The Crimson Tigers were the lowest-ranked unit in the entire Rose Kingdom military structure.
Everyone knew it.
The ranking wasn't secret or disputed—it was published quarterly in official reports, displayed on boards in the Grand Citadel, discussed openly by other units who either pitied them or used them as cautionary example of what happened when recruitment standards dropped too low.
They had the smallest numbers—barely fourteen members when most units maintained twenty to thirty, their depleted roster the result of failed operations and transfers to more prestigious squads.
They had the weakest reputation—their mission success rate hovered around sixty percent where elite units achieved ninety-plus, their combat effectiveness ratings consistently placing them in the bottom tier, their name mentioned in strategy discussions only as units to avoid deploying in critical situations.
They had the least respect—other soldiers made jokes about them, commanders assigned them to patrol duty and escort missions rather than actual combat operations, civilians didn't recognize their insignia when they walked through cities.
But they had passed the initial assessment battle against their assigned Star General and Vice General without surrendering, without begging for mercy, without a single member giving up despite overwhelming disadvantage.
That had surprised their instructors.
Now the real training would begin, and surprise would transform into either respect or confirmation that the Crimson Tigers deserved their bottom ranking.
The training ground was an old fortress ruin on the Citadel's eastern approach—stone walls that had stood for three centuries before being partially destroyed during some long-forgotten siege, never fully repaired because the location served better as training facility than active fortification.
The walls were half-broken, their heights ranging from intact twenty-foot sections to crumbled remnants barely reaching chest level, creating varied terrain that tested mobility and tactical thinking. Training dummies stood throughout the space—some made from iron and designed to resist weapon strikes, others constructed from wood and meant to be destroyed repeatedly, all of them showing wear from decades of soldiers practicing their techniques.
The ground was packed hard from centuries of marching feet, compacted to the point where it was nearly as solid as stone, the kind of surface that transmitted impact directly through boots into legs rather than absorbing shock the way softer earth would.
No fancy river with tan-rich mist. No floating chessboard manifesting life-sized pieces. No elaborate environmental modifications.
Just dirt, sweat, and pain.
The kind of training ground that armies had used for millennia before gift-users made combat more complicated, the fundamental space where warriors learned that technique and power meant nothing without discipline and endurance.
Star General Mikhail Joran stood like a mountain given human form—six feet seven inches of solid muscle built through a lifetime of combat, shoulders broad enough that he had to turn sideways to fit through standard doorways, presence so imposing that space around him felt smaller just from his occupation of it.
His red-and-gold armor gleamed despite the dust hanging in the air—the legendary plate that he'd worn through forty years of continuous military service, enchanted and maintained and repaired so many times that parts of it probably predated his birth, the metal itself having absorbed enough of his tan over the decades that it had developed properties beyond normal steel.
His eyes were cold steel—not cruel exactly, not hostile, but absolutely devoid of sentiment or sympathy, the gaze of someone who'd watched thousands of soldiers train and knew from first glance which ones would succeed and which would die.
His gift was Physical Enhancement and Tactical Adaptation—the ability to push his body beyond normal human limits while simultaneously adjusting his fighting style mid-combat to counter whatever opponents employed, making him effectively unbeatable in sustained engagement because he learned faster than enemies could exploit weaknesses.
Vice General Vector Gray stood beside him in deliberate contrast—lean where Mikhail was massive, built for speed and precision where his commander favored overwhelming force. His face maintained perfect neutrality, expression revealing nothing, the kind of controlled features that suggested extensive training in suppressing emotional tells.
His gift was Earth Reinforcement and Weapon Enhancement—the ability to make his skin temporarily as hard as stone while simultaneously imbuing whatever he held with enhanced durability and cutting power, turning simple practice swords into weapons that could clash with enchanted blades without breaking.
Together they represented old-school military philosophy—the approach that valued discipline over innovation, endurance over creativity, the belief that fundamentals mastered completely would always defeat fancy techniques applied inadequately.
Mikhail's voice was low and heavy, each word carrying weight like physical objects being placed carefully.
