Kyle had never remembered a world that was clear.
The city he grew up in stood close to the imperial palace, yet it was distant from it in every way that mattered. The towering walls were visible from the narrow streets, but no one there ever imagined crossing them. People lived by a single belief:
The world is not fixed by words.
It is corrected by force.
Kyle learned this early.
He was not the strongest child.
Nor the smartest.
Nor the bravest.
He was simply silent — and observant.
He watched soldiers march through the streets with lifeless expressions. He saw fear twist into rage the moment demons were mentioned. He noticed how anger always came first, long before any question was asked.
When he grew older, his decision was immediate.
The army.
Not for glory.
Not for blood.
But because in this world, only those with power were allowed to object.
From the first day of training, Kyle understood a simple truth:
the body could be broken — but willpower had to be forged.
He learned discipline, combat, and silence. And at night, when others slept, he remained awake. Sitting alone, focusing. Not searching for strength, but for balance.
They called it Verum.
It did not feel like energy, nor heat, nor movement. It felt like tension — as if the mind and soul were never truly aligned, and forcing them together demanded pain.
Years passed.
Kyle's name spread through the camp. Not because he shouted, but because he never stepped back. When the first campaign against the demons began in the distant villages, Kyle was there.
The village was half-burned.
Silent.
Too quiet.
Some demons fled before the army even arrived.
The soldiers hesitated.
"Why are they running?" someone asked.
The question never finished.
The moment the word demons was spoken, something changed. Rage flooded their faces — sudden, violent, disproportionate. Screams. Orders. Blind charge.
Kyle felt it again.
A sharp pressure in his head.
As if a thought had been forced into him.
He did not understand it.
But he obeyed.
After the battle, he sat beside a broken wall, staring at his bloodstained hands. There was no triumph. Only weight.
It happened again in the next campaign.
And the one after that.
Demons retreating.
Humans growing angrier than they should.
And Kyle… each time, the same brief headache.
The same unfinished question.
With time, he rose quickly.
His decisions were clean.
His strategies efficient.
His victories unquestioned.
When he was appointed Marshal, there was no celebration.
In his first address, he said only one sentence:
"If this world is rotten, then the weak have no right to fix it."
The crowd applauded.
The soldiers cheered.
And somewhere, far from the light of the hall,
someone watched without clapping.
He was smiling.