Morning dew still clung to the grass of the Citadel's western courtyard when Max arrived. He positioned himself in the back row of the semicircle formed by a dozen chairs, watching the servants prepare the area. They unfolded maps on large wooden tables and arranged wooden figurines representing different military units.
The simulation board. Max recognized it from his previous life—the tool his father used for tactical instruction. In his first timeline, Max had attended these sessions reluctantly, bored by endless discussions of flanking maneuvers and supply lines. Now, every word would be precious intelligence.
"You're early."
Max turned to find Brian Drakhalis striding across the courtyard, Atlas padding silently beside him. The War Lion's golden mane caught the morning light, muscles rippling beneath tawny fur.
"Wanted a good seat," Max replied.
His father raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about military strategy?"
Max met his gaze. "Things change."
Brian studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "They do." He moved past Max toward the central table, Atlas circling to lie at his feet.
Other students arrived in groups—members of allied noble houses, military officers' children, and finally Max's siblings. Violet nodded in his direction while Darius and Ervan exchanged surprised glances at his presence.
Brian stood before them, hands clasped behind his back. "Today we discuss adaptive strategy under changing battlefield conditions." His voice carried across the courtyard without shouting. "Your enemies will not stand still while you execute your plans."
Max watched his father manipulate the wooden pieces on the map, demonstrating a historical battle where superior numbers had been defeated by tactical flexibility. His mind categorized each principle, testing it against what he knew of the coming demon invasion.
"The Arondale Campaign failed not because their strategy was flawed, but because it was inflexible," Brian explained. "When the spring floods washed out their supply routes, they continued as if nothing had changed."
"Couldn't they have requisitioned local supplies?" asked Hazel.
"The local baron refused access to his granaries," Brian replied. "Pride prevented the general from simply taking what was needed."
Max frowned. In his previous life, Church officials had restricted access to magical artifacts that might have strengthened their defenses. The parallel was uncomfortable.
For two hours, Brian walked them through scenarios with increasing complexity. Max answered questions with precision when called upon, drawing surprised looks from those who knew him as the quiet, scholarly child.
When they broke for water, Ervan cornered him beside a marble column.
"Suddenly interested in warfare, little brother?" Ervan's tone mixed curiosity with derision. "Or just trying to impress Father?"
"Learning," Max replied simply.
Ervan snorted. "What's the point? With your aura level, you'll never command troops."
"I don't need to command troops to understand strategy."
"Understand all you want. You'll never apply it." Ervan poked Max's chest. "Tier One auras can barely manifest energy, much less control beasts or lead soldiers."
Max kept his face neutral. "There are different kinds of strength."
"Save the philosopher's comfort for your books." Ervan walked away, rejoining Darius at the far end of the courtyard.
The afternoon session focused on resource allocation during extended campaigns. Brian arranged the wooden pieces to illustrate supply lines and vulnerable points.
"Your strongest units are worthless without support," he explained. "A cavalry charge might break enemy lines, but without infantry to hold the ground, you've accomplished nothing."
Max thought about the Citadel's defenses. The outer wall had fallen quickly in his previous life, its guards isolated from reinforcements. A mistake he wouldn't allow to happen again.
During the exercise that followed, Max suggested positioning archers on the high ground rather than advancing them with infantry.
"Interesting," Brian commented. "Why?"
"The terrain limits cavalry mobility," Max explained, pointing to the ravines on the map. "If we hold the archers back, they can cover our retreat if necessary."
"Planning for defeat before the battle begins?" Darius cut in, smirking.
"Planning for all contingencies," Max corrected. "Victory goes to those who prepare for both success and failure."
Brian nodded approvingly. "Precisely. Optimism is not a strategy."
Darius's eyes narrowed. "Easy for the adopted one to talk about retreat. Real Drakhalis blood fights to the last."
A tense silence fell over the gathering. Brian shot Darius a warning glance, but Max spoke first.
"Blood that boils can't think clearly," he said quietly. "And a dead soldier wins no battles."
Several of the young officers nodded in agreement, which only darkened Darius's expression further.
As the session concluded, Brian assigned readings on historical sieges. The crowd dispersed, leaving Max gathering his notes.
"That was unexpected," Violet said, appearing beside him.
Max shrugged. "I found it useful."
"Not the lecture. You." Violet sat on the edge of the table. "Since when do you voluntarily attend Father's war games?"
"Since I realized ignorance is a luxury we can't afford."
"We?" Violet raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you include yourself in military matters?"
Max chose his words carefully. "Everyone has responsibilities during a crisis."
"What crisis, Max?" Violet's voice softened. "First the training, now this. What's changed?"
The concern in her eyes tempted Max to tell her everything—the regression, the demons, the fall of their home. But the truth would sound like madness without proof.
"I had a dream that I failed when it mattered," he said instead. "I won't let that happen."
Violet studied him with the piercing gaze that had always seen through his childhood deceptions. "There's something you're not telling me."
"There's something I can't explain yet," Max corrected. "But I will when I can."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Just remember you don't have to carry whatever this is alone."
As Violet walked away, Max turned to the simulation board, moving pieces to recreate the demon invasion patterns from his memories. The wooden figures couldn't capture the horror, the screams, the blood-soaked stones of the fallen Citadel.
His father's voice startled him from behind.
"You understand more than you let on."
Max turned to find Brian watching him, Atlas alert at his side.
"What makes you say that?"
Brian gestured to the board. "That formation. It's not one I taught today."
Max realized his mistake too late. He'd arranged the pieces in a defensive pattern optimized against aerial assault—a strategy developed only after the first demon attack in his previous life.
"Just experimenting," Max said.
Brian studied the board. "Most learn strategy through training. The best learn it through experience." His eyes found Max's. "But some rare few learn it through trauma." He rested a heavy hand on Max's shoulder. "Whatever weight you're carrying, boy—make sure it strengthens rather than crushes you."
As Brian walked away, Max rearranged the pieces to a conventional formation. His father was right. Training built soldiers. But trauma—trauma wrote generals. And Max had experienced enough trauma for ten lifetimes.
This time, he would turn that pain into protection for everyone he'd failed before.