As Legion 23 finally emerged from the suffocating grip of the mountain range, the landscape began to change in a way that felt almost surreal. The jagged peaks that had loomed endlessly to their right slowly gave way to rolling hills—gentler terrain that no longer forced them onto narrow, treacherous paths or across snow-laden ridges where a single misstep could mean freezing to death. The shift was gradual, but unmistakable, and when they crossed the largest of these hills—one that rose nearly a kilometer into the sky—it felt like stepping out of one world and into another. In ancient times, such a height would have been considered a natural fortress, a place where a city could thrive for centuries, protected from all but the most determined sieges. But now, as the soldiers crested its summit, that sense of security felt distant, almost ironic.
Before them stretched an expansive view that silenced even the most talkative among them. Rolling hills descended into wide valleys, the terrain smoothing out until it formed a vast plain that seemed to go on forever. Small streams glimmered under the fading sunlight, winding their way through the land like veins of silver. In the far distance, barely visible without aid, the faint outline of a forest marked the horizon. Only those with keen eyes—or enhanced vision like the Archer Eye skill—could make it out clearly, but once seen, it was impossible to ignore. That forest, they all knew, marked the direction of their true objective.
Yet it wasn't the distant forest that drew their attention.
It was the plain itself.
Once green, once vibrant with life, it was now stained a deep, unsettling red. Even from this distance, it was clear that a massive battle had taken place there not long ago. The evidence was everywhere—scattered remains of bodies, some already collected into piles, others still lying where they had fallen. Smoke rose in thin columns from burn pits dotting the landscape, where the dead were being disposed of in grim efficiency. The air carried a faint, acrid scent that even the wind couldn't fully disperse. It was a battlefield in its aftermath, quiet but heavy, as if the land itself had yet to recover from the violence inflicted upon it.
Beyond the carnage, however, another sight rose into view—one that contrasted sharply with the chaos of death.
An endless sea of tents.
They were arranged with almost unnatural precision, stretching across the plain in neat, organized lines that resembled the layout of a modern city. Wide pathways—more like highways—cut through the encampment, allowing for rapid movement of troops and supplies. From above, it would likely resemble a carefully planned metropolis rather than a temporary military camp. The tents themselves varied in size and color, each designating different factions, nations, and roles within the army. Larger command tents stood like towering structures among smaller ones, their presence unmistakable even from afar.
It was as if an entire city had risen overnight—but instead of homes and markets, it housed soldiers and war.
Eloi took in the sight for a brief moment before turning to his officers. "Find a place to set up camp according to the blueprints," he said, his tone brisk but controlled. "I'll go report to the Marshals."
The reaction was immediate, though varied. Some officers stiffened at the mention of the Marshals, others exchanged brief glances, and a few couldn't quite hide their surprise. The Marshals were not figures one expected to find on the front lines. They were the highest-ranking military authorities on the planet, titles reserved only for the great powers that shaped the world. For them to be here, in person, meant one thing: they were determined to end it.
"Yes, sir," Selvijs replied, stepping forward as Eloi handed him the blueprints. He glanced at them briefly, noting their simplicity. They outlined the main pathways and logistical flow, but everything else—the placement of units, the cultural considerations, the finer details—was left to the discretion of the legion commander. It was both a sign of trust and a necessity, given the sheer diversity of the forces gathered here. "I'll have someone guide you back once you're done. See you in a day, sir."
Eloi nodded once before turning away, already heading toward the center of the encampment.
Selvijs watched him go for a moment, then turned back to the legion. "You heard him," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Let's get to work."
The central command tent stood at the heart of the encampment like a monument to authority.
Calling it a tent felt almost insulting. It towered over everything around it, its height rivaling that of a circus structure, its breadth comparable to a castle. Reinforced with steel frameworks and layered with heavy, durable fabric, it exuded both strength and sophistication. How such a structure had been transported and erected in so short a time was a mystery Eloi didn't have the patience to solve.
As he stepped inside, he found himself momentarily caught off guard.
The interior was nothing like he expected. Instead of the utilitarian simplicity typical of military structures, the entrance resembled a high-end hotel lobby. Clean lines, polished surfaces, and an air of quiet efficiency filled the space. Even though everything was constructed from fabric and metal, the design conveyed a sense of elegance and control that few permanent buildings could match.
"Can I help you, Commander?" a voice asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
Eloi turned to see an aide standing behind a reception desk, posture straight, expression neutral. The question was delivered in flawless English, though the aide's accent hinted at a different origin. Eloi quickly composed himself, masking any lingering surprise.
"Yes," he replied. "I'm here to report that Legion 23 has arrived and awaits further instructions."
"Of course, sir," the aide said with a slight nod. "Please follow the corridor on your right. The Marshals are currently in a meeting—you should find them there."
"Thank you."
Eloi inclined his head slightly before moving on. He had long since learned not to underestimate individuals like this. Aides might not hold high rank, but they operated close to power—close enough to influence decisions in ways that weren't always visible. In some cases, they were more dangerous than generals.
Inside the meeting chamber, the five Marshals had already been informed of his arrival.
"This one's yours, Herman," Marshal John Harris remarked casually, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile. "If I recall correctly, Legion 23 is one of the units that went into the forest. Took quite a beating, didn't they? And their commander…" His smile widened slightly. "The one who made that speech."
Herman's expression remained firm. "You can't blame him for that," he said. "It was necessary. Without it, morale would have collapsed."
"Perhaps," Harris replied, unconcerned. "Still, it caused quite the stir."
"It also got results," Herman countered. "The troops needed to understand what was at stake. Otherwise, they would have stopped fighting altogether—especially after those rations."
At that, the room fell momentarily quiet.
Even the Marshals, who maintained the same diet as their soldiers to set an example, couldn't deny the truth of that statement. The memory of the grey bars was enough to sour anyone's mood, and more than one of them silently appreciated the decision to approve the distribution of hard candy.
Herman straightened slightly, shifting the conversation back to business. "Legion 23 is a veteran unit," he continued. "What remains of it is composed of elite soldiers. I intend to assign them to the second phase of the operation."
"Fine by me," Harris said with a shrug, already returning his attention to the maps and notes spread before him. The others offered similar, indifferent responses. The decision, it seemed, was entirely Herman's to make.
Satisfied, Herman turned to one of the aides and gave a small nod.
Moments later, the signal was sent.
Commander Eloi was cleared to enter.