The heroes, still covered in sweat and dust, struggled to get back on their feet after Arald's brutal assault. In the stands, several knights in armor more shiny than useful leaned toward each other, amused.
Knight ??: "Did you see that? They crawl like wounded old beasts!"
Knight ??: "Heroes? Please. I've seen squires swing a sword with more grace than them."
Knight ??: "Hahaha! Hey, look at that one—he's shaking like a leaf!"
Knight ??: "Shhh! Not so loud, the general will hear us…"
Knight ??: "Bah, Arald? You know he doesn't care when it comes to beating them down. And yeah, he's scary, but not as much as they say."
The laughter grew, first muffled, then louder, mixed with mocking claps from gloved hands.
Their voices echoed through the arena like a chorus of vultures, eager to see the heroes crushed again.
Knight ??? (loudly, pointing at the heroes): "Hahaha! At this rate, they won't die to enemy waves—they'll die in training!"
A roar of laughter broke out.
But suddenly…
Arald, irritated by the shameless laughter of knights barely stronger than the heroes, lost his temper.
His sinister aura exploded through the arena—so dark and oppressive it spread into every corner of the kingdom.
In a distant alley, a random villager froze and shivered.
Villager: "Mmm… Knight Arald is furious again… They're in for it now."
Back in the arena, the mocking knights fell silent instantly.
It felt like death itself was breathing on their necks.
No one dared to move. No one dared to breathe.
Sweat rolled down their foreheads as their eyes locked on Arald… whose body seemed to dissolve into shadow, leaving only two blood-red eyes piercing the darkness.
Arald: "Well? Why aren't you laughing anymore?? I want to laugh too… go on, keep it up."
One knight stepped back in fear.
Knight ??: "W-we're sorry, General…"
Arald: "Sorry?? You're sorry? I'll teach you what that means…"
Arald stepped forward slowly, his gaze fixed on the trembling knight.
Arald: "Give me your name. Now, brat."
Knight ??: "I… I am Rodrick, my general."
Rodrick felt it deep in his gut… Today was the day he was going to die.
Arald: "You seemed to enjoy yourself… Show us what you can do."
Rodrick: "I… I am only a trainee, my general…"
Arald: "I… gave… you… an ORDER!!!"
The shout struck like thunder, freezing every spectator in place.
Rodrick obeyed instantly, stumbling down the steps toward the arena, his legs shaking.
Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he gritted his teeth.
Rodrick (thoughts): "Shit… shit, shit… Why me?! Why does it have to be me?!"
Rodrick (thoughts): "I don't want to die… Please, someone, help me… I don't want to die…"
Standing before Arald's furious shadow, he raised his weapon with trembling hands.
Arald: "On guard"
With a burst of speed faster than lightning, Arald vanished and reappeared right in front of Rodrick, his wooden blade raised high.
Rodrick knew—this strike would kill him.
He used the last of his strength to scream with all his soul:
Rodrick: "HELP MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
Arald's sword cut the air, dropping straight toward his neck… but at the last instant, another blade appeared, blocking the strike with a sharp metallic clash.
Arald's red eyes shifted to the figure who had stopped his attack.
A tall, slender man stood before him, ears long and pointed. His golden hair gleamed under the light, with fine earrings trailing from the tips of his ears to his lobes. He wore a noble's attire of deep midnight blue, embroidered with elegant golden patterns.
The aura he radiated was strange… as heavy as Arald's, yet carrying a calmness that soothed the pounding hearts of everyone present.
In the stands, whispers of disbelief spread.
The once-mocking knights were frozen, mouths hanging open.
Even those who didn't know him could feel he was no ordinary man.
Knight ???: "That's… impossible," whispered a veteran, eyes wide.
Knight ???: "He… he stopped Arald…" added another, voice trembling.
Knight ???: "But… who is he…?"
Rodrick, frozen in place, dared not move. The man turned slightly toward him, and with only a glance, Rodrick's fear melted away, his body relaxing against his will.
Arald, however, was not soothed.
His crimson eyes glared at the stranger with both surprise and caution.
A crushing silence fell over the arena… so heavy, one could hear a feather drop.
Then the man spoke, his voice deep but calm:
???: "That's enough, Arald."
The words carried an authority impossible to resist.
Arald: "What are you doing here… Ifryt?"
Ifryt: "I just returned from mission. But before we talk, first calm your killing intent… the whole kingdom can feel it."
Those words alone were enough. Arald's aura faded almost instantly. He sheathed his sword.
Ifryt: "The king has summoned us. Hurry."
Arald: "Summoned? For what?"
Ifryt: "Military strategy… for the next wave."
Arald: "What? Already? The next wave won't be for another three months!"
Ifryt: "I don't make the decisions. Now move, the others are waiting."
Arald: "The others?… They're all here??"
Ifryt turned and walked toward the castle courtyard, sword at his side.
Ifryt: "Yes… all of them. Including… you know who."
A huge grin split Arald's face, as if his fury from moments ago had never existed.
Arald: "OOOOOOOOOH YES!!! Wait for me!"
He sprinted to catch up, and soon the two walked side by side, their low voices blending into a conversation no one could hear.
As they left, Ifryt turned his sharp, cold gaze toward the fallen heroes, still struggling to rise. His eyes made it clear—he judged them weak.
