Seth marched between Henry and Eddin, surrounded by the rhythmic thunder of hundreds of boots striking the hard-packed road.
"That is insane," Henry muttered, shaking his head. He was still trying to process the story about Intendant Lancet and House Faertis. "If Reat hadn't been there..."
"Thankfully, he was," Seth answered. "That's the only reason I'm here."
"Did he kill them?" Selena's voice cut through the noise from behind the two of them.
Seth glanced over his shoulder. He could feel the raw hatred radiating from her; she had almost died because of House Faertis. It was her right to ask. He saw Henry's gaze flicker toward her as well—a leader's instinct to check that kind of bloodlust—but his expression softened. He knew she needed this.
"Yes," Seth replied. "Every single one. Including the sergeant."
The red-haired Rogue's lips pressed into a thin line. It was a complex expression—a hint of satisfaction warring with the clear regret that she hadn't been able to do it herself. "Good," she said finally.
"House Faertis won't take that lying down, though," Eddin said from Henry's other side. "Gold or not, Reat can't just slaughter nobles. There are rules."
"He's counting on the war to distract everyone," Seth answered. "That will buy him some time. Worst case, the trial gets pushed back. Just like mine."
Seth kept the rest to himself—the fact that Reat wasn't worried because he knew Orwen would soon be Platinum, thanks to the resources from the Cave of the Elements.
It made Seth wonder, though. How could Reat be so certain? Orwen had been stuck at that threshold for more than a decade, unable to take the final step.
How do you even know when you're close? Seth mused. Back when he had been Peak-Copper, he'd had no idea his breakthrough was imminent until it had hit him. Then again, my aether sensing is far better now. Maybe that's how. Perhaps at higher Ranks, you can just... feel the wall weakening.
"I don't like this," a young Rogue a few paces away muttered, his eyes fixed nervously on the horizon. "The other academies, the royal guards, the adventurers... everyone is going to be watching when we step into that Rift."
Henry looked at him, forcing a grin to break the tension. "What's the matter? Afraid you'll trip on your own feet in front of them?"
"No," the young man answered, shaking his head. "I just feel like the empire will use this chance to make us look weak before the battle even starts."
"So let them try." Henry raised his chin and puffed his chest. "Just grit your teeth and follow my lead. We'll be fine."
Soon, they crested the final hill, where the plains opened up before them. The scene was breathtaking in the worst possible way. The full might of Kastal—a sea of over fifteen thousand soldiers—was assembled on the grass, their armor and weapons forming a forest of gleaming metal under the pale morning sky.
The Trogan Academy students filed into the formation, but Seth, Henry, and Eddin were marshaled to the very front. It was ostensibly a place of honor, but everyone knew the truth: they were the first sacrifice on the tip of the spear.
Ahead, Director Ryehill stood like a statue before the academy's forces. Seth's gaze scanned the command group gathered to the left. He recognized Directors Chester and Cranner, but his eyes were drawn inevitably to the center. There stood King Theron, his gray hair coiffed with precision, flanked by Marshal Vancaws. A few feet away, the heads of the Great Houses—including Elena's father—stood in a cluster of fabric and steel, all with their own emblem embossed on the chest.
In the center of the vast plain a hundred yards out, nearly two dozen portals hovered, their surfaces shimmering like disturbed water. And on the far side of those, mirroring them, stood the army of the Bridan Empire.
Their collective aura hit the Kastalian lines like a physical wall—a wave of tangible bloodlust that made Henry swallow hard. At the center of their command group stood a woman radiating absolute arrogance.
The Empress.
It felt like a lifetime ago that Seth had called her a "stepping stone."
A man and a woman in pristine white armor stepped out of one of the central portals—the representatives Seth recognized from the pre-war skirmishes.
Then, something else drifted from the same Warfare Rift.
It was a phantom—a being of pure, swirling gray aether that hovered silently above the scorched grass. It possessed the chiseled physique of a classical statue, though where there should have been stone, there was only dense, shifting smoke.
A Spirit, Seth thought, recalling Captain Michaelson's lectures.
Disciples of the Gods. Beings who had famously refused to intervene in mortal affairs but loved nothing more than to judge and criticize them. Whether NEVAK paid for their services or they simply flocked to the battles for a chance to watch was a mystery, but they were basically at every war the powerful association supervised.
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Inside the Warfare Rifts, they were said to be omniscient, seeing and feeling everything. Yet anyone hoping they were there to prevent atrocities was a fool. They were there to observe and tally. It was them who determined the 'achievements' and 'contributions' of every person inside.
As a scorekeeper at an event. It made the entire war feel like a grotesque, bloody game.
The thought left a sour taste in Seth's mouth. They would be fighting and dying for a ruler they despised while these... things... floated above the battlefield, turning their struggle into a spectacle for the world's elite to bet on—like King Theron and Marshal Vancaws.
Dangling Legacies like raw meat to make the dogs fight harder.
Would those rulers have the same attitude if it were their own blood on the line?
No, Seth thought with cold certainty. They wouldn't.
In the wild, the strongest led the charge. The alpha met the threat head-on, using their power to intimidate the enemy and protect the pack. That was how it was supposed to be. Celine was right: a nation's true strength was its most powerful Wielder. So why were the king, the marshal, and the empress standing safely on the sidelines and sending the weak to die in their name?
