"Born, your enlistment is confirmed. Three days from now, at dawn, you will report to Loran City's central square, where you will be officially inducted into the Kingdom Legion. From that day forward, you will dedicate everything to protecting the Ascar Kingdom against the invasion of beasts. This is an honorable and sacred mission."
Upon the dining table lay the summons—thick parchment, the seal of the kingdom stamped deep into its surface.
Father Marsh, Mother Helen, younger brother Teddy, and younger sister Eileen gathered around it, their eyes reluctant to look away.
"Brother," Teddy whispered, eyes shining, "I suddenly feel like… joining the army is truly an honor."
"Honor?" Mother's hand came down sharply against the back of his head, her voice trembling.
"That's a path paid with your life! You're too young to understand!"
Teddy's lips curled in protest, but he shrank back, swallowing his words.
Marsh spoke next, his voice steady, grave, cutting through the silence:
"The decision's made. Since you've enlisted, then prepare yourself well. In the Legion, the most important thing isn't glory or merit—it's survival."
Helen's lips quivered, as though she wanted to speak again, but all that escaped her was a long, weary sigh.
The summons had been issued. There was no turning back. The laws of the kingdom were merciless—once you swore service, there was no withdrawal.
That night, Helen cooked a rare feast.
Even the pound of wasteland beast meat she had always saved for the direst times found its way to the table.
The fragrance filled the cramped room, making Eileen and Teddy swallow hungrily, eyes darting to the plates.
But Marsh did not sit to eat. He remained in the living room, gaze fixed on the summons, his face caught between pride and sorrow.
At length, he muttered only one thing:
"I'm heading out for a while."
Born, his mother, and his siblings exchanged glances, uncertain of where he was going.
…
The night wind whispered through the narrow streets as Marsh pushed open the door of a small corner shop.
The owner was an old friend of decades.
From his worn leather wallet, Marsh carefully counted a few silver coins, voice low:
"Give me your best bottle of liquor."
The shopkeeper blinked, then chuckled, plucking a dark glass bottle from the shelf.
"Well now, old Marsh. Striking it rich? You never treat yourself to this stuff."
A rare smile touched Marsh's lips as he took the bottle.
"Born's enlisting."
The shopkeeper froze for a moment, then burst into hearty laughter. From behind the counter, he pulled out a small sack of golden-roasted peanuts.
"Take it. A gift from me—for that boy of yours."
Marsh didn't refuse. With the bottle of liquor and the bag of peanuts in hand, he turned and disappeared into the night.
The shopkeeper watched his old friend's back fade into the darkness, murmuring softly,
"Enlisting, huh… Born, boy, you'd better survive out there."
…
"Dad, what's this…?"
Born's heart clenched as he saw the bottle his father placed on the table.
That one bottle was worth enough to feed the family for half a month.
Marsh waved off his son's concern and uncorked it without hesitation.
He poured two cups, setting one before himself and sliding the other toward Born.
Lifting his cup, Marsh spoke slowly.
"My whole life, I've been nothing special. Mediocre, powerless. When you were humiliated at the academy, I couldn't even protect you."
"You dropping out… this drink—let it be my apology, as your father."
And with that, he downed it in a single swallow.
"Dad, you don't have to—"
Born tried to speak, but Marsh cut him off with a wave of his hand.
He filled the second cup, his gaze dark, unreadable.
"Joining the army is your choice. I won't stop you. But remember this—when danger comes, if you can step back, then step back. Don't be reckless."
"Living… that's more important than anything."
His words were heavy, clumsy, but behind them was guilt that could not be hidden.
He hated his own weakness, hated that he couldn't shield his son from the storms of the world.
The liquor shimmered in the dim lamplight, its ripples reflecting the faces of father and son.
In that moment, what filled the room wasn't just the scent of alcohol—
but a weight, deep and suffocating, that words could never capture.
Born nodded, lifting his cup with solemnity.
"Dad, to me, you've always been a hero. You've never been mediocre. And you're certainly not an unworthy father."
"This drink—I toast to you."
At those words, Mother's eyes reddened. She quickly turned aside, wiping her tears away in secret.
"Enough," she choked, forcing her voice into steadiness. "Eat before the food grows cold."
"Eileen, Teddy, you too—eat. Eat more."
That night, their family meal was different.
The man who had always been silent, taciturn to the bone, suddenly became a chatterbox.
Over and over again, Marsh reminded Born—
Not to show off in the Legion.
To protect his life first.
To obey his officers' orders without question.
After dinner, the whole family helped pack Born's belongings.
Eileen, her face shadowed with sorrow, stole a glance at her parents silently tidying the room. Then she leaned close to Born's ear and whispered,
"Brother… I've never seen Dad cry before."
Born froze, then lifted his gaze. His father's back was rigid, trembling ever so slightly.
A sigh welled in his chest.
"Dad is too proud. This time… his suffering is no less than mine."
"Brother, you…" Eileen began, her lips trembling. She wanted to say Don't go.
But when the words came out, they changed:
"Brother, in the Legion… you must work hard. Make Dad proud."
"…Yeah. I know." Born forced a smile and nodded.
Beside them, Teddy sat in silence, not uttering a word.
But his eyes—dark, shimmering—spoke volumes of his reluctance to let go.
…
Time slipped away quietly.
Before long, dawn had come.
When Born opened his eyes, the room was empty.
After washing, he saw it again—the silver light screen that unfolded before his gaze.
[Talent: Blessing of the Moon Goddess (SSS · Unique)]
The cold words blazed in the air, reflecting the shard of frost gleaming in his eyes.
"Justice…" Born whispered.
A true warrior never leaves a grudge unpaid.
Miles—
He would never be forgiven.
Though he could not yet confront the vast power standing behind Miles, revenge could begin here—and it would begin tonight.
Born gathered every coin he had saved over the years and stepped into a hunter's workshop in the city.
What he received in exchange was a longbow engraved with silver runes, and three iron-forged arrows.
That was his entire fortune.
…
Night fell over Loran City. In its most dazzling district, the streets blazed with light.
Music and laughter clashed in a cacophony, drowning the alleys in revelry and excess.
Miles staggered through it all, an arm around each of the scantily clad women at his side. His face was flushed with drink, eyes hazy with arrogance.
"My heart's racing, darling—don't believe me? Feel it yourself…"
Their laughter rang shrill against the night as Miles guffawed, lost in drunken indulgence.
High above, on the rooftop of a tall building, Born stood motionless.
His eyes, cold as stars, locked on his prey.
He did not strike—not yet.
The moment had to be right.
He knew well that Miles's parents never allowed him to bring such women back to the family estate.
Which meant Miles would seek some shadowed corner to satisfy his urges.
An alley.
And sure enough, Miles, weaving drunkenly, pulled the two women into a dim side street where the lanterns burned few and far between.
Born's gaze sharpened.
"The chance is here."
He drew the longbow and nocked all three arrows at once.
His fingers trembled slightly as spirit energy surged into the arrow-feathers.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
Three arrows split the night, whistling down toward their target.
Born did not wait to see the result. He turned, leaving the rooftop without hesitation, his steps steady and unyielding.
Only the night wind carried away his whisper:
"This is just interest…"
"Miles, when I return, I'll reclaim justice with my own hands."
…
Three days passed in the blink of an eye.
In Loran, August mornings dawned bright even at six o'clock.
That day, the whole family rose early, unable to avoid the inevitable.
Breakfast had been laid out long before, though Born only swallowed a few hurried mouthfuls.
Then, with his pack on his back, he climbed into the carriage bound for Loran's central square—while his parents, Eileen, and Teddy stood watching, their eyes fixed on him until the very last moment.
Watching the silhouettes of his family fade into the distance, Born's nose stung. His vision blurred, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.
"Young man, you're heading to the army, aren't you?"
An elderly woman, her face a map of wrinkles, noticed the pack slung over his shoulder. She smiled warmly as she spoke.
Born nodded, replying softly.
Outside the carriage window, his family was already gone from sight.
"Good lad! To serve is an honor." The old woman gave him a firm thumbs-up, drawing the attention of the other passengers.
Born only smiled faintly. But in his heart, he shook his head.
If not for Miles's oppression, he might still be studying at the Holy Bow Academy, not walking this road of no return.
…
By the time Born reached Loran City's Central Square, it was already roaring with voices.
Crowds of youths had gathered—most of them about his age.
Some wore nervous looks, others excitement. But most carried the same uncertainty, the same restless anxiety.
Dragging his pack, Born pushed through the throng until he reached the square's center. His eyes lifted to the towering statue that dominated it.
A scarred warrior of stone, clutching a massive greatsword, his gaze unyielding—standing eternal watch over the kingdom he had built.
It was Neil, the first hero of the Ascar Kingdom.
Legend said that with nothing more than an S-rank talent, he had led the Awakened to repel the very first beast tide, laying the foundation for the kingdom itself.
"Born!"
The shout, rough and booming, cut through the din.
Born turned to see Judy, his broad, meaty face standing out even in the crowd.
He came striding over with his trademark grin.
"You're early."
Born returned the smile. The two were just about to exchange words when a thunderous roar shook the entire square:
"—Recruits, assemble!"
Silence fell instantly.
All heads turned.
A towering officer, nearly two meters tall, strode forward.
He wore the Legion's black war armor, the insignia of iron and blood gleaming on his shoulder. His eyes, sharp as blades, swept across the recruits with terrifying pressure.
Behind him marched a squad of soldiers. They weren't as massive as he was, but their postures were rigid, their gazes cold, their very presence radiating the killing aura of men who had walked through fire and blood.
"All family members, you have three minutes to depart!"
The officer raised a single hand, his voice crashing like thunder.
Immediately, the soldiers behind him moved to clear the square.
Crying, shouting, hurried farewells—together they wove the song of parting.
The sky had brightened faintly, the first morning bell tolling.
It was six forty.
Only twenty minutes remained until the official assembly.