"You're the weakest unit in the Rose Kingdom. Bottom of every ranking metric. Last choice for actual combat deployment. The squad that other units use as example of what not to become."
He let that sink in, watching faces for reactions—anger, shame, defiance, resignation. The Crimson Tigers showed all of those in various combinations.
"That ends today. We don't do gentle training here. We don't coddle developing gifts or accommodate individual learning styles. We do knight's training—the methodology that built armies before gift-users existed, the approach that focuses on fundamentals so thoroughly that power becomes secondary to discipline."
He cracked his knuckles—the sound like breaking wood, joints that had been stressed and healed thousands of times making the gesture into implicit threat.
"Army style training. Real hits that actually hurt. Real consequences for mistakes. If you fall, you get up immediately or you get kicked while down. If you bleed, you fight through it or you withdraw and accept that you're not cut out for this level of operation. No middle ground. No participation medals."
Vector Gray's voice emerged calm and matter-of-fact, almost gentle despite the content.
"Captain Von Miller. Vice Captain Zen. Front and center. Your unit's leadership will demonstrate what we mean by 'real hits' so everyone understands the training philosophy before we begin general instruction."
Captain Von Millerstepped forward without hesitation—mid-thirties, built compact and efficient like a boxer, fists already wrapped in cloth tape that suggested he'd anticipated this kind of training. His gift was Combat Enhancement and Recovery—the ability to push his physical capabilities beyond normal limits while healing from injuries faster than standard biology allowed, making him capable of sustained fighting that would cripple normal soldiers.
Vice Captain Zenfloated slightly off the ground beside his captain, wind swirling around him in visible currents—early thirties, lean build suggesting agility over strength. His gift was Air Force Manipulation and Flight—controlling atmospheric pressure and currents with precision that allowed true flight rather than just gliding, creating cutting winds that served as weapons, moving three-dimensionally in ways ground-bound fighters struggled to counter.
Mikhail didn't issue warning or assume fighting stance.
He simply moved.
One punch—straight right, no setup, no feint, just direct application of overwhelming force aimed at Von Miller's solar plexus.
The captain tried to block, arms coming up in guard position, combat gift activating to enhance his durability.
Mikhail's fist went through the guard like it wasn't there.
The impact lifted Von Miller completely off his feet, body folding around the punch, sending him flying backward ten meters before hitting the packed earth hard enough to leave an impression, rolling twice before sliding to a stop.
The captain coughed blood—actual blood, not metaphorical, the impact having done real internal damage that his recovery gift immediately began addressing.
Mikhail didn't pursue. Didn't follow up. Just stood in the same position he'd been in before punching, voice unchanged.
"Again."
Von Miller stood up—legs shaking, one hand pressed to his abdomen where the impact had landed, his enhanced recovery already reducing the damage but not eliminating the pain.
He charged anyway.
Lower stance this time, trying to get inside Mikhail's reach, using footwork that suggested proper training.
Mikhail punched him again.
Different technique—uppercut that caught the captain under the jaw, lifting him vertical, slamming him back to earth with force that created small crater.
More blood.
"Again."
Von Miller got up slower this time, vision clearly swimming, recovery gift working overtime to prevent concussion.
He tried a different approach—feinting left, diving right, attempting to use speed to compensate for the power differential.
Mikhail's punch intercepted him mid-dive, the hit perfectly timed, catching him in the ribs, the specific crack audible across the training ground.
Von Miller hit the ground and didn't move for several seconds.
"Get. Up."
The captain rose—barely, one arm wrapped around his torso to support cracked ribs, other arm raised in guard that looked more like plea than defense.
But standing.
Still fighting.
Mikhail's expression didn't change but something in his eyes shifted—recognition, approval, the acknowledgment that Von Miller had just passed the actual test.
"Good. You can be hurt and still fight. That's the foundation everything else builds on. Sit."
Von Miller collapsed gratefully, ribs already knitting but the pain remaining.
