“They’re retreating?”

  Mullack looked far into the distance through his binoculars; the BloodClaw army was moving deeper into their own territory. The supply convoys were bustling yet orderly but strangely, only a few Wolf Riders were escorting them. If Mullack were to send a unit across the river to approach those convoys now, he might easily seize a massive amount of food and resources from the enemy.

  “They’re trying to lure us into attacking.”

  Ceasar calmly analyzed. As a commander who had once led troops in Noland, facing various races such as Orcs, Trolls, even Naga, he could easily recognize the simple trap set by BloodClaw.

  “Golden used to be Ossa, a barbaric land ruled by great tribes. BloodClaw was one of them, famous for their vexing guerrilla tactics. However, what we truly need to pay attention to is the VenomSerpent.”

  Ceasar pointed toward the Emerald Mountain Range that stretched across the territories of Golden, Hesmor, and Greaton.

  “The VenomSerpent, an ancient tribe dwelling on the Emerald Range, can move in and out of the mountains through countless hidden paths. If our forces attack, they could swiftly surge out from the east for a surprise assault. Moreover, there’s a high chance that GoldenFang’s troops are also lying in ambush at the foot of Infernic Mountain to the west. Our army could face three enemy fronts simultaneously—throwing the formation into chaos and leading to catastrophic defeat.”

  Mullack fully understood what Ceasar meant but how long were they supposed to keep waiting?

  “Don’t be hasty. We are merely bait,” Ceasar said quietly.

  “What did you say? Over a hundred thousand main force troops, the entire frontal assault formation, are bait?” Ceasar smiled mysteriously. It seemed that the three great families had a secret plan that even Jacor’s own “nephew” could not know.

  “Maintain formation. What we must do is wait. Wait for a signal.”

  The Loket Fortress was built upon the ruins of the old palace, reigning over the capital city of Hesmir. Inside the war strategy chamber, a fierce argument broke out between Coeur and Jacor. Loket Coeur slammed down an exquisite cup filled with fine Meli wine, the crystal shattering across the floor. He angrily pointed at Jacor and shouted,

  “You’ve lost your mind! Your plan will severely damage my interests. There will be no agreement! Use your own men for this. Besides, King Aster will never approve of it.”

  Jacor looked at the fat man calmly as if staring at an idiot. Everyone knew Aster was merely a puppet, a figurehead created by Jacor himself. The true power rested entirely in his hands. A king with the rank of Fighter? Don’t make him laugh. A single flick of Jacor’s finger could end Aster’s life countless times.

  “Coeur, it seems you’ve forgotten where your slave supply comes from. If it weren’t for me, that delicious piece of the Noland pie would never have been yours.”

  Jacor approached Coeur, patted the fat man’s shoulder like an old friend, and smiled pleasantly. Jacor was truly an exceptional merchant, a master at controlling his emotions.

  “Don’t worry. Just follow the plan. Trust me—you won’t regret it. The profit will be far greater than the loss.”

  More than two weeks ago, inside Jacor small room in Mornet, a modest chamber within an old, worn-down house , Jacor was racking his brain, searching for a breakthrough point to strike Golden. The merchant found it difficult; Golden’s geography was far too favorable for defense. Facing them was the Infernic Mountain Range, while the west was bordered by the Black Sea and the Dead Valley. The only viable path for a full-scale assault lay across the Emerald River plains. He had once considered forming a special unit to infiltrate Golden through the Emerald Mountains, but quickly abandoned the idea after learning about the formidable strength of the Serpent tribe.

  “Damn it… must we attack from the front? If so, our army will suffer enormous losses,” Jacor frowned. They were wealthy but not infinitely so. To knowingly march toward massive losses would be nothing short of foolishness.

  Suddenly, a cold gust swept across him, making Jacor startle. He was about to shout for the guards when a deep, low voice stopped him in place.

  “I’ve only come to deliver a message. Please, remain calm.”

  Jacor’s eyes narrowed at the cloaked figure. The newcomer wore a large black sorcerer’s robe that covered his entire body. There was no mistake, this was the man who had assassinated King Rumi, an accomplice of Mulock during the Lumina Palace raid.

  Jacor quietly closed the window. Anyone capable of entering silently and unseen was no ordinary intruder. Though Jacor himself was a formidable Battle King, the presence before him pressed down heavily, stirring his instincts to caution. Mana began circulating through his body, ready for any unexpected turn.

  “What brings you here, Mr…?”

  “Call me Valen,” the man replied coldly, his raspy tone echoing like a voice from the dead.

  “Very well, Mr. Valen. What reason do you have for coming here? If your answer doesn’t satisfy me, even if you’re Mulock’s ally, I can make sure you stay here forever,” Jacor said irritably.

  Valen gave a faint chuckle at the threat. He manipulated his Will, guiding a small piece of paper to float slowly toward the merchant.

  “A small suggestion from my master for this troublesome situation. I believe you’ll find it… intriguing.”

  Jacor, full of suspicion, snatched the hovering paper and read it carefully. The contents made his eyes gleam with light and a trace of fear, at the madness written within. He stared at Valen, astonished.

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  “Your master… he’s not Mulock, is he? He’s someone entirely different. How interesting.”

  “Mulock is but a grain of sand in a vast desert. I can see you’ve already made your decision. My work here is done. We shall meet again soon, Jacor.”

  Jacor did not stop him. The window flung open once more, and the cold air flooded the room. The merchant sat back in his chair, lost in thought. After a while, he opened a drawer, took out a cigar, lit it, and drew in a deep breath. The smoke he exhaled was quickly swept away by the wind. Then, suddenly, Jacor burst into laughter, loud, unrestrained laughter that echoed endlessly through the small, dim room.

  Since parting ways with Renes, Exitus had joined a recruitment campaign held in Hesmir. The streets were crowded with sturdy young men, most of them sons of the local farmers. The generous rewards made even the desperate willingly throw themselves into death’s embrace. Of course, it wasn’t certain they would die at least, there was still a chance to survive.

  The recruitment in Hesmir was overseen by Locket, who set the standards incredibly low. As long as one was willing to fight for the country, anyone could enlist even the old or the crippled. Every applicant was paid the same: two silver coins. A meager sum, but enough for impoverished families to endure through the famine and hardship.

  The recruitment grounds were set up at the edge of the city, an empty clearing with a tall flagpole at its center, where the national flag of Hesmor fluttered: the twin-headed lion. To the left stood the registration tent, where a long line stretched endlessly, filled even with the lame and the maimed.

  Among that seemingly endless line stood a peculiar boy. He stood there like a towering mountain, the pressure emanating from him enough to make those nearby uneasy. Exitus closed his eyes, waiting patiently for his turn, both hands buried in his pockets. His calm, confident demeanor made many of the other young men feel small in comparison.

  “Hey.”

  A youthful voice called out from behind. Exitus turned to see a blonde-haired boy smiling at him eagerly. The boy wore a torn, faded shirt that exposed a muscular, labor-hardened body beneath the fabric. His eyes fixed on Exitus with an almost feverish excitement, bright with admiration and burning desire.

  Exitus frowned impatiently. He detested being disturbed, especially by those who were likely walking toward their deaths.

  “Sorry, do we know each other?” Exitus replied coldly.

  Contrary to what he expected, the blonde boy suddenly dropped to his knees, bowing fervently before him.

  “Please, accept me as your disciple! I beg you, please accept me as your disciple!”

  “Oh?”

  A strange light flickered in Exitus’s eyes. He could tell immediately that the boy before him had no mana within his body. He was just an ordinary human. Though physically strong, he had not yet reached the level of a Fighter.

  “Sorry, but I’m not interested. Besides, I’m younger than you.” Exitus refused, turning away coldly, his eyes closing once again.

  Thane watched Exitus’s retreating figure with frustration. He knew the boy before him was no ordinary being. His instincts screamed that if he let this chance slip by, he might never become the great man he had once promised his grandfather he would be.