The natural order was broken. Inverted.
And Seth knew, with absolute certainty, that he would be the one to fix it.
.
King Theron advanced, flanked by Marshal Vancaws and the heads of the Great Houses, their banners snapping in the wind behind them. Across the plain, the empress strode forward with her own retinue. One figure among them stood out, a figure draped in shadow with a deep hood that swallowed their face.
A Black Reaper, Seth realized, his gaze lingering on the dark silhouette.
The two factions met in the center next to the white-armored NEVAK adjudicators. The distance swallowed up their words, but the body language was loud enough. The forced smiles and polite nods of the skirmishes were long gone.
Good.
Seth couldn't have stomached another round of performative laughter from the leaders who were sending thousands of people to the slaughter.
The NEVAK representatives gestured to the spirit. A moment later, massive glyphs of burning aether seared themselves into the sky above the hovering portals.
Seth's eyes found his squad's name ahead.
Squad 48 of Trogan Academy (Kastal) vs. Squad 13 of Altrix City (Bridan Empire).
A voice rippled out from the cloud-like figure in the middle of the plains—the sound was less a human speaking and more a vibration of pure aether that resonated through the air. "THE WAR BETWEEN THE KINGDOM OF KASTAL AND THE BRIDAN EMPIRE BEGINS. SQUADS, ADVANCE TO YOUR DESIGNATED RIFTS AND AWAIT THE SIGNAL."
In front of the academy's forces, Director Ryehill gave a sharp nod to Henry. The squad leader tensed up and hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, he clenched his jaw, forced his composure to return, and took the first step. Seth and Eddin fell in on his flanks, the rest of the squad bunching up in a tight, nervous formation behind them.
Seth knew from the pre-war lectures that this wasn't a race. The spirit controlled the entry, ensuring opposing teams were teleported to opposite sides of the Rift to prevent an immediate bloodbath. There was no tactical reason to rush.
Though it was yet another occasion for the empire to show its superiority.
Their squads marched toward the portals with decisive, synchronized strides. With every heavy step, the wave of killing intent around them rolled across the no-man's land, hitting the Kastal lines like a physical blow.
Seth tensed, his core flaring in response. To his left and right, Kastal's squads had already begun faltering. Their rhythm broke, and their steps dragged as if they were wading through deep mud, crushed under the weight of the empire's collective aura.
The war hadn't even begun, and they were already losing.
Across the field, the Empress wore a cold, victorious smirk as she looked at King Theron, openly mocking him. She was stripping them bare, showing the world just how weak Kastal's forces truly were—their march had slowed to a crawl.
Something primal inside Seth snapped. His core ripped open, flooding his veins with savage, scorching energy.
How dare they.
How dare they think they could make him afraid? They acted as if they were the owner of the field, of this territory. As if believing they were the predators, and he was the prey.
Inside the teardrop necklace, Nightmare sprang up, his own pride and anger mirroring Seth's. Hackles raised, the direwolf dug his claws into the floor of his den as he drew on the ambient Darkness, forced it all into his Well, and poured it through Link.
Beside Seth, Henry and Eddin faltered, their faces drained of all color as they hit the wall of invisible pressure from the empire. But just as they slowed, Seth stepped forward.
He didn't just resist the aura; he challenged it.
Mantle of Terror exploded outward, and a suffocating shroud of unadulterated bloodlust surged across the plain, exceeding the spell's normal range by dozens of yards.
The noise of the battlefield died instantly, silenced by the sheer weight of the aura. Fueled by both Nightmare and Seth, the spell kept expanding. In the process, aether above Seth twisted and coalesced into the massive, spectral head of a direwolf.
Its crimson eyes glowed and pierced through the enemy ranks, causing the empire's collective aura not just to fade, but to shatter.
Seth continued to advance, his steps steady and determined as the new Mantle of Terror seized control of the entire plain. The Bridan squad directly opposing him—the ones who had marched with such arrogance only seconds ago—had now completely stopped. Several of them even physically recoiled, their bravado gone and replaced by the one thing they had likely been told not to show.
Fear. Raw, primal fear.
Henry and Eddin exchanged a stunned glance, watching the enemy line crumble. The two of them fell in behind Seth, the rest of Squad 48 hurrying to follow. The dynamic had now flipped. Nightmare and Seth maintained a powerful flow of aether into Mantle of Terror, each pulse reinforcing the artificial dread that rooted their foes to the dirt.
The moment Seth reached the hazy portal, he looked at the section of the empire's army still frozen ahead: only a few of their strongest members could move, yet they trembled with each step they took.
Seth glanced to the left.
The Empress's smirk was gone, replaced by a mask of frigid fury. She remembered him. Beside her, the NEVAK representatives were also staring, no longer bearing bored expressions.
Yet Seth didn't care.
Marcus had gotten Seth the Citizenship Proof from the Oracle Guild for this very reason—so he wouldn't have to hold back. Even if those people found out about his origin he could still fight this war. So why should he let these people look down on him as if he were the prey?
The Spirit turned its head of swirling smoke, and its hollow gaze locked onto Seth. Slowly, a broad, cavernous grin split its formless face. It was the smile of a bored god who had just discovered a new variable in this grim game that others called war.
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