The sun was high over the Herlem border, baking the dry dirt of the training grounds into a fine, choking powder.
Reine Vangalf wiped sweat from his forehead with a bruised forearm. His hair, a strange, muted dark green shot through with streaks of premature white, was —long
To the casual observer, Reine was "skinny-fit." He looked scrawny, almost frail, in his oversized, padded gambeson. But beneath the heavy cloth, his muscles were corded like high-tension wire, the result of years of obsessive, desperate training that bordered on a sickness. His eyes were his most striking feature—deep-set and sharp, with a heavy-lidded, predatory shape. He always looked like he was tracking a target just past the horizon.
Nearby, a group of soldiers sat in the shade of a supply wagon, picking at their mid-day mash.
"I actually feel bad for the kid," one soldier whispered, glancing at Reine. "He's the first one up and the last one to sleep. He's got heart, you have to give him that. It's a shame he's still a Novice."
"Pity?" a veteran snorted, deliberately raising his voice so it would carry over the wind. "Don't waste it. He's a Vangalf."
The veteran spat into the dirt.
"His parents were too weak to face the debt they owed the Crown and took the coward's way out with a rope. The only reason he wasn't sold off to the mines like his brothers and sisters is because he was tucked away at the Aethelgard Sword Conservatory when the collectors came. He didn't get 'lucky'—he just wasn't there to be caught. Now he's here, playing soldier while his siblings are probably being worked to death in some nobleman's cellar. He deserves every bit of the dirt he's eating."
Reine heard every word. He didn't turn. He didn't flinch. He just gripped his iron practice sword tighter until his knuckles turned as white as the streaks in his hair.
The memory of the Conservatory hit him—the smell of polished wood and the safety of the walls while his world burned outside. The guilt was a physical weight in his stomach, heavier than his armor, pulling him down into the mud.
"REINE! WHAT ARE YOU STANDING AROUND FOR?"
The platoon leader's voice cracked like a whip. "I told you ten minutes ago—get moving! Go warn the camp commander and the other platoons to get into formation. We've got reports of movement on the horizon. Move!"
The Paekl soldiers weren't visible yet, just a faint, shimmering haze of dust in the distance, but the air felt thick with static. Reine nodded and began to sprint toward the main command tent.
He was halfway across the open field when the air suddenly hissed.
The first volley didn't come from the horizon. It came from a hidden vanguard, tucked much closer than the scouts had reported. A rain of black shafts fell from the sky. Reine dove, rolling as the ground around him sprouted steel-tipped wood.
He heard screams behind him. He looked back and saw the veteran who had just been mocking him; an arrow had punched through the man's throat mid-sentence, pinning his insult to his windpipe.
One arrow caught Reine in the arm. It wasn't a clean hit, but the tip buried itself deep in his bicep. He grunted, his vision tunneling from the shock, but he kept running.
He reached the command camp, gasping for breath. "Ambush! East flank! They're already here!"
The alarm bells started clanging, a frantic, metallic rhythm. Reine didn't retreat. He drew his real blade, his breath coming in ragged stabs. He saw a Paekl foot soldier charging a wounded Herlem boy and intercepted him. They clashed, blades grinding with a shower of sparks. Reine wasn't fast or strong, but he was desperate. He parried a clumsy swing and drove his sword into the man's chest.
He stood over the body, shaking, his own blood mixing with the mud on his boots.
Then, the atmosphere changed. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
A man in dark, heavy plate armor stepped onto the field. He didn't run; he walked with the slow, terrifying confidence of an executioner. A Herlem officer—a man who had unlocked his Mana Core and was capable of killing a hundred men alone—charged the knight.
The knight moved his hand in a blur.
The officer's head left his shoulders before he could even finish his shout.
Reine stopped breathing. He watched the knight move through the ranks. This wasn't a fight; it was a massacre. The knight was a monster, a Sovereign-rank force of nature. Reine's legs felt like water. He looked at the exit, at the woods, at the chance to run.
If I run, I never save them, he thought. If I die, I never save them. But if I run, I'm a coward like they say I am.
"No," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I'm not backing down. Not again."
He charged.
His boots pounded the dirt, and suddenly, a sensation he had chased for years exploded in his gut. A warmth, fluid and violent, flooded his veins. His Mana Core had finally manifested. He felt a surge of raw, unrefined power. He cut down a Novice soldier in his path with a single, mana-infused blow that shattered the man's shield like glass.
He felt a spark of hope. He lunged at the dark knight, swinging with everything he had.
The knight didn't even look at him.
There was a dull thud, a flash of steel, and the world began to tilt.
Reine felt a strange weightlessness. He watched the ground rush up to meet him. He saw his own body, still standing for a second, blood geysering from the neck before it toppled over. He realized his head was rolling through the dirt.
His vision began to blur, the edges turning a hazy, static grey. Is this it? The Mana Core he had just formed was already flickering out, cold and useless. He thought of his siblings. He tried to remember their names, their faces, but the memories were sliding away like water through his fingers. He had worked so hard, bled so much, only to be ended by a man who didn't even know his name.
Everything was getting dark. The sounds of the battle became a distant hum.
I really wasn't anything special, he thought as the light finally vanished. Just another dead Vangalf in the mud.