Stegran's boots touch the ground without a sound.
The poison mana around him settles, sinking back beneath his skin like a restrained tide. The air immediately feels lighter, yet no one present relaxes.
The command camp stretches around him.
Massive tents reinforced with spell-frames rise in tight formations. Alarm circles glow faintly in the dirt. Medics rush past carrying stretchers slick with blood. Officers bark orders, voices hoarse from shouting over the chaos.
Then—
Four figures move at once.
They rush forward from different directions, each radiating peak Tier 6 pressure honed through countless battles. Their auras flare briefly, then snap shut the moment they reach Stegran.
They drop to one knee.
Armor scrapes against stone.
"Marshal," they say in unison.
Stegran's gaze shifts to them.
The four generals, veterans who command entire army wings, bow their heads respectfully, not daring to meet his eyes for more than a heartbeat.
