The South-Eastern border camp was a grim collection of spiked palisades and mud-slicked trenches, a far cry from the marble-floored elegance of the inner palace. Before Kaelen could even stow his gear in the cramped Vanguard barracks, he was summoned to the primary command tent. Inside, Colonel Harken, a man whose face was a jagged map of old shrapnel scars, studied Kaelen with a mixture of pity and professional curiosity.
"You are a ghost, Soldier 19876," Harken said, his voice like grinding gravel. "In the history of Aethelgard, no temporary recruit has ever been assigned to the Vanguard 1st Squad. Someone high up—likely a General—wants you to disappear in the red dust of this border."
As the Colonel began to brief him on the local threats—the rival City-State of Drakon's Reach and their penchant for lightning-fast raiding parties—the tent flap was torn open. A scout, covered in filth and smelling of copper-sweet blood, collapsed at the entrance.
"Colonel! The outer patrols... they're gone! A Drakon army—at least three thousand strong—is breaching the southern gorge! They aren't raiding; they're invading!"
Harken's face went pale. "Three thousand? That's a full-scale assault. Signal the Regiment! Squad 1, to the front!"
Kaelen didn't wait for a second command. He bridged the distance to the perimeter in a blur of motion, the Primordial Chaos technique humming within his Spirit Sea with a dark, hungry vibration.
According to the intelligence, an army of this size wouldn't waste high-tier elites on a frontline breach. Most would be 4th or 5th-stage fodder, with commanders at the 7th or 8th stage of Skin Tempering. Recalling his fight with Grok, Kaelen knew that his Peak 6th-stage foundation—backed by the terrifying density of the Chaos essence—made him a match for even an 8th-stage veteran.
He reached the Vanguard 1st Squad just as the first wave of Drakon infantry slammed into their line. The air was a cacophony of screaming steel and dying men. The 1st Squad, grizzled and desperate, fought like cornered wolves. They had already cut down a dozen enemies, but the cost was heavy—two of Kaelen's squadmates already lay trampled in the mud, their lifeblood mixing with the red clay.
"Hold the line!" the Squad Leader roared, parrying a heavy spear.
The reinforcements from the rest of the Vanguard arrived, but their numbers were barely a thousand. They were outnumbered three-to-one. This wasn't a skirmish; it was a slaughter in the making.
In the chaos, Kaelen became a ghost of the battlefield. He didn't use his crude iron sword for long—the mass-produced metal chipped and dulled within minutes of clashing against Drakon shields. Instead, he drew the Pitch-Black Dagger.
He moved through the fray with a terrifying lack of effort. While others gasped for air and struggled with the weight of their armor, Kaelen felt as though he were breathing the very essence of the carnage. The Primordial Chaos technique was feeding on the atmospheric essence of the war, keeping his lungs clear and his muscles as fresh as if he were merely taking a morning stroll.
One. A Drakon sergeant at the 5th stage tried to thrust a pike; Kaelen stepped inside the guard and opened the man's throat before he could blink.
Five. A trio of shield-bearers attempted to crush him; the black dagger sheared through their "Refined" shields as if they were wet parchment.
Ten. Kaelen had already surpassed the requirement for permanent recruitment twice over. He targeted the mid-level officers—the 5th and 6th-stage warriors who were leading the charge. To the surrounding soldiers, it looked as though Kaelen was simply lucky, dodging through the gaps. In reality, he was a reaper. The black blade didn't just kill; it drank. Every soul it took sent a minute pulse of refined essence back into Kaelen, steadying his rapid-fire cultivation foundation.
Despite Kaelen's hidden massacre, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell. The Vanguard was being pushed back toward the camp gates. The ground was so slick with blood that men were sliding and falling, only to be butchered where they lay.
Colonel Harken watched from the ramparts, his heart sinking. His men were legends, but they were mortal. The Drakon army was relentless, and the promised reinforcements from the City were still days away.
"Colonel!" a lieutenant shouted. "The 2nd Regiment has been flanked! We're losing the gate!"
Harken looked at the sea of Drakon banners. He saw their lead commander—a man in obsidian plate armor, likely a 9th-stage monster or a Muscle Forging initiate—raising a hand to signal the final charge.
"Signal for a parley," Harken whispered, his voice broken. "White flag. We can't hold. If we don't negotiate, there won't be a Vanguard left to bury."
Kaelen, standing atop a pile of enemy corpses, heard the signal horn. He looked at his black dagger, then at the approaching Drakon elite. He felt the silver vortex in his Spirit Sea reaching a boiling point. The army wanted to negotiate out of fear, but Kaelen knew that in this world, you didn't negotiate with words.
You negotiated with the weight of your blade.