The announcement came like a hammer striking stone. Messengers arrived on tired horses, their faces pale, the seals of Silpatra's high council still wet with blood-red wax. The king had declared mass conscription. Every able-bodied person, from the northern outposts to the southern farmlands, was to be drafted. The war was no longer a series of scattered raids; it was official, sanctioned, and inevitable.
Kael sat on a low stone wall outside Biwa, his blade resting across his lap. He spun it absentmindedly, listening to the metallic whisper as the edge caught the light of the late afternoon sun. His stomach growled, a humorous counterpoint to the weight of official war. He touched it briefly, murmuring, "You're not helping, you know."
Jade appeared beside him, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "You're smiling," she said. "You know people are going to die. Entire villages."
Kael shrugged. "It's hard not to. I'm still hungry. That's worse than death in my book."
But beneath the humor, Kael was observing. The villagers reacted with fear and confusion. Children clutched at their parents' skirts, soldiers spoke in hurried tones, and the local militia tested their swords nervously. Kael noticed the tension in their stances—the slight lean forward, the hesitation in their grips. Small things. Subtle cues.
From the horizon, smoke rose in distant plumes. Silpatra's borders were no longer safe. Beast raids had been coordinated for weeks, and the declaration of war only gave them license to strike openly. Kael's eyes narrowed. He imagined the beasts' claws, the snap of their jaws, the way the ground trembled under coordinated assaults. And he considered the Demon King, watching silently, his presence a constant shadow in Kael's mind.
The next few days were a blur of preparation. Kael was sent on small missions to nearby towns: securing supply lines, mapping routes, and, occasionally, delivering messages between scattered units. On these journeys, he saw firsthand the growing chaos. Farms burned, soldiers dead before they had a chance to unsheath their weapons, and villages abandoned in panic. Yet Kael moved through it all with quiet purpose, observing, learning, and training.
He practiced his footwork constantly, even when he wasn't wielding his blade. Every rock became a marker, every alley a corridor for evasive maneuvers. By now, his instincts were sharper than ever. He could predict the arc of an enemy's swing before it even left their hands. Every movement of his blade became deliberate, every turn a lesson in efficiency. His mind cataloged every mistake he avoided and every subtle victory, storing it for later analysis.
Cassian's reputation also reached Kael during this period. The Sagittarius Knight, wielder of the Blood Driver, was a legend by now. His campaigns to the north had been brutal and swift. Entire demon contingents were annihilated before they could even regroup. Cassian's aura radiated authority, his strikes precise, each move a testament to his skill. Reports of him arrived intermittently: a village saved, a garrison destroyed, a battlefield left eerily silent except for the echo of fallen demons. Kael studied these reports quietly, understanding that his brother was both a weapon and a symbol.
Jade was increasingly frustrated. She tried to steer Kael into the tasks assigned, but he often slipped away, his humor acting as both shield and distraction. He had begun to notice, however, that survival was about more than instinct—it was strategy. Every village he passed became a lesson. Every encounter, no matter how small, taught him something about movement, perception, and the brutality of war.
One evening, Kael and Jade reached a small border town that had just been conscripted. Soldiers trained with the sharp clang of metal, their faces grim, their hands uncertain. Kael joined in, moving among them without explanation. His movements were natural, fluid, and terrifyingly efficient. Soldiers faltered under his gaze, uncertain whether they were training or being measured.
A young recruit asked, voice trembling, "Who are you?"
Kael grinned faintly. "Just a guy who doesn't want to starve," he replied, spinning his blade lazily. Then, without further explanation, he demonstrated a series of strikes, each one slicing through the air like a silver comet. The recruits watched, transfixed. The movements were precise yet casual, lethal yet elegant.
As the days passed, Kael's reputation quietly grew. He wasn't a general, he wasn't a hero, and he didn't seek titles. But the whispers began: the boy who moved like water, who struck like lightning, and yet laughed when the world burned around him.
At the same time, the Demon King observed, calculating. "The child grows," he murmured. "And soon, he will either break… or become something far beyond my expectations."
By the end of the week, Silpatra was fully mobilized. Borders were patrolled, villages fortified, and supply lines protected. Kael, however, remained in motion, slipping between missions, honing his skills, and quietly preparing for the inevitable confrontations to come. His blade never rested. His stomach growled as if reminding him that the world had no pause button, and neither would he.
The war had officially begun, and Kael was no longer just a boy hiding in the shadows. He was a presence, a force, and an observer of the world's unfolding chaos. The Demon King had noticed, Cassian continued his relentless slaughter, and the land itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see who would survive and who would fall.