The night was as dark as ink.
On the training ground of the Seventh Training Camp, the last batch of utterly exhausted recruits dragged their heavy steps back toward the barracks.
Only a single figure was still moving beneath the moonlight.
Raine Valeri gripped the training longsword with both hands, repeating the most basic slashing motion again and again.
"Hah!"
The blade tore through the air with a deep, dull whoosh.
Sweat soaked through his gray, coarse training clothes and dripped from his chin onto the sandy ground below.
Every time he raised his arms, it felt as if he were hauling iron blocks—but he didn't stop.
Memories from his previous life stirred like a slumbering beast, slowly awakening within this young body.
Absolute control over his body.
Precise understanding of force trajectories.
Perception of every minute tremor in his muscle fibers.
"Forty-seventh strike… angle's drifting to the right."
He silently corrected himself, adjusting the rotation of his shoulder blades.
During the daytime demonstration, Black Falcon had said:
"The Iron Cleaver is designed to break through carapace and stone-like skin. Its center of gravity lies in the forward third of the blade."
"What you need to feel isn't swinging—it's smashing. Use your entire body weight to smash the blade into the enemy."
Now, Raine understood.
He no longer relied solely on arm strength. Power surged upward from his feet as they drove into the ground, flowing through his legs, waist, core, and spine—whipping forward segment by segment until it converged at his wrists.
At the instant the blade struck an imaginary target, the unified force erupted in full.
Boom!
Dust exploded upward from the sandy ground, completely engulfing Raine's silhouette.
"Huu…"
He drew the blade back and stood still, eyes closed, savoring the sensation of that strike.
Tiny adjustments had produced a dramatic difference.
A slash that once demanded ten parts effort now required only seven to achieve the same result—and with even finer control of the blade.
This was efficiency.
On a battlefield where life and death were decided in an instant, saving even a fraction of strength could mean killing one more enemy—or surviving one more second.
"Still not resting?"
A hoarse voice came from behind him.
Raine turned his head to see Kyle approaching with two wooden cups.
The bearded man handed one over. "Drink up. Mead mixed with water. Helps ease muscle soreness."
The warm liquid slid down Raine's throat, carrying a faint sweetness.
He thanked him softly.
A deep look flickered in Kyle's eyes.
The old Raine had never been this disciplined. That kid's favorite pastime had been lying in the back of the caravan, sneaking naps whenever possible.
After years as a mercenary, Kyle had seen plenty of people change drastically after brushing against death.
In his eyes, the Raine before him was one such case.
But he didn't find it unacceptable—so far, at least, Raine's change was for the better.
There were far too many who went mad after surviving life-and-death ordeals.
Kyle sat down on a nearby stone block, tipped his head back, and took a long gulp of mead.
"You're different now, Raine," he said quietly.
"That kid in the caravan—the one who was always grinning stupidly, always slacking off, always helping old Hart carry crates… feels like he died on that mountain road."
Raine remained silent for a long moment, offering no rebuttal.
"We've all changed, Uncle Kyle," he finally said.
"Matthew's hands don't shake anymore when he draws a bow."
"And Gore… that fire in his eyes—it's burning again."
Kyle gave a bitter smile. "Yeah. In this damned world, the ones who don't change die early."
He glanced at Raine. "But aren't you tired? It's only the second day. Just keeping up with Black Falcon's methods is already impressive—and you're still doing extra training?"
"Precisely because it's only the second day," Raine replied softly.
"The earliest stage of forming muscle memory is the most sensitive. If I practice a hundred extra times now, I might be one second faster on the battlefield later."
"Good lad."
Kyle patted Raine on the shoulder and stood up, rolling his neck.
"I'll join you tomorrow night."
"Even though I use a greatsword, the principles of force are the same. And besides…"
A faint, dark red glimmer flashed in his eyes.
"My Scorching Hand needs finer control too. Last time in Anvil Village, I nearly set Matthew's quiver on fire."
Raine laughed. "You're welcome anytime."
That night, Raine swung his blade another hundred times.
Only when his arms were completely numb and his fingers could no longer grip the hilt did he drag his utterly exhausted body back to the barracks.
Matthew and Pros were already asleep. Gore snored softly in the corner.
Raine lay on his wooden bunk, but didn't fall asleep right away.
He closed his eyes and summoned the system interface in his mind.
[Host: Raine Valeri]
[Talent: Blood Devourer]
[Rank: Trainee Lv.3]
[Bloodstone: 960]
[Ability: Bewitching Eye (Basic)]
Nine hundred and sixty bloodstones.
To permanently advance to the Formal rank required 4,397—he was still 3,437 short.
For a temporary advancement to Formal rank, he needed 2,000—still lacking 1,040.
The training camp held live combat drills every few days, using captured low-tier alien races, but their numbers were limited.
And with all recruits taking turns, the number of kills each person could get was pitifully small.
To accumulate three thousand bloodstones that way would take at least a month.
Raine needed insurance—something that could let him turn the tables in a desperate situation.
Three thousand bloodstones for one hour of Formal-rank combat power was worth it.
The greatest difference between the Formal and Trainee ranks wasn't just the comprehensive boost to strength, speed, and endurance.
More importantly, it was the initial mastery of Nex.
At that point, he would no longer be just a warrior relying on flesh and technique, but someone capable of drawing upon the Nex between heaven and earth—unleashing power beyond the mortal realm.
"Before that…"
he murmured inwardly,
"I need to stay alive."
With that thought, he fell into a deep sleep.
…
Noon of the third day.
After a grueling session of hunting instruction, all recruits were gathered in a stone-built lecture hall within the camp.
The hall was crude—no desks or chairs, only rough stone steps.
More than a thousand recruits were packed together, the air thick with the stench of sweat and leather.
On the platform stood an elderly man with graying hair, dressed in a faded officer's uniform.
A bronze staff-officer insignia was pinned to his left chest, and a monocle covered his right eye.
"Silence."
The old staff officer's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the authority of countless battlefields. The noisy hall fell quiet at once.
Seeing this, the old man nodded slightly.
"My name is Leit, Second-Rank Staff Officer of the Operations Staff Department of Iron Dragon Fortress."
He swept his gaze over the young, tense, and hot-blooded faces below.
"Today's lesson is about what you are becoming—and what you will die for."
He turned and wrote two words on the blackboard with chalk.
Wall Shieldguard
Patrol
"These are the two pillars of humanity's resistance against the alien races."
Leit tapped the board. "First, the Shieldguard. They are responsible for garrisoning the Great Wall itself. Their total strength exceeds two million. They are the foundation of the defense line—like nails driven into the wall, day after day, year after year."
"Defense is their mission. When alien races surge like a tide, it is they who form the dam with their own flesh and blood."
"But they rarely leave the Wall."
Leit paused.
"So when alien races attempt to invade, infiltrate forward areas, or seize key positions, a blade is required—the Patrol."
He drew a line beneath the word Patrol, emphasizing it.
"The Patrol is divided into twelve main legions, each corresponding to a major city. They operate independently and strike with flexibility."
"Their duty is not merely defense—but offense."
"Reconnaissance, eliminating infiltrators, reclaiming lost territory, decapitating alien race commanders…"
"We are the daggers humanity drives into the fallen lands."
A recruit raised his hand. "Sir, then which unit do we belong to?"
Leit looked at him, the gaze behind the monocle sharp and piercing.
"Iron Dragon Fortress—one of the three great pillars of the Eastern Front, designation Seventh. Therefore, we belong to—"
He wrote several enormous words on the blackboard:
Seventh Division, Scarlet Wall Patrol!