Vector Gray turned his attention to Vice Captain Zen, who was still floating, wind currents accelerating slightly in unconscious response to watching his captain get demolished.
"Your turn. Attack seriously or withdraw now."
Zen didn't hesitate—dove forward with air blades spinning around him in defensive spiral, the cutting currents sharp enough to slice through wood, his flight giving him three-dimensional approach angles.
Vector Gray didn't dodge.
Didn't activate defensive technique or raise barriers.
Just stood there as the air blades struck him.
They shattered against his skin—earth tan reinforcement making his flesh harder than the compressed air, the techniques breaking like glass against stone.
Vector Gray's hand shot out with speed that belied his calm demeanor, palm striking Zen's chest while the vice captain was still processing that his attack had failed.
The impact sent Zen flying backward faster than his flight capability could compensate for, body slamming into one of the half-broken fortress walls hard enough that the ancient stone cracked, spiderweb fractures spreading from the impact point.
Zen fell, landing hard, wind dispersing.
Vector Gray's voice remained calm, almost gentle.
"Again. Use better tactics."
Zen pushed himself up—one arm hanging wrong, shoulder dislocated, but his gift still active.
He attacked from behind this time, using the wall as springboard, coming at Vector Gray from where the Vice General's back was turned.
Vector Gray didn't look.
Just shifted slightly and backhanded Zen out of the air, the casual strike sending the vice captain tumbling across the ground like discarded rag.
"Again. Think before attacking."
Zen rose slower, breathing hard, both arms working but barely, his flight destabilizing as concentration wavered.
He tried ranged assault—air pressure blades from distance, not closing to melee range, using his gift's advantages.
Better tactics. Still insufficient.
Vector Gray walked through the barrage, each blade shattering against his reinforced body, closing the distance methodically, reaching Zen before the vice captain could retreat.
One palm strike—precise application of force to pressure point.
Zen collapsed, unconscious before hitting the ground.
Vector Gray looked at the watching Crimson Tigers unit.
"He'll wake in a few minutes. The point wasn't to beat him unconscious—the point was demonstrating that tactics matter more than power when the power differential is this extreme. Captain Von Miller understood faster, adapted his approach each time despite the pain. Vice Captain Zen kept trying the same basic strategy with minor variations. Learn from both examples."
The entire unit was split into training groups.
Knight-army training began in earnest—the methodology that had forged military forces for centuries before gifts complicated warfare, the fundamentals that never became obsolete regardless of how magic evolved.
The Crimson Tigers ran in tight ranks—heavy iron shields strapped to their left arms, weapons in right hands, maintaining precise spacing that would prevent individual fighters from being isolated while avoiding clustering so tight that area attacks could hit multiple members.
Mikhail and Vector Gray walked among them during the charges, personally striking anyone who broke formation even slightly.
"Stay together! One gap in the line gets everyone killed! The whole formation is only as strong as its weakest link, and right now every single one of you is the weakest link!"
Mikhail's fist caught a member who'd drifted two feet out of position—punched them hard enough to send them tumbling out of formation completely, shield flying.
"Get back in line! If you fall in real combat, the formation closes the gap and keeps moving. You either catch up or you die alone. Move!"
The fallen member scrambled back into position, shield retrieved, blood running from split lip but maintaining pace.
The formation charged again—tighter this time, spacing more precise, everyone hyperaware that mistakes meant getting hit by a Heavenly Star General's fist.
The unit ran the fortress perimeter—two mile circuit through broken walls and rubble, carrying full combat load plus the iron shields, maintaining formation throughout.
Anyone who slowed below minimum pace got personally struck by Mikhail—single punch to the back or shoulders that sent them tumbling forward, then forced to immediately resume running while carrying twice the weight.
One member fell behind during mile three, fatigue making their steps lag.
Mikhail was there instantly—fist driving into their back with measured force, sending them sprawling.
"Up! Double weight! Run!"
The member rose, accepted the additional shield Vector Gray provided, continued running with twice the burden.
They didn't fall behind again—pain being more effective motivator than any inspirational speech.
