Walking at the very front was the commander of Iron Dragon Fortress—Ironwall Garson!
He was still wearing that crisp black-and-gold uniform, and the black eyepatch over his left eye gleamed with a cold, hard sheen in the torchlight.
But the steady composure he usually carried was gone. In its place was a tightly suppressed heaviness.
Close behind him came Tommy, commander of the Second Battalion—a brown-haired, middle-aged man whose jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.
The Third Battalion commander, Yarna, walked at Tommy's side.
This ice-element arcanist wore a deep-blue robe patterned with star-like runes. Her silver hair was tied into a high ponytail, and her breathtakingly beautiful face was covered in frost.
The Eighth Battalion commander, Roderick, was a burly red-haired brute built like a bear. He was furiously swinging his fists as he bellowed something over his shoulder.
And the target of his shouting was none other than Andrew, commander of the Tenth Battalion—an unshaven middle-aged man in a loose, sloppy uniform, a wineskin hanging from his belt.
Andrew grinned like a hooligan, dug a finger into his ear as if the rage meant nothing, and even tipped his head back to take a swig of booze.
Walking at the very end was Aaron.
The deputy captain of the Seventh Battalion—usually a man whose posture was iron—now wore a face ashen with fury, lips pressed into a thin line.
The officers descended the steps without speaking and headed straight toward their respective units.
When they passed the recruits' formation, none of them spared the trainees so much as a glance.
Not until Aaron stopped at the edge of the field.
He turned to face more than a thousand pairs of uneasy eyes.
Torchlight cast leaping shadows across his face.
"Seventh Training Camp—attention."
His voice pierced every eardrum.
"I am now announcing an emergency front-line report. After you hear it, you have only two choices: go to the front lines, or go to the logistics corps and wait to die."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
"Three days ago, Army Commander Hegros led the Fourth and Fifth Battalions under orders to retake the Bloodhowl Highlands."
"One day ago, communication with them was cut off. One hour ago, reconnaissance scouts brought back news…"
Aaron drew a deep breath. Each word that followed sounded like it was forced out through clenched teeth.
"The highlands were not retaken. The Fourth and Fifth Battalions are encircled. Casualties are severe. Supplies are critical."
The training field fell into a dead silence. Only the crackle of burning torches remained.
"The force surrounding them is the gargoyle clan," Aaron continued.
"And among the alien races at Bloodhowl Highlands, a Grandmaster-ranked gargoyle lord has appeared!"
A wave of suppressed inhalations rippled through the ranks.
Grandmaster!
A rank beyond Expert—beyond Master.
Most of the recruits here hadn't even reached Formal, let alone Grandmaster.
That level was the kind of existence that could tilt an entire battlefield by sheer presence alone.
"Army Commander Hegros fought two gargoyle lords for half a day. In the end, both sides vanished. His status is unknown—alive or dead."
The crowd exploded.
"Impossible!"
One recruit shouted without thinking.
"Commander Hegros is a Grandmaster! A Grandmaster! How could that—"
He had been born in Iron Dragon Fortress, raised on legends of military powerhouses.
To him, Iron Dragon Fortress had two mountains that could not be crossed—Ironwall Garson, and Fang Hegros.
Hegros had clawed his way up from the lowest ranks, through countless battles large and small, forging an almost invincible legend.
Even when facing someone an entire tier above him, he could still lead his force out intact.
And the battle at Bloodwolf Ridge—where he slaughtered three Master-ranked Bloodwolf Lords of equal rank—had made him a god of war overnight.
In the hearts of the fortress's people, as long as he stood, the war could never truly be lost.
But now this nearly invincible figure had… vanished.
"How could two Grandmaster lords hold Lord Hegros down?" another voice trembled.
"Unless… unless those two weren't ordinary Grandmasters."
"Or the gargoyles used some method we don't know…"
Aaron didn't explain.
He simply stood there, letting panic spread through the formation—
Until Black Falcon stepped forward, and his furious roar crushed every trace of noise.
"Shut up!!"
The shout rattled eardrums.
The recruits went instantly silent, staring in fear at the instructor whose scarred face now looked downright feral.
"Scared?" Black Falcon sneered, his gaze slicing across every face like a blade.
"Now you finally understand what the front lines are?"
"It's not the heroic stage you dreamed of, carving enemies like melons!"
"It's a meat grinder. A graveyard."
"Even a monster like Commander Hegros can fall—and you little rookies who can't even hold a blade steady, what makes you think you'll survive?!"
He stalked into the crowd, his finger almost jabbing into the nose of a recruit in the front row.
"Now—anyone who wants to quit, raise your hand!"
"I'll arrange for you to go to logistics immediately! At least you'll live a few extra days! Who?!"
No one raised a hand.
In the deathly silence, only ragged breathing and eyes slowly reddening could be heard.
"Good."
"Since none of you want to be cowards, I'll tell you the fortress council's decision."
Aaron picked up the thread, every word crystal clear.
"The gargoyles have turned Bloodhowl Highlands into a training ground. They keep sending young geniuses and low-tier gargoyles to drain our trapped elites—wearing down their stamina and supplies."
"The goal is simple: grind two elite battalions to death at the lowest possible cost."
"So the fortress has decided to deploy all recruits—as the vanguard."
He paused, eyes sharp as a hawk's.
"Your mission is not to retake the highlands."
"It is to trade lives with the gargoyles' low-tier fodder."
"Your lives, for their lives."
"You will buy time—create an opening for the Second Battalion's elites to break through."
"In one hour, Captain Tommy of the Second Battalion will assume temporary command of all forces. We march to reinforce Bloodhowl Highlands."
He scanned the entire field.
"This is war. This is reality. You are expendable."
"Now I'll give you one last chance."
"Who wants to quit?"
Rain began to drift down again.
Cold droplets struck faces, sliding down necks and into collars.
Standing in the ranks, Raine's mind raced.
A battlefield meant massive amounts of bloodstone.
But the death rate would be impossible to estimate.
Right now, as recruit vanguard, they would be fodder fighting fodder.
That meant he would face swarms of low-tier alien races—and killing them would let him accumulate bloodstone at terrifying speed.
If he could survive this war of attrition, he would definitely gain a huge amount of bloodstone.
"I… I quit!"
A weak voice came from the rear.
Everyone turned.
A thin, frail young man raised his hand, face deathly pale, trembling from head to toe.
"I… I'll go to logistics. I'm sorry, I…"
"Get out."
Black Falcon didn't even look at him. "Next."
One after another, seven or eight more hands went up.
They kept their heads down, unable to meet their companions' eyes, stumbling out of the formation as soldiers waiting nearby led them away.
"Anyone else?" Aaron asked.
No one answered.
Kyle suddenly snarled, eyes red.
"My wife and kid died to vampires… I've been waiting for this day a long time."
Matthew's voice shook, but his resolve was iron.
"My little sister… they dragged her into the woods. I promised her I'd kill a hundred alien races."
Pros said nothing—he only clenched his fists tighter.
Gore threw back his head and laughed, baring broken, missing teeth.
"This life of mine should've ended the day I lost my arm! Living seven more years was pure profit!"
"Yeah! Killing alien races for revenge—worst case, we die. What's there to be afraid of?!"
"Back in my village, almost every man who could fight is already dead. I'm not about to be a coward!"
"…"
A grim, heroic mood spread through the ranks.
It wasn't courage. It wasn't fearlessness.
It was the resolve of people forced into a corner.
When every retreat had already been sealed off by hatred and despair, moving forward became the only option—even if the path ahead was a mountain of blades and a sea of fire.
In every pair of eyes, blazing hatred burned hot enough to scald.