The world ended in a silent, annihilating wave of color.
Then, it began again with the cheerful, obnoxious chatter of a thousand hopeful voices.
Rohan's eyes shot open. The sensory assault was immediate and brutal. The air, thick with the sweet scent of blossoming flowers and manicured gardens and lawns, was a violation to a man whose last breath had been of regret. The brilliant, golden sunlight of a peaceful morning felt like a physical blow after a decade spent under the bruised, crimson twilight of Tartarus.
He was standing, swaying on his feet, at the edge of a vast, meticulously kept plaza that teemed with life. Before him, the Royal Academy was a breathtaking spectacle of idyllic grandeur. Red-roofed buildings with elegant white facades, ornate arches, and towering spires stretched across manicured gardens, all under a sky of brilliant blue. Cherry blossom petals drifted on a gentle breeze from distant Sakura trees, painting the air with fleeting strokes of pink and white. It was a perfect, beautiful lie.
"No," the word was a choked, guttural sound, lost in the crowd. "This... this isn't real... I'm dead?"
He stumbled backward, bumping into a tall, broad-shouldered boy in a crisp, red uniform. "Hey, watch it," the boy sneered, shoving him away.
The shove was real. The ground he stumbled on was real. The pain that shot up his ankle was real.
The panic, cold and absolute, seized him. His breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, wild rhythm. This wasn't the calm, analytical mind of a commander; it was the raw terror of a man whose reality had been fundamentally violated. He looked down at himself, the pale, unscarred hands of a boy, the thin, coarse fabric of a simple tunic. He was a ghost, a traumatized veteran haunting a body that was once his own.
He was surrounded by the future dead. Hundreds of them. Their faces, so full of naive hope, were a gallery of ghosts he had watched die. His gaze swept the crowd until it landed on a flash of a silver falcon crest on an expensive uniform, House Emrys. The sight was an anchor, a horrifying, irrefutable proof of reality. The traitors.
It was real. All of it.
A clear, resonant bell chimed from one of the grand spires. "All applicants, the entrance assessment will now begin! State your name and desired Path of Study at the registration halls!" an amplified voice commanded.
The tide of students began to move, sweeping Rohan along. His mind was a maelstrom of chaos and despair. The Mana Pact. The cosmic curse that had shackled him to a useless body. In his first life, he had never found a cure. He had died powerless. What was he supposed to do? How could he change anything if the fundamental flaw of his existence was still chained to his soul?
The line moved forward, and he was a piece of driftwood in a river, being carried toward the same waterfall that had already destroyed him once. He was pushed and jostled, his mind a blank slate of pure, unadulterated terror. The faces in the crowd blurred, replaced by the ghosts of his fallen soldiers, their dead eyes full of accusation. Kaelen's final, confused glance flashed in his mind.
He was at the front of the line before he knew it, standing before the registrar's desk, a bored, imposing figure waiting. The choice. Knight, Mage, or Command.
"Next! Name and Path!" the registrar's voice snapped.
Rohan looked at him, his eyes wide and unfocused. He had no plan. No grand strategy. No secret knowledge of a cure. He was just a terrified, powerless boy on the precipice of a life he had already failed.
In that moment of absolute panic, a soldier's instinct, buried deeper than a commander's intellect, took over. When faced with an unwinnable situation with no information, you fall back on your training. You default to what you know.
"Rohan von Abendroth," he said in a distant, hollow voice. "Path of Command."
The words left his mouth, and the weight of his failure crashed down on him. He had been given a second chance, a miracle that defied the gods, and his very first move was a retreat. His first decision was an act of cowardice.
The registrar nodded, unimpressed, and gestured him through. As Rohan walked into the grand, sunlit halls of the academy, a ghost returning to his own haunted house, a single, bitter thought echoed in the silent, screaming chambers of his mind.
He had already failed.
The registrar looked up from his crystalline slate, his expression a mask of bureaucratic indifference. "Rohan von Abendroth. Commoner. Path of Command." He tapped the slate a final time. "Your registration is processed. Look into the orb."
A small, black sphere floated up from the desk, a red light blinking in its center. Rohan stared into it, his face impassive. There was a soft click and a flash of light. A thin, metallic card materialized from a slot in the desk. It showed his unsmiling face, his name, and his chosen path. A Mana ID. His dog tag for this new, old life.
"Your department is in the Western Annex, Sub-level 2," the registrar said, already looking past him to the next applicant. "Follow the grey-line corridor. Orientation begins in one hour. Don't be late."
