Ashen's training program was simple in concept, but he doubted there was another who could execute it aside from him.
It was true that he didn't have formal military training experience. What he had, however, was Somatic Autonomy and a library of combat techniques stolen from countless practitioners through his Grafted fighting style.
Every morning before deployment, during drills, he'd scan each soldier with SA to read their body composition, identifying physical deficiencies and spotting their untapped potential.
Those with naturally dense fast-twitch muscle fibers but poor cardiovascular endurance were assigned agility training and burst techniques, with orders to avoid prolonged engagements. Those with exceptional stamina but limited strength focused on endurance tactics, learning to remain functional as long as possible.
Each soldier received personalized guidance.
And the techniques, drawn from every weapon form Ashen had grafted during his time developing his combat style, were distributed like puzzle pieces. The soldier with patient temperament and steady hands learned spear thrust techniques emphasizing precision over speed. The aggressive brawler learned shield-bash combinations optimized for close-quarters chaos.
The nimble soldiers, the observant ones, the slow ones, the tall, the short… every soldier got something that suited them.
Ashen became conductor and architect simultaneously, orchestrating individual growth while building a cohesive fighting force.
The results were exceptional, despite the brevity of time.
The sight of criminals moving like proper warriors… formations tight, strikes accurate, survival rates climbing…. was genuinely awe-inspiring.
And with survival came gratitude. That gratitude begot loyalty.
Many of the more talented soldiers under his command had gathered enough merit for transfers to "better" units, possibly even pardons, but almost none requested it.
The benefits of staying under Captain Hart couldn't be found elsewhere—not the training, not the low casualties, not the personal attention.
And beneath it all, something deeper urged them to stay: camaraderie forged in constant combat under the threat of death.
Ashen noticed all of this, of course. With his dream parasites, he always noticed.
And in his encrypted notebooks, he recorded it all.
Ongoing stories were still stories, in the end.
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Wrath Domain, Beyond the Wall, March 22, 2026
The Last Reserve Army was dying.
Not through a single catastrophic defeat, but through attrition. A company here lost fifty soldiers. Another got ambushed, lost two hundred. A third engaged a tribe stronger than anticipated and got mauled.
It was a death by a thousand cuts.
The initial million had dwindled to roughly 850,000. Then 800,000. By day twenty, they were approaching 750,000.
Senior Advisor Konrad watched the numbers with coldness. To him, these were acceptable losses. The mission was to buy time, not to survive. If three hundred thousand prisoners had to die to delay the Narkals for a month, that was a bargain humanity could afford.
The Bloodwall Army could barely hold the line with all their training and discipline. A rabble of criminals lasting three weeks was already a minor miracle.
But not all units were dying equally.
Ashen Hart's expanding command—now approaching two thousand soldiers across multiple companies—maintained impossibly low casualty rates. His sector showed the highest Narkal kill counts and the fewest friendly losses.
It was becoming increasingly noticeable.
Other soldiers started using merit to request transfers to his battalion. Rumors spread about the "Guardian Captain" who never let his people die, who trained them into warriors, who fought like a god made flesh.
Konrad filed the reports and felt nothing about this development.
Heroes were useful. Let the prisoners have one. It kept morale up…
As long as Hart kept killing Narkals, he could be as legendary as he liked.
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Wrath Domain, Beyond the Wall, March 27, 2026
The horns sounded at dawn.
Three long blasts… a sound they'd rarely heard this past month. The sound of retreat. And when drawn out that long, there was only one meaning: withdrawal to Ashbastion.
Their mission was finally over.
They'd bought time with their blood. But the war was far from finished, and no one was naïve enough to believe the bleeding would stop just because they were turning back.
It took a full day for the scattered army to regroup and begin the march home.
The following day, with the citadel already visible on the horizon, Ashen looked up and watched distant figures cresting the wasteland ahead.
Thousands of them. Proper soldiers this time, domain banners flying, formations crisp, equipment gleaming. They stood not far from Ashbastion in disciplined ranks, waiting.
"Wait... thousands?" Ashen muttered under his breath.
An ominous sensation washed over him.
Three weeks of continental mobilization should have produced hundreds of thousands. Millions, even, given the stakes.
But he saw thousands.
Maybe ten thousand at most.
The ominousness was confirmed the moment he actually entered the citadel.
Gloomy faces were all he saw. Helplessness was all he felt radiating from the soldiers manning the walls. Despair clung to every part of the bastion.
Something had gone catastrophically wrong.
"Stand down," he called to his battalion, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Rest while you can. We're getting relief."
Cheers erupted from his exhausted, blood-stained soldiers… as if criminals allowing themselves to hope they might actually survive this nightmare would achieve something.
Unlike his subordinates, who cared for little beyond their own survival, Ashen couldn't find it in himself to cheer. The oppressive atmosphere made celebration feel obscene.
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Ashbastion, March 28, 2026
The next few days were designated rest for the Reserve Army.
Ashen's first instinct was to find Alice, but a nagging feeling kept bothering him, pestering him… demanding he understand what had happened to those missing hundreds of thousands before he did anything else.
And before he knew it, his feet had carried him to the largest pub in the bastion.
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The pub was called The Bleeding Coin, and it lived up to its name.
Soldiers packed the space wall-to-wall, their voices a constant rumble punctuated by the clink of glasses and the occasional crack of breaking furniture when tempers flared. Smoke hung thick in the air… pipe tobacco mixed with the acrid smell of cheap alcohol and unwashed bodies.
Ashen claimed a corner table, positioning himself with his back to the wall and clear sightlines to both exits.
A waitress in a stained apron brought him coffee without being asked—soldiers who looked too sober made bartenders nervous—and he nursed the bitter brew while his mind worked.
{Somatic Autonomy}
He just added a subtle enhancement to his auditory system, just enough to pick conversations out of the general noise without making it obvious he was eavesdropping.
The usual talk floated past. Complaints about rations. Bragging about kills. Arguments over cards and dice. A prostitute negotiating prices with slurred enthusiasm.
Then—
"—heard the Fourth Battalion got reassigned to the eastern approach."
"Pointless. Might as well send them straight to the graveyard."
"Don't say that so loud. Morale's bad enough."
Ashen's attention honed in on that table.
"It's not like keeping quiet changes anything. We all saw how many came as 'reinforcements'."
"...Shut up. Just shut up."
The conversation died there, strangled by the importance of whatever they weren't saying.
It kept happening.
Every time discussion drifted toward reinforcements, voices dropped. Shoulders hunched. Eyes darted toward officers, or Bloodwall soldiers, as if expecting punishment for even thinking too loudly about it.
Ashen sipped his coffee, processing. Something had gone very, very wrong.
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice was familiar… bright despite the surroundings, carrying a nervous tone that contrasted sharply with the pub's oppressive atmosphere.
Ashen looked up.
A woman stood beside his table, one hand fidgeting with the hem of her dress, the other clutching a worn leather satchel. Her makeup was carefully applied, but couldn't quite hide the dark circles under her eyes. The dress was clean but cheap, probably working clothes.
Recognition took a moment. She looked different without fear painted across her features.
"Miss Bonnie?" Ashen set down his cup. "Long time no see."