  From birth, Thane had been remarkably strong. The villagers called him “the child blessed with divine strength.” Even as a boy, he could lift objects several times his own weight, hurling boulders as if they were nothing. Orphaned at a young age, he lived with an old man whom many whispered was not his real grandfather, but someone who had merely found him in the forest. In his youth, Thane’s grandfather had served as a soldier under Voga’s command. When Thane was little, the old man often told him countless stories about battles in the dungeons, campaigns against goblins, and the defense of Mornet Bay against the Naga. Those tales of valor planted seeds of legend in the young boy’s heart, filling him with the dream of becoming a hero, a true hero who would protect the weak with his own strength.

  Thane refused to accept it. He gathered himself and created an extremely faint stream of Will that moved toward Exitus, making the boy freeze for a moment. A normal person,someone who had never even touched mana could create Will?

  Exitus possessed extraordinary perception, and even Thane’s weak current of Will was enough to astonish him. If Exitus was right this boy is a Champion. Exitus himself was merely an imposter wearing the title of Champion. His Anchor Point was the Book of Madenes; he was not a Champion by birth. But the boy behind him was different, one destined from birth to achieve greatness, a Champion born under divine design. Exitus suddenly felt intrigued. His steps slowed, then came to a halt.

  “You truly wish to become my disciple?”

  The echoing voice sent Thane into a frenzy of joy. He knew he had gambled right. His grandfather had once warned him never to reveal his Will to anyone unless he was strong enough. But Thane knew that without doing so, he would never catch the attention of the boy before him.

  “Yes, Teacher. Please accept a disciple’s bow!” Thane was overwhelmed with excitement; his bow struck the ground with such force that it cracked open. Blood ran down his young face, yet his expression overflowed with joy.

  Ignoring the contemptuous gazes of those around, Exitus slowly approached Thane. He examined the boy’s body carefully and sensed a powerful sealing spell.

  “A seal?” Exitus murmured in surprise. No wonder he couldn’t feel any mana from him.

  Exitus fell silent in thought. He truly didn’t want to meddle in another’s fate. However… he would give Thane a chance.

  “We are wretched beings, living in a world filled with misfortune and nightmares. If you cannot overcome your nightmares, how can you ever go far? I will test you. If you pass this trial, I will accept you as my disciple.”

  It was strange to hear such profound words from a boy but Thane didn’t care. He only heard one words: “trial.” A fire of determination ignited in his eyes; he would overcome it at any cost.

  “Understood, Teacher! Even if I must cross mountains of blades or seas of fire, I will complete this trial!” Thane struck his chest confidently.

  Exitus smirked. What a passionate child. Dark spirals flickered within his eyes.

  “Nothing that extreme. I only need you to take a nap. Now, look into my eyes.”

  Thane stared blankly into Exitus’s pitch-black pupils, as if his soul were pulled away. He froze in place. Suddenly, the sky broke into a heavy downpour. Thane was pushed out of line by those behind him, falling into the mud like a lifeless statue. The people waiting murmured curiously. They had no idea what had happened to the boy. His eyes were still wide open, his face frozen in terror. No matter what they did, he didn’t move, like a corpse abandoned among the living. Eventually, they ignored him, treating him as a strange sight at the recruitment grounds, a story to pass the time while waiting their turn.

  Days passed. The enlistment continued; the crowd still surged. And Thane still lay there. Mud covered his body; if not for the faint heartbeat, one would think he was dead. His face had changed, the horror and fear were gone, replaced instead by a calm unlike any before.

  In a nearby training ground, Exitus swung his heavy sword with practiced rhythm. His steps were steady, movements graceful, his body sculpted like stone. The young men around him swallowed hard in admiration. Exitus quickly rose to the position of squad captain, thanks to his exceptional swordsmanship. Of course, he never used his full power but even that much was enough to grant him his own tent and freedom from lowly chores.

  After a round of training, Exitus suddenly sensed something interesting, a familiar resonance from afar. Thane, his body caked in mud and his eyes bloodshot, slowly approached. He knelt before Exitus, recalling the horrors he had endured over the past days, tears welling in his eyes.

  “I have passed the trial, Teacher,” he whispered, trembling.

  Exitus sheathed his sword and smiled in satisfaction. No matter how great your talent, how strong your backing if your will is not steadfast, if your courage cannot overcome the nightmares, then you will lie down forever and never awaken.

  “Well done. You are my first disciple. Allow me to introduce myself”

  “My name is Exitus.”