By mile five, everyone was carrying extra weight from having fallen behind at some point.
By mile ten, they'd learned to maintain pace regardless of exhaustion because the alternative was objectively worse.
Real Sparring
They paired off in the fortress courtyard and fought—no holding back, no pulling punches, actual combat with the understanding that injuries would be treated but wouldn't excuse anyone from continuing training once healed.
Mikhail and Vector Gray moved between pairs, observing, correcting mistakes not with words but with physical intervention.
One pair was trading blows ineffectively, both fighters committing to attacks that left them vulnerable.
Mikhail stepped between them mid-exchange—punched both simultaneously, one fist to each chest, sending them flying in opposite directions.
"You're both dead. You both committed to attacks that would have gotten you killed against competent opponents. Fight smarter or die stupidly. Your choice."
The pair rose and resumed sparring—more cautiously now, defensive awareness improved through negative reinforcement.
Captain Von Miller fought through the entire session despite his cracked ribs, his enhanced recovery keeping him functional but not eliminating pain. Each hit he took taught him something—how to position his guard better, how to read incoming attacks through body language, how to fight through injury that would sideline normal soldiers.
His combat stance grew sharper, movements more economical, defense tighter. By the hundredth exchange, he was landing hits on opponents who'd been dominating him an hour earlier.
Vice Captain Zen regained consciousness and immediately rejoined training despite Vector Gray not requiring it. He was slammed into the ground repeatedly—seven times in ten minutes—but every time he rose, his air control became more precise, his flight patterns less predictable, his tactical thinking sharper.
By sunset, the fourteenth time someone knocked him down, he stayed down for three seconds instead of immediately rising—strategic choice rather than inability, using the pause to observe his opponent's positioning before launching counterattack from unexpected angle.
It failed. He got hit again. But the attempt showed learning, showed adaptation, showed exactly what Mikhail and Vector Gray were trying to instill.
By sunset, the entire Crimson Tigers unit was bruised, bleeding, covered in dirt and sweat.
Uniforms torn. Shields dented. Weapons showing wear from sustained use.
But standing.
All fourteen members vertical despite the day's brutality, despite injuries that would normally require medical evacuation, despite exhaustion that made thinking difficult and moving painful.
Mikhail Joran looked at them with his cold steel eyes—no smile, no warmth, just assessment followed by single nod.
"You're still the lowest-ranked unit in the Rose Kingdom. Your techniques are mediocre. Your tactics are basic. Your gifts are nothing special. But you can take punishment and continue fighting. That's the foundation we'll build on."
He turned to leave, pausing at the fortress entrance.
"Tomorrow you'll be less low-ranked. The day after, even less. By the end of this year, you won't be the weakest anymore. Not because we'll make you powerful—because we'll make you too stubborn to die. Dismissed."
Vector Gray adjusted his gloves—the only sign of exertion after a full day of training, his earth-reinforced skin not even showing bruises from the impacts he'd absorbed.
"Pain is the only teacher that never lies. Remember what hurt today. Don't repeat those mistakes tomorrow. Rest, treat your injuries, be ready to train harder when the sun rises."
He followed Mikhail out, leaving the Crimson Tigers alone in the courtyard.
Captain Von Miller wiped blood from his mouth—split lip, bloodied nose, probably loosened tooth—and grinned through the pain.
"Not bad for day one."
Vice Captain Zen floated up again despite his injuries, wind currents stabilizing after hours of being disrupted.
"If this is day one, I'm terrified of day three hundred."
The unit laughed—exhausted, pained laughter, but genuine, the sound of people who'd survived something difficult together and felt stronger for it.
They stood taller despite their injuries.
Lowest-ranked unit?
Maybe.
For now.
But Mikhail was right—tomorrow they'd be less low.
And the day after, even less.
By the end of the year, the Crimson Tigers would force everyone to stop using them as cautionary example and start treating them as actual threat.
Not through flashy techniques or overwhelming power.
Through sheer bloody-minded refusal to stay down.
End of Chapter 38