Without slowing, Arald called out behind him:
Arald: "Training's over! Go rest!"
The heavy doors of the council hall opened with a metallic creak.
Arald and Ifryt stepped inside, and instantly, the atmosphere grew denser.
Around the vast circular table, four imposing figures were already waiting.
The first, seated closest to the King, was Thorak—a tall black high orc with a colossal frame. His muscles looked carved from stone, and his piercing yellow eyes seemed to cut through souls. Despite his terrifying presence, he wore a noble dark outfit and calmly read from a large book resting in his massive hands. His very existence demanded both fear and respect.
To his right sat Lancelot, a knight of average build, but with a posture so perfect and a gaze so sharp it spoke of unshakable discipline. His short brown hair framed a face marked by years of war. Not a single piece of armor was out of place. His aura suggested a contained strength, ready to strike at any moment.
Further down the table leaned Nora. Her short black hair fell neatly around her face, and her deep green eyes locked onto the entrance. Her athletic, finely sculpted body spoke of relentless training. She was beautiful… dangerously beautiful. Even seated, the air around her seemed to tremble, as if the room itself feared her movements.
Finally, resting his thick arms on the table, sat Thalgrimm—a stocky yet intimidating dwarf. His brown beard was as wild as his messy hair, and his calloused hands rested atop the handle of a massive war hammer carved with old runes. Despite his size, he radiated raw, mountain-like power.
At the end of the table, King Éldric observed Arald and Ifryt enter, then spoke with a deep, commanding voice.
King Éldric: "Gentlemen… and lady… we have urgent matters to discuss."
All eyes turned toward the two newcomers.
The air grew heavy—almost suffocating.
The six strongest warriors of the kingdom were finally together.
The moment Arald's gaze met Nora's… his world shifted.
He froze. His eyes sparkled like jewels, his cheeks turned red, and a foolish grin spread across his face.
He dashed forward, almost slipping, stopping on one knee beside her as if kneeling before a goddess.
Arald: "NORA… OH, MY SWEET NORAAAA! Your beauty has grown even brighter since we last met! Let me offer you my heart, my sword, my very soul!!"
Nora gave him a flat look, then kicked him square in the chest, sending him flying back two meters.
Nora: "Move, insect."
Thalgrimm, without lifting his eyes from his mug: "Heh… another flight."
Lancelot, sighing: "Can we start the meeting? Or should we wait for Arald to crawl back?"
Ifryt: "Ignore him. He does this every time…"
Flat on the ground, Arald weakly lifted a trembling thumb.
Arald: "I… I still live… and my love for her… is eternal…"
Nora rolled her eyes, a faint, wolfish grin appearing on her face.
The King raised his hand, calling for silence. His deep, steady tone sliced through the laughter.
King Éldric: "Enough. If we are all gathered today, it means things are worse than expected. The next wave of creatures is approaching… far sooner than we thought."
Thorak closed his book slowly.
Thorak: "How long do we have?"
King Éldric: "Four months… maybe less."
Lancelot, frowning: "Impossible. Our forces have barely recovered from the last attack."
Thalgrimm, chuckling nervously: "Then we do what we always do—hit harder than them."
Thorak, sternly: "Lack of preparation means death. We need more than brute force this time."
Nora, crossing her arms: "Strategy or not, wait too long and we'll be surrounded."
Lancelot: "Rushing into every fight won't save us either."
Nora, smirking: "Oh, forgive me, Master Strategist. I forgot you prefer hiding behind maps instead of getting your hands dirty."
Lancelot, snapping: "And I forgot you can't tell the difference between bravery and stupidity!"
Tension spiked.
Thalgrimm: "Hey, if you two wanna fight, take it outside. Save the table from breaking."
Ifryt sighed. Arald, meanwhile, looked delighted—especially every time Nora raised her voice.
King Éldric, slamming his fist on the table: "ENOUGH!!!"
The room froze. Even Arald went silent, eyes wide.
King Éldric: "We're here to protect this kingdom, not feed our egos! If you want to test each other, do it after the war… if you survive."
He paused, voice calming slightly.
King Éldric: "Before we think of attack, we must ensure our new recruits can survive the first minute of battle."
Thalgrimm, sipping from his mug: "The first minute? That's generous."
Nora: "They wouldn't last against a sick goblin."
Lancelot: "What she means… is that they lack discipline and technique."
Ifryt: "Then we split the work. Each of us teaches them what we do best. Four months isn't long, but it'll have to do."
Thorak snapped his book shut.
Thorak: "It's not enough… but it will have to be. We'll push them past their limits."
Nora: "No, give them to me. As the master-at-arms, I'm the most suited to train them."
Silence fell. Everyone—including the King—knew what that meant.
Giving recruits to Nora was like sending them straight to their graves.
King Éldric, rubbing his temples: "…We'll discuss that later."
Then, regaining his composure:
King Éldric: "Tomorrow morning, you begin. You have three months—no more."
Arald, whispering to Ifryt: "That means three whole months… of seeing Nora every day."
Nora, without turning her head: "And three months of you ending up in the infirmary."
Thalgrimm, laughing: "At least we'll have free entertainment."
The King raised his hand once more, his tone sharp as a blade.
King Éldric: "Rest for tonight. Tomorrow… hell begins."