Overwhelming Firepower

Only a few weeks remain before the start of the Styhord. Marquis Valeire was already positioning his twenty thousand-strong army near the border of Stellhart in the west.

They were trying to build a temporary fortress in that area. Seeing the scene would have reminded Lucen of Oda Nobunaga’s retainer Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s castle, built in one night.

In his past life, that story had become a legend, but here in this fantasy world with magic, aura, and other supernatural abilities, creating a fortress in a single night wasn’t that hard as long as you had the right materials.

As a way to counter it, Vardon had people create a fortress a few kilometers away from Marquis Valeire’s fortress. The fortress was being made with the help of the mages and dwarves.

Lucen then added a few of the Roaring Thunders he had created before. Due to the weight and the difficulty of making the ammo for it, he only got two to the newly built fortress.

When Marquis Valeire heard from his scouts about the unknown weapon, he was not that worried.

No matter what it was, how could an army of five thousand win against his twenty-thousand-strong army?

Even with the Iron Duke, an aura at the sixth mantle, and Sir Thalos, who was in the fifth, would not be able to change the tide of this war.

It was quite laughable to learn of Lucen’s alliance with the barbarian tribes, even adding them would only bolster their army by a few hundred.

Marquis Valeire did not consider himself careless. He had fought in territorial wars before, crushed rebellions, and watched lesser lords bleed themselves dry against fortified positions.

Numbers decided wars. Logistics decided wars. And on both fronts, he held the advantage.

His army was nearly four times the size of Stellhart’s forces. His supply lines stretched deep into the west, guarded and reinforced.

That did not mean he ignored threats outright. Patrols were doubled. Scouts were ordered to watch the newly constructed fortress day and night.

Even if Duke Vardon attempted a direct engagement, he had used a fortune hiring someone who could match him in battle.

***

In one of the training grounds, Cael was swinging his sword. He was currently ten years old and was still on the verge of reaching his second aura mantle.

For some reason, he could not make that breakthrough despite it being a year or two now. It was as if something was blocking the path.

Still, even with that setback, he was far ahead of his peers. He was considered to be one of the greatest geniuses of the sword, in the game and in this life. Yet despite that, he felt irrelevant and worthless.

Despite the clean arc of his swings, Cael’s breathing was uneven. Each strike landed exactly where it should. His stance was correct, his footwork precise.

The training dummy bore deep, clean marks, proof of technique far beyond his years. Cael’s always emotionless expression cracked, showing a little bit of displeasure.

”... What’s the point of all this?...”

He stopped, lowering his sword, the tip scraping lightly against the packed dirt. There was no one to hear him say those words as everyone was busy, and this place was reserved for him.

The only people who could enter this training ground were his Father, older brother, and Sir Vahn, all of whom were currently busy doing something else for the upcoming Styrhord.

Cael stood there for a long moment, sword still in hand, the weight of it familiar and suffocating all at once.

He knew, better than most, what was happening beyond the walls. He had heard the reports whispered by servants and knights who thought he couldn’t hear them.

Despite his age, he was still a Thornehart. He understood what the Styrhord represented, what it meant; it was not just losing or winning, it was life and death, their very survival.

He wanted to help, since he too was a Thornehart, and losing here means the death of their entire bloodline.

Yet despite that, he also understood that neither his Father nor his older brother would allow him to join the upcoming battle.

Cael gripped his sword tighter in frustration. It was a weird sight for anyone who knew him to see his emotionless facial expