Days had passed since Elric fought his way back from the darkness. He was among those struck down by the Demon King's terrible purple blood that had fallen like a curse upon the northern borders.
At last free from the choking medical bay, he sought peace at the training grounds, thrusting his blade into a scarred wooden dummy. He had to reclaim his body as his own. The healers declared the purple taint purged, yet their uneasy glances revealed the truth—they understood nothing of what the future might hold.
The world had moved on without him.
While he lay unconscious, the vanguard's core had fractured. Dia'Tia, the colossal leader of the giant clan, had forsaken her duty entirely. In that same instant, the Demon King descended upon the capital. Military dispatches proclaimed the realm was spared only by the united stand of the Four Lords against the dark god's assault.
If Dia'Tia's desertion threatened to shatter the army's will, the mythic triumph of the Four Lords had reforged it into unbreakable steel. Morale soared higher than ever, sealed by the Eastern Lord's personal arrival to command the front lines.
Blind to the hidden currents, Elric thought only of the battle to come. He readied his posture, muscles coiling with raw purpose.
Just as Elric unleashed a thunderous horizontal slash at the dummy, a familiar voice cut the air like a blade.
"Elric!"
He spun around. His sister Foroan stood in bright silver armor, nothing like her usual giddy self. She stalked toward him with a menacing gait and an angry scowl.
"Brother! What are you doing here?!"
"What else could I be doing?" Elric muttered under his breath. He moved to face the dummy again, but his sister's hand clamped onto his arm like iron and pulled him toward the benches lining the training grounds.
She pushed him into a seat and towered over him, sending soothing streams of Water Magic deep into his weary body. "The surface may look mended, but you must not tempt fate so carelessly."
"I must prepare for the march ahead."
"The theater of war will endure, brother, even if you enter the stage a moment later."
"Scouts report the barbarian horde already encamps beyond the vanguard."
"That weight is not yours to bear this day," she urged. "Entrust the borders to me and your brothers in arms."
"How can I find peace when I cannot stand as your shield?"
"I am no fragile child, brother. I can weather the tempests that come." She declared it proudly, thrusting her chest forward in a grand, mocking display of power.
"War is no mere duel, sister. The true horrors lurk in shadows you have yet to witness."
"Which is why you must honor your mortal bounds," she countered, the blue glow of her magic pulsing steadily. "Exhaust yourself now and your vigilance will falter. Envision the tragedy—our parents mourning their legendary son struck down by a nameless arrow from the dark." She raised a hand to her lips, unable to fully conceal the playful smile that danced there.
A faint smile ghosted across Elric's face, yet he buried it deep beneath his iron will. Since the day Foroan survived her trials and joined the vanguard, he had stood as her eternal guardian. His unbreakable calm served as the perfect counter to her reckless heart—a solemn mask forged to protect her in an age of endless chaos.
He would not indulge her jest. He rose to his feet without warning.
"What are you doing?!" she cried out, staggering as her mana flow broke.
"Taking your advice," Elric answered, already striding toward the mess hall. "Come. Tonight we feast as though it were our final night under the stars."
Foroan lit up and hurried after him. She never resented his brooding silence. She knew that when the world itself burned, blood was the only true refuge. Shoulder to shoulder they made their way to the southern barracks, preparing body and soul for the trial that awaited.
---
[A few days later]
The military camp thrummed with the energy of a beast awakened, its heart pounding with the clang of iron and the pulse of anticipation.
The decree had finally arrived. The barbarian horde, ten thousand strong, was marching forward, and General Mozark was rallying the vanguard for a head-on clash. This was to be the first grand battlefield against the savages of the north, a stage set for heroes. The soldiers were ablaze with a feverish zeal for battle. No songs were sung for those who lingered at the back. True glory awaited only those who dared to stand at the front lines.
Elric, driven by an unyielding desire to etch his name into legend and ensure his sister's survival in the chaos to come, paced anxiously within Foroan's tent. Ignoring her frustrated glances, he meticulously examined each leather strap and steel rivet of her armor. His hands lingered over her battleaxe and shield, ensuring every detail was perfect one last time.
"Your gear is—"
His words were cut off by the thunderous sound of steel boots pounding the ground, shaking the tent ever so slightly.
"Brother, enough! We have to move!"
Elric gave a solemn nod. He reached for the hilt of his sword, securing its sheath tightly to his waist. As he turned, Foroan was already at the tent's entrance, eager to face her fate.
Stepping into the blinding sunlight, they were greeted by the sprawling chaos of war preparations. To their left, logisticians hurriedly loaded heavy sacks of grain into supply caravans. To their right, a relentless stream of armored knights clattered toward the northern gate.
"Let's join them," Elric said.
Just as they were about to blend seamlessly into the marching column, a commanding figure on horseback emerged above the crowd. It was the newly appointed commander.
"General Mozark..." Foroan whispered, her eyes widening before she quickly masked her surprise with discipline.
Elric wasn't fooled. Every woman in the camp had fallen under the spell of the vanguard's most charismatic hero. Mozark was a living legend, having slain hundreds of barbarians. Yet, for the men trudging through the mud, he commanded respect for a different reason: he had no royal elven lineage, no noble heritage. He was a common soldier who had ascended to greatness through sheer, relentless determination.
While Foroan's heart was stirred by romantic notions, Elric's was ignited by ambition. He saw in Mozark his own ultimate dream—to rise through the ranks, to lead legions, to eradicate the barbaric menace himself.
Suddenly, a shift in the air snapped Elric out of his thoughts. The general's stallion halted. Mozark turned, his piercing gaze locking directly onto Elric.
"So, you're the one called Elric."
Though his battlefield exploits had earned him a reputation among the foot soldiers, capturing the attention of the supreme commander was unimaginable. Pride and shock clashed on Elric's face, and he couldn't help but break into a broad smile as he executed an awkward, overly stiff salute.
"Yes, General! I am Elric, son of Garna, Rank 3 Soldier!"
Foroan bit her lip to suppress a laugh, but the general showed no such disrespect. Mozark simply scrutinized the young man, his expression hardening with silent, weighty acknowledgment. Without another word, he turned his gaze to the blood-soaked north and signaled his stallion to advance.