Dawn came without warmth.
The young man stirred as the world around him erupted into noise. Shouting. Metal clashing. Horses snorting and stamping as handlers yanked reins tight. Orders were barked and repeated, layered over one another until the air itself seemed to tremble.
Leopold was already awake.
The old man sat upright as much as the cramped cage allowed, his single good eye sharp, alert—nothing like the broken figure he pretended to be when guards were near. He watched the chaos with the practiced calm of someone who had once commanded it.
"They move fast," Leopold murmured. "Means the scout returned with good news. Or bad enough to hurry."
Before the young man could ask, iron bars screeched open.
"Out!" soldiers roared. "All of you! Fall in line!"
Hands shoved, boots kicked. The young man stumbled forward with the others as they poured from the cages. Hundreds of slaves were forced into formation, five long rows stretching across the dry earth. Bare feet dug into dust. Shoulders hunched. Eyes stayed low.
Behind them, three disciplined ranks of soldiers formed—two rows with swords and spears, shields locked tight, and a third mix with staffs and bows already strung. Horsemen waited at the rear, lances upright like a forest of steel.
At the front stood Hevert.
Four gray-hooded figures flanked him, their faces hidden, their presence heavy. Hevert raised a gauntleted hand, and the camp slowly fell silent.
He began to speak.
"Soldiers of the Kollus Empire," Hevert's voice rang out, practiced and powerful, "today we march not merely to battle, but to destiny. Before us stands a nest of filth—a goblin fortress, built by monsters who gnaw at the borders of civilization and dare to exist under the same sun as men. We are the Empire's will made flesh. Our blades are justice. Our march is order. The goblins are vermin, fit only to be crushed beneath our boots. Today, the Empire expands, and history will remember who stood tall—and who was erased."
The speech drew cheers from the soldiers. Swords struck shields in rhythm.
Leopold snorted quietly. "Empowering," he muttered. "Nothing inspires loyalty like calling slaughter 'destiny.'" His lips thinned. "Sending slaves to the front without weapons, though—that's the Empire's true intent. Clean hands. Bloody results."
As a former noble, Leopold knew the real problem, slaves outnumbered the citizens of the Empire. Yet instead of making better solution, they chose to just throw slaves into meat grinder.
As if summoned by the thought, one of the hooded figures stepped forward.
She pulled back her hood.
A collective hush rippled through the slaves.
She was young, no older than the young man himself, yet carried herself with effortless authority. Her features were delicate, almost gentle, framed by pale hair that caught the morning light. Noble. Untouched by hardship. In her hand rested a slender staff carved with intricate runes.
"Good morning, Duke Leopold," she said lightly.
Without waiting for a reply, Peonome tapped the base of her staff against the ground.
The earth trembled.
A deep, grinding sound rolled through the ground, low enough to be felt before it was heard. The earth beneath the slaves' feet split apart, dirt and stones flung outward as something colossal forced its way up.
A massive tree erupted from the soil, its trunk thick as a watchtower, bark dark and veined with glowing sap-like lines. Roots the size of serpents tore free from the ground, snapping and writhing as they dragged chunks of earth with them. In the span of a single breath, it surged skyward, branches unfolding violently, leaves screaming as they cut the air.
The slaves recoiled, cries breaking loose—then, without warning, the tree detonated.
The trunk shattered from within, bursting apart in a thunderous crack. Wood exploded outward in a controlled storm, fragments spinning and snapping midair, reshaping as if guided by invisible hands. The blast ended as abruptly as it began, and the ground was left littered not with splinters but with solid wooden clubs, each one resting neatly at a slave's feet.
Silence followed.
Leopold's expression didn't change, but his eye narrowed. "Efficient," he said. "Wasteful, but efficient."
The young man bent and picked up a club, feeling its rough weight in his hands.
As Leopold reached for one, Hevert moved.
He stopped in front of the old man and extended his hand. The ring on his finger pulsed with light, casting a dull glow across his gauntlet. With a brief shimmer, a rusted dagger materialized in his grasp.
"A wooden club wouldn't suit a noble," Hevert said, voice smooth with mock courtesy. "Even a former duke. Here—consider it a kindness."
He drove the dagger into the dirt at Leopold's feet and walked away without another glance.
Leopold snorted. "Show-off." Still, he bent with a grunt and picked up the dagger, testing its balance. His grip was practiced, familiar.
The young man stared, unable to help himself. "How did he do that?"
Leopold glanced at him. "A storage ring," he said. "It can hold weapons, supplies—almost anything." His lip curled faintly. "Costs a fortune. More than most commoners earn in a lifetime."
The young man nodded slowly, eyes lingering on the ring before looking ahead again.
Peonome tapped her staff once more.
Chains unlocked and fell away, clattering across the ground. Slaves flexed their freed wrists, murmurs spreading through the ranks.
As the last echoes of chains faded, the remaining hooded figures stepped forward and shed their coverings.
Leopold's posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Where others saw power and salvation, he saw tools—and dangers.
He leaned closer to the young man, keeping his voice low. "Watch them carefully," he murmured. "Knowing who stands near you can mean the difference between dying uselessly and dying last."
"That one is Arnold Ironfire—the Moving Fortress," Leopold said, nodding toward the towering man encased in silver armor.
Arnold was unmistakably middle-aged, broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, with a full, dark beard shot through with iron-gray. His face was lined not with age alone, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had survived too many battles to count. The armor he wore was heavy and brutally practical—thick silver plates layered over one another, scarred, dented, and polished only where constant use demanded it. Each mark told a story, none of them gentle.
A massive shield was strapped across his back, its surface etched with old runes, and a heavy war hammer rested easily in his hand, as if it weighed nothing at all.
"A Keeper known for endurance beyond reason. Strength enough to shatter bone with a single grip." His eye narrowed slightly. "They say his shield has never been breached. Not by steel, not by fang, not by spell."
The young man swallowed, eyes following the way Arnold stood—unmoving, unyielding, like a fortress given flesh.
"Samantha Hawk," Leopold continued, looking at a young, lean figure in black leather armor. She moved lightly, almost lazily, a well-crafted bow already resting in her grip. Her gaze swept the horizon with predatory calm, sharp and calculating.
"They call her the Beast Archer." There was a hint of reluctant respect in his tone. "She uses the abilities of beasts she's slain. Speed, vision, instincts—you name it." He exhaled softly. "Rumor says she carries more than a thousand skills taken from different creatures. And her aim?" A brief pause. "Unmatched."
The young man felt a chill settle in his spine as Samantha's eyes flicked briefly over the slave ranks, as if measuring them.
The last hood fell away to reveal a woman dressed in white and gold robes, the fabric immaculate despite the dust. She clutched a heavy tome bound in metal, faint symbols glowing along its spine. Her expression was calm, almost serene, like someone who believed the gods walked beside her.
"And that," Leopold said, voice lowering further, "is Illumi Webleton. A priestess from the holy city of Lightborn." His lip twitched. "A Keeper as well. Known for her wide-area blessings and healing miracles. If you see light falling from the sky—stand in it."
Leopold's gaze shifted back toward the woman with the staff—the one who had turned a tree into weapons with a single tap.
"Also, the young woman with staff. Her name was Peonome Cloverstone," Leopold said. "A genius mage." His voice carried a rare note of certainty. "They call her a once-in-a-century talent. Born with a mana reserve so vast most mages would collapse just sensing it."
The young man glanced at Peonome again, unease creeping into his awe. She was smiling faintly, chatting with Hevert as if they were discussing the weather.