Meanwhile, miles away from the quiet city, the afternoon sun beat down heavily on the Benson military camp.
Thick clouds of dust rose continuously into the hot air as hundreds of soldiers marched along the dirt paths. The sounds of clashing steel swords, shouting officers, and leather boots echoed loudly across the plain.
In the very center of the camp, surrounded by a high wooden fence, was the private training arena.
Damon stood in the center of the dirt ring.
He was shirtless. Drops of sweat were rolling continuously down his broad chest, sliding over his sharp abdomen, and dripping into the sand. His back was covered in large, pale scars from old battles, and the muscles in his arms were tensing violently with every movement he made.
He was holding a steel broadsword in his right hand. His knuckles, still wrapped in thin white bandages, gripped the leather handle tightly.
