The assignment was not merely a placement; it was a death warrant signed with the ink of political spite. The Vanguard Regiment of the 12th Division served under the 3rd General—the very man whose nephew Kaelen had humbled at the bridge. This was the "Tip of the Spear," the suicide squad stationed at the treacherous South-Eastern border. It was a jagged landscape of blood and iron, frequently besieged by the rival City-States that hungered for Aethelgard's resources.
As the 1st Squad of the 1st Regiment, Kaelen's team would be the literal first line of contact. In every skirmish, they were the meat meant to dull the enemy's blades before the "real" army arrived.
When Kaelen reported to the Vanguard's barracks, he was met by the Regiment Commander, a man named Garrick. Garrick was a towering figure with a face mapped by scars and eyes that had seen too many brothers fall. To Kaelen's surprise, the Commander's welcome was firm and professional. There was no hidden malice in his handshake, no flicker of the 3rd General's petty vengeance.
He doesn't know, Kaelen realized, watching Garrick turn back to a map of the border. To him, I'm just another body to fill a gap. The General didn't tell him about our conflict—he just threw me into the grinder and expected the enemy to do his dirty work.
"Prepare yourself, Recruit 19876," Garrick barked. "We depart for the South-East in one month. If you aren't ready by then, the border will swallow you whole."
Kaelen didn't need the warning. He retreated to his new, sparse military quarters and descended into a state of restless, near-manic cultivation.
The Primordial Eclipse technique responded to his urgency. The silver vortex in his Spirit Sea spun with such velocity that it began to hum, a sound like a distant storm. By the end of the second week, Kaelen's skin had transitioned from the metallic sheen of the 4th stage to a strange, matte density that felt like cured dragon-hide.
He had reached the Peak of the 6th Stage Skin Tempering.
He stood in his room, testing his strength. A casual flick of his finger against the stone wall left a deep indentation. He felt as though he could face a dozen 3rd-stage warriors at once and not feel a single blow. However, he stopped there. He felt the foundations of his power trembling—a sign of rapid advancement leading to instability. If he pushed to the 7th stage—the start of the "Late Threshold"—without solidifying his current state, his Spirit Sea might collapse under its own weight.
With the remaining two weeks, he turned his attention to the Alchemy Guide and the Weapon Smith Guide.
His mind, sharpened by his cultivation, absorbed the theoretical knowledge like a sponge. He calculated ratios, memorized the "Spirit-Pulse" of various herbs, and studied the molecular alignment of essence-forged steel. Based on the books, he felt he had the intellectual grasp to refine Tier 2 Medicines and craft Refined Iron-Wrought Weapons.
But the transition from theory to practice was a cold bucket of water.
When he tried to condense the Pill Flame—the internal fire required to purge impurities from herbs—nothing happened. He channeled his essence until his palms smoked, but the spark of creation eluded him. The same happened with the Weapon Flame. He had the strength of a 6th-stage warrior, but he lacked the "Elemental Intent" required for crafting.
I am a blade, Kaelen mused, staring at his cold palms. I am not yet the blacksmith. There is a long road ahead before I can forge my own destiny.
In the final week before departure, Kaelen's gaze fell upon the Magical Sphere from the box—the item that had remained silent while the dagger and the manuals gave up their secrets.
He grabbed it, expecting a pulse of energy or a vision. Silence. He tried to feed it his silver essence. It drank the energy but offered nothing in return. Frustration boiled over. In a moment of reckless curiosity, Kaelen decided to test the sphere's physical limits.
He placed the sphere on the floor, braced his feet, and delivered a 6th-stage stomp backed by the full weight of his Primordial Eclipse power.
The stone floor of the barracks shattered. The shockwave rattled the windows of the entire block. But when the dust cleared, the sphere sat perfectly centered in a crater of rubble, its surface as smooth and unblemished as a mirror. Not a single crack. Not even a smudge.
Kaelen picked it up, feeling a chill. His strength was enough to crush a man's skull like an egg, yet it couldn't even scratch this marble-sized object. This is no ordinary treasure, he thought, carefully wrapping it and tucking it into the innermost pocket of his armor. If I cannot break it, perhaps it is waiting for me to become something worth breaking it for.
The Departure: Temporary vs. Permanent
The month expired. The assembly bell tolled at dawn, a low, somber bronze note that echoed through the military sector.
On the training field, a thousand men stood in perfect formation. Kaelen stood among the 1st Squad. He noticed a glaring difference: he was the only Temporary Recruit in a field of Permanent Soldiers.
The status was more than just a title. Temporary recruits were the lowest rung of the ladder—disposable, underpaid, and often used for the most degrading tasks. To become a Permanent Soldier, there were three paths:
Service: Serve the military faithfully for a couple of months. This was practically a turtle walk for kaelen.
Talent: Display extraordinary combat ability during training. This way of advancement was also nearly impossible for kaelen, as the 3rd General would block any promotion. Now the only way left for kaelen was the blood path.
The Blood Path: Defeat five enemy soldiers during an official war.
To the veterans, the third path was a joke—a rule left over from ancient times. Most soldiers were lucky to survive a single encounter with an enemy combatant, let alone slay five in a single campaign. But to Kaelen, as he looked toward the South-Eastern horizon, it was the only path that remained open.
As the 12th Division began its long march out of the city gates, the atmosphere changed. The polished floors of the palace were replaced by the dry, red dust of the outer territories.
The veterans of the 1st Squad—men with names like Iron-Eye and Scar—looked at Kaelen with a mixture of pity and annoyance. To them, he was a child playing at war, a piece of bad luck assigned to their squad that would likely trip and get them all killed.
But Kaelen didn't care about their opinions. He walked with his head up, his Crude Iron Sword at his hip and the Pitch-Black Dagger hidden in his soul. He felt the South-Eastern wind blowing against his 6th-stage skin, smelling of smoke and distant blood.
The 3rd General had sent him here to die.
Kaelen intended to show him that if you throw a spark into a powder keg, you shouldn't be surprised when the entire world goes up in flames. He wasn't going to the border to serve; he was going to harvest. Five enemies? He would take fifty if that was what it took to climb out of the soot and into the sun.