Leaving the grand, sunlit entrance hall, Rohan followed the indicated sign. The shift in atmosphere was immediate and stark. The gleaming white marble and golden filigree of the main campus gave way to polished but plain grey stone. The vaulted, cathedral-like ceilings lowered into functional, arched hallways. The vibrant, magical light was replaced by the steady, sterile glow of enchanted crystals set into the walls. The air grew cooler, smelling of old parchment and floor polish instead of blossoms.
This was the path to the academy's forgotten wing. The path for the spare parts of the war machine.
He descended a long, spiraling staircase, the cheerful sounds of the main campus fading above him, replaced by a deep, almost library like silence. He finally arrived at a set of heavy, unadorned oak doors marked with a simple placard: Department of Command & Strategy.
He pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The room was not a grand hall, but a steeply raked lecture theater, like a surgeon's gallery. Rows of simple, dark wood desks curved around a central podium at the bottom. The only light came from enchanted projection crystals on the ceiling, currently casting a dim, ambient glow. The air was still and heavy with the weight of low expectations.
And in this room were the other failures.
They were a motley collection, a stark contrast to the proud, vibrant students in the main plaza. Some, like him, were commoners, their simple tunics and wide, hopeful eyes marking them as those who had nothing but a sharp mind to offer. Others were clearly nobles, identifiable by the fine cut of their uniforms, but their shoulders were slumped in dejection. These were the third rates with pathetic mana reserves or none at all. They were the disappointments, sent here to learn a "useful" trade instead of bringing shame to their families on the training grounds or living a "meaningless" life. One boy was staring intently at his own hand, trying and failing to summon even a flicker of energy, his expression one of pure, gut-wrenching frustration.
Rohan felt a bitter, familiar pang. This was his world. This was the collection of misfits and rejects he had once led to ruin.
He slid into an empty seat in the back row, the worn wood cool beneath his touch. He looked around at the tools of his old trade. Tactical maps of the kingdom were framed on the walls. Bookshelves overflowed with thick, leather bound tomes: A Tactical Analysis of Orcish Horde Formations, The Principles of Battlefield Logistics, A Comparative Biology of Tartarus Minotaurs and their Wyvern Cousins, The Complete Military History of the 300-Year War.
This was the knowledge that had made him a commander. Reading these books, memorizing these maps, was the only way he had survived. But now, it all felt like a cage. He was being handed the same tools, forced to walk the same path, a path he knew with absolute certainty ended in failure.
The room slowly filled, the murmurs of the students a dull, hopeless buzz. Rohan leaned back in his chair, a ghost in a room full of people he would one day watch die. He had made his choice out of panic, a retreat to the familiar. And now, sitting in the heart of that familiarity, he had never felt more trapped. The orientation hadn't even begun, and he was already suffocating.
The low murmur of the students was abruptly cut short as the heavy oak doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open. A man strode in, his presence immediately commanding the absolute, terrified silence of the room.
Rohan's heart stopped. It was his Professor and General, Edgar Aerden.
He was a mountain of a man, built like the fortress walls he had likely spent his life defending. A mane of dark, shoulder-length hair, streaked with grey, framed a face that was a testament to a long and brutal career. A thick, jagged scar, old and faded, ran diagonally across his face, from his right temple, over the bridge of his nose, and down to his left cheek. His eyes, a piercing, crimson-red that seemed almost unnatural, held no warmth, only the cold, hard glint of a man who had seen too much and survived regardless. He wore the dark, practical uniform of an academy professor that also had a dark, heavy fur cape draped over his shoulders.
Rohan's breath caught in his throat, a sharp, painful gasp. The panic he had been wrestling with was instantly magnified, transformed into a raw grief. This wasn't just a ghost from his past life; this was one of the foundational figures of his military career, standing before him, amazingly so. He felt his carefully constructed composure begin to crack, the floor threatening to fall out from under him.
The professor stepped behind the podium, his heavy, leather-gloved hands resting on its edge. "Welcome," he began, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that echoed in the silent hall, a voice Rohan remembered giving him his final order. "Welcome to the Department of Command & Strategy. The gutter. The last resort for the academy's disappointments."
"Look around you," Professor Aerden continued, his voice laced with a cold, cutting irony. "You are the spares."
Each word, once a harsh lesson, now felt like a personal accusation. The room felt like it was shrinking. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Calm down. Calm down. He is alive. He is here. This is a chance. A chance to save him, too.
He opened his eyes just as Professor Aerdens' expression subtly shifted.
"But do not mistake your lack of 'talent' for a lack of worth," the Professor continued, his voice ringing with a stern, unyielding conviction. "A powerful Knight can break a single line. A brilliant Mage can devastate a single platoon. But a true Commander… a true Commander can move armies. A true Commander can win wars. Even the hopeless ones."
His crimson gaze swept over the students again, lingering on Rohan for a fraction of a second.
The dim lecture hall dissolved, and for a heart-stopping moment, he was back on that frozen warzone...
The wind was a razor, slicing across the snow field and whipping snow into a blinding blizzard. The air was so cold it felt like breathing shards of glass.
They were pinned down, their retreat cut off. The Frost Golems, massive constructs of enchanted ice and black rock, formed an unbreakable wall at the canyon's exit, their crystalline fists shattering the desperate charges of his best Knights. From the cliffs above, Frost Elves picked them apart with chilling precision.
They were elegant, terrifyingly silent figures of living ice, their eyes glowing with a cold, blue light. They moved like ghosts through the blizzard, their arrows, no, spears of solid, magically-sharpened ice, raining down on his men. Each spear whistled as it fell, a sound that had become the new rhythm of Rohan's nightmares, and each impact was a dull, sickening thud as it punched through armor and flesh.
"Shield formation! Mages, melt the ridge! Give me cover!" Rohan's orders were ragged, torn from his throat by the wind. He was on horseback, trying to maintain a commanding view of a battle that had devolved into pure, chaotic survival.
But the Mages were already freezing, their fingers too numb to form complex gestures, their Mana being leeched by the unnatural cold. A volley of fireballs, usually a devastating weapon, hissed into the blizzard and dissipated into pathetic clouds of steam.
It was a perfect ambush. A living nightmare.
"General Aerden!" Rohan had screamed into his communication artifact, his voice strained with the desperation of a man watching his command get slaughtered. "Our flank is collapsing! We're surrounded! There's no way out!"
General Aerden, who had been commanding the main force three klicks back, had arrived with a small contingent of his personal guard not ten minutes prior. Now, he stood beside Rohan's horse, a mountain of a man who seemed immune to the cold, his crimson eyes scanning the blizzard.
His voice crackled back, steady and utterly calm. "There is always a way out, Major. The question is never 'if,' but 'what is the cost?'"
Before Rohan could process the grim words, Aerden made his move. He strode forward, away from the meager cover of their position, and onto a high, exposed ledge of rock. He drew his longsword, a legendary blade that hummed with latent power, and slammed it into the frozen ground. A shockwave of dense, crimson red Qi erupted from the impact, momentarily clearing the snow in a fifty-foot radius around him. He was a beacon of absolute power in the blizzard.
"HERE!" Aerden's roar was a physical force, a sound of pure, unyielding will that cut through the howling wind. "YOU WANT A TRUE WARRIOR, YOU FROZEN BASTARDS? COME AND TASTE THE STRENGTH OF A MAN!" His qi engulfed the field even more in a red pulsing aura that made the very canyon grounds shake
On the cliffs, every single Frost Elf stopped. Their glowing blue eyes, previously flitting between dozens of targets, all swiveled to fixate on the lone, defiant figure. They recognized true power. They recognized a greater threat.
"Sir, no! What are you doing?!" Rohan screamed, his strategic mind instantly understanding his mentor's horrifyingly simple plan. He was making himself the single, most valuable target on the field.
"A commander is the ultimate resource, Rohan," Aerden's voice came over the comms, now quiet, personal, and laced with a profound sense of finality. "And the most valuable resource is the one you sacrifice to ensure the survival of your forces. The books can't teach you that part. You have to learn it here, in the dirt and the blood. I taught you everything else, didn't I, boy? Now, learn this final lesson."
The Frost Elves raised their crystalline bows as one. The air grew impossibly cold as a hundred ice spears materialized, their tips glowing with a deadly blue light.
"GET THEM HOME, ROHAN!" Aerden roared, his voice a final, thundering order. He raised his longsword, not to defend, but in a final salute. "THAT'S AN ORDER!"
Then, the world turned a whitish blue. The volley of ice spears descended, a torrent of whistling, frozen death. Rohan watched, helpless, as his mentor was consumed. The first spear shattered his Qi barrier. The next dozen pierced his armor, lifting him from his feet. He was pinned to the rock wall behind him, a gruesome, crystalline burst of icicle lances, his crimson eyes staring hollow into the blizzard. His sacrifice had created the opening, the momentary lapse in the enemy's assault that allowed the remnants of the Battalion to break free and retreat to the main force…
Rohan snapped back to the present, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. He was in the lecture hall, not the frozen pass. The man at the podium was not a ghost. He was real and alive; he had just finished his speech.
"If you truly choose this path," he concluded, his voice low and intense, "if you embrace the burden of command… then I will teach you how to become the architects of victory. Even when all hope is lost."