beside him, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders.

“They look at you differently now,”

She said quietly.

“They fear you.”

“Respect and fear are often the same thing for men like them,”

Ray replied, the Veteran’s weary cynicism coloring his words.

“It is not just them,”

She said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“When you were… directing them… you were not the young master I have always known.”

“Your voice, your eyes… they were a stranger’s.”

She finally turned to him, her own eyes full of a deep, painful conflict.

“I was not afraid of you, Ray. I was afraid for you.”

“It is a heavy thing, the power you carry, I worry it will crush the kind boy I know is underneath.”

Her words were a spear of guilt that pierced straight through his carefully constructed masks. She saw him. Not the prodigy, not the commander, not the Herald. She saw the cost of the performance. She saw the boy underneath being buried by the weight of his own roles. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to unburden himself, to let his old self Alex Chen finally speak. But he couldn't. The secret was too dangerous.

“I will be careful, Rina,”

He said softly, the promise feeling hollow even to him.

“I promise.”

She simply nodded, unconvinced, and pulled her cloak tighter. The fire crackled, casting long shadows that danced around them like the ghosts of the men he pretended to be. He had saved them all, but in doing so, he had created a new, unbridgeable chasm between himself and his only friend. The weight of command, he was learning, was a profoundly lonely burden.