The training courtyard of Border Town was immersed in a frantic activity that defied the biting cold of the departing autumn. The icy wind, which descended directly from the dark slopes of the Impassable Mountain Range, carried with it the acrid smell of overturned earth, human sweat, and the unmistakable odor of sulfur. The rhythmic sound of the recruits' raw leather boots marching in unison against the hardened mud echoed through the wooden and cement walls under construction. Further away, in the artillery testing area, the dry, deafening crack of gunpowder marked the rhythm of the new era that Prince Roland was forging. It was a symphony of war and preparation, a brutal melody that promised survival to those willing to bleed for it.
Among the men observing the maneuvers, leaning against a pile of supply crates with a renewed intensity shining in his dark eyes, was Trevor. He was one of the veteran patrol guards, a man whose skin, tanned by the sun and the relentless border winds, told the story of a hard life. A few days ago, Trevor had faced death head-on, not on a glorious battlefield under the sunlight, but in the damp, dark, and claustrophobic tunnels that snaked beneath the castle.
Trevor still felt the dull, persistent throbbing of the recent scars that marked his torso and arms. They were superficial wounds now, thanks to Miss Nana's miraculous magic, but the memory of the sharp pain was still fresh. The clash with Duke Ryan's traitorous mercenaries had been a bloodbath in a tight space, where swords clashed against stone walls and the smell of rust flooded the air. However, the physical pain was a minor detail, an irrelevant distraction compared to the colossal scene that refused to leave his mind.
Whenever he closed his eyes, Trevor was transported back to the darkness of that underground corridor. He replayed the image of Lord William dismantling an elite patrol with an ease that bordered on the absurd. It hadn't been a refined fencing duel or a tactical exchange of blows. William had fought with his bare hands, moving with a strength and speed he had never seen anyone else match. Trevor had seen skulls crushed against stone, steel armor dented as if made of parchment, and the bodies of experienced warriors thrown through the air like rag dolls.
To Trevor, a man shaped by the brutality and constant harshness on the Border Town, where every day was a fight for survival, what he had witnessed was not just a display of superior combat skill. It was the manifestation of a miracle. It was the embodiment of absolute power and unwavering determination. The way Lord William had placed himself between certain death and the wounded soldiers demonstrated not only strength but a voracious, indomitable protective instinct.
As he watched the courtyard, Trevor's thoughts drifted to his brother-in-arms, Brian. That very morning, Brian had received direct honors from His Highness, Prince Roland, being elevated to the position of elite knight. It was a title of immense prestige, a golden dream for any common man who previously patrolled the mud of Border Town. Brian would now wear polished armor and ride under the royal banner. Trevor felt genuine pride for his friend, but, curiously, he felt no envy. Looking down at his own chest, where the bandages tightened around his ribs, Trevor realized he felt a fundamentally different calling.
He knew who he was. Trevor was a fearless and resilient man, possessing a stubborn tenacity. It was these exact qualities that had kept him standing and fighting when Captain Greyhound fell gravely wounded and Erik nearly succumbed to a poisoned blade during the ambush in the tunnel. He had held the front line in the dark, bleeding and snarling, refusing to let his brothers-in-arms die alone. However, his loyalty, previously divided between an abstract duty to the crown and daily survival, was now irrevocably and deeply tied to the man who had pulled him from the shadows of death. Prince Roland offered a future for Border Town, but Lord William had guaranteed Trevor's future.
Stepping away from the crates, Trevor walked slowly toward the center of the action. There, in the heart of the training courtyard, was William. He was supervising Van'er and a platoon of the newest recruits, who were sweating profusely trying to master the pike formations and the precise reloading movements of the new firearms. William maintained his usual relaxed, yet imposing posture — an attitude he himself mentally called "protagonist syndrome." His strong arms were crossed over a navy-blue noble fabric doublet, perfectly fitted to his athletic build. Even standing in silence, he exuded an aura of authority that made even the most exhausted recruit straighten his spine.
Trevor stopped for a moment, observing the dynamic. The air was filled with Iron Axe's dry, guttural orders. The deputy commander, a relentless warrior from the desert of the Sand Nation, walked among the ranks with the rigid posture of a predator, correcting stances with sharp taps of a wooden stick. The military protocol demanded by Iron Axe was strict, punitive, and allowed no casual interruptions. Breaking formation or approaching superiors unsummoned resulted in severe punishments, usually involving dozens of laps around the town carrying heavy stones.
But Trevor didn't care. What he had to do couldn't wait for the end of the shift. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the freezing air, which made his healed ribs protest slightly, and took a decisive step forward. His heavy footsteps sounded against the compacted ground as he approached William, completely ignoring the shocked looks of some nearby recruits and the dangerous narrowing of Iron Axe's eyes, who turned upon noticing the breach of order.
— "Lord William," — Trevor's voice echoed deep and firm, cutting through the noise of the marches. He stopped two paces away and struck his right fist against the left side of his chest in a flawless military salute. The sound of his gauntlet's hardened leather hitting the breastplate of his light armor was dry and laden with absolute sincerity.
William, who until then had been watching Van'er stumble slightly in the pike formation, turned slowly. The serious, imposing expression he usually wore during training immediately softened. A confident, almost predatory smirk appeared on his face as he recognized the scar-marked face. He remembered that man well. He was one of the guards who refused to retreat in the tunnel, even when outnumbered nine to four.
Instantly, without anyone else in the courtyard noticing, the reality around William seemed to slightly distort. A translucent interface, glowing in a neon blue that violently contrasted with Border Town's gray and brown palette, flickered before his eyes. It was his System. This peculiar and fantastic ability, which allowed him to see the world through hidden statistics and parameters, had been unlocked right after the intense battle in the tunnels, triggered, it seemed, by the excess of adrenaline and the surpassing of his own physical limits.
William's eyes focused on Trevor's figure, and the system quickly processed the man's biometrics and history, displaying glowing letters in the empty air.
Status: Trevor
Strength: 8
Speed: 6
Endurance: 12
Agility: 7
Intelligence: 6
William kept his smile, but his mind worked at a dizzying speed, analyzing the floating numbers. In the context of that world, the attributes of an ordinary, healthy man of manual labor age hovered around 5-6, 7 at most. Trained soldiers usually reached 7-10 or 11 in their specialties. Trevor's Strength of 8 already indicated respectable physical power, enough to break arms in a tavern brawl or carry heavy supplies with some effort. His Speed, Agility, and Intelligence were slightly above average, proving he was a balanced and astute warrior in battle.
However, what made William's eyes widen almost imperceptibly was that specific number. Endurance: 12.
An Endurance of 12 was something exceptionally rare for an ordinary human being who possessed no kind of magical enhancement or special bloodline. To put it in perspective, Brian, who had just become an elite knight and was known for his vigor, had an endurance of no more than 9. That number 12 put Trevor dangerously close to the monstrous vitality of legendary warriors like Iron Axe himself. It meant the man standing before him possessed lungs of steel, muscles that took twice as long to fatigue, and dense bones capable of withstanding impacts that would kill an ordinary person from shock. Trevor was not just a soldier; structurally, he was made of forged iron and thick leather. He was a true human shield.
— "Ah, it's you, the tunnel survivor," — William said, his voice loud enough for the nearest recruits to hear, laden with provocative confidence and a touch of human warmth that broke the military tension. He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward Trevor. — "How's the body, soldier? Our Nana did a good job, I imagine. The girl has a gift that would make the clerics of many RPGs cry with envy." —
Trevor didn't smile, maintaining an upright and respectful posture. He knew of the taboo surrounding witches, but after having his guts nearly stitched back into his body by young Miss Nana's glowing hands, any prejudice the Church had shoved into his head had turned to ash.
— "RPG? I apologize for my ignorance, I do not know what that means, my lord. But yes, I am completely recovered. My wounds are closed thanks to your timely intervention and the young miss's miraculous magic," — Trevor replied, his voice unwavering. He held a steady gaze, a loyal and penetrating look that showed no fear of standing before a noble. — "But, with all due respect, I did not come here to interrupt Deputy Commander Iron Axe's training to report on my health." —
He paused briefly, allowing silence to settle between them. Even Iron Axe stopped walking, observing the interaction from afar, curious to know where the patrolman was going with this.
— "I saw what you did in that darkness, Lord William," — Trevor continued, slightly lowering his voice so only the noble could hear the details. — "I saw the brutal power you carry in your fists. I saw how you did not hesitate to throw yourself in front of blades to save men who were beneath your station. I know His Highness, Prince Roland's new militia is desperately needed to keep the wall standing during winter. I know Border Town needs marksmen and spearmen. But I... I wish to serve you, to be your shadow." —
William raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the frankness. His self-confidence vibrated intensely in the back of his mind. He had read enough stories, in his past life and this one, to recognize a high-caliber oath of loyalty when he saw one. It was the kind of proposal that turned a secondary character into a formidable right-hand man.
— "My shadow, huh?" — William murmured, testing the weight of the words, a gleam of curiosity lighting up his face.
— "I wish to be part of this militia, yes, but specifically acting as your personal bodyguard," — Trevor continued, raising his voice again, owning his choice before the world without a trace of hesitation. — "I am a rustic man, of few words and no noble title. But my life has belonged to you since that moment in the tunnel. I am not a polished knight like Brian, I don't know how to recite the codes of chivalry. But if the demonic beasts break the line, or if the hybrid beasts that inhabit the peaks of the Mountain Range try to get near you... they will have to step over my dead body first." —
The words fell heavily upon the courtyard. There was such raw truth in Trevor's declaration that the air around them seemed to grow denser. William looked at the man, realizing the magnitude of that promise. With an Endurance of 12, stepping over Trevor's dead body would be an exhausting task even for an elite soldier.
Suddenly, William let out a short, deep, and sincere laugh. He raised his right hand and delivered a friendly yet firm slap on Trevor's shoulder. The force of the impact, driven by the absurd 16 points of Strength William possessed, was enough to make the guard's robust body stagger a step back and his teeth clatter slightly. It was a quick test, and Trevor endured it by absorbing the impact and quickly regaining his balance without complaining.
— "A personal bodyguard for the story's protagonist? Yeah, I think I could definitely get used to that," — William joked, using vocabulary Trevor wouldn't fully understand, though the Lord's eyes showed a deep gleam of approval and real respect. The joke quickly vanished from his face, replaced by the cold reality of the world they lived in.
William stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and lowered his voice, speaking with an authority that chilled the blood.
— "Listen closely to what I am going to tell you, Trevor. And carve this into your mind. The winter blowing our way will be unlike any you have faced in your years on patrol. Forget the old tactics." — William pointed with his chin toward the north. — "Roland has ordered that there will be no retreat. There will be no cowardly evacuation to the comfort of Longsong Stronghold's high walls. We will stay right here, in the very mud you are stepping on." —
Trevor didn't blink, absorbing every word.
— "We are going to fight head-on against mutant beasts seven meters long, covered in impenetrable turtle shells and tusks the size of broadswords," — William continued, painting a vivid picture of the terror of the Months of the Demons. — "We will face giant wolves with black, corrosive blood, and monstrous boars capable of knocking down entire trees with a headbutt. The wall will be painted red and black. It will be a hell of ice and chaos. If you truly want to be by my side, if you want to be my shield wall... understand that the exhausting training you will undergo with Iron Axe starting tomorrow will just be the warm-up. I am going to extract every last drop of that endurance of yours." —
Trevor held the Lord's gaze. Fear was a natural emotion, and only fools did not fear the Months of the Demons. But what shone in Trevor's eyes was something that surpassed the primal fear of death: purpose.
— "I do not fear the giant beasts, my lord. I do not fear the black blood or the eternal winter," — Trevor declared, his voice choked with the contained emotion of a warrior. Without looking away, he took a step back and, in one fluid motion, knelt heavily into the cold mud of the courtyard. He bowed his head, sealing his oath of loyalty not in a hall adorned with tapestries, but right there, in the dirt of Border Town, before dozens of gaping recruits and a silently approving Iron Axe. — "I only fear being weak and useless to the man who saved me. Give the order, and I will be your wall." —
William looked down at the kneeling man before him. A tangible sense of power, different from the one granted by his System's statistics, flooded his chest. He slowly shifted his gaze toward the massive wall of raw cement rising majestically in the distance, cutting through the gray horizon and separating civilization from the wildlands.
He knew the approaching winter would be colossal and no joke. He knew that Arthur, in his own quarters, was deeply focused and immersed in the complex military logistics and analytics necessary to keep the gears of that town turning. Arthur was the brain working in the shadows. But William felt, at that exact moment, that he was beginning to build his own domain. Through spilled blood, demonstrations of strength, and now the sworn devotion of unbreakable men like Trevor, he was erecting his own pillar of strength.
Those men weren't just following the edicts of a distant Prince; they were beginning to see him not merely as a passing noble, but as an invincible commander, a true Lord of Graycastle worth killing and dying for. And when the first snowflake fell silently onto Trevor's shoulder, William knew that the Months of the Demons were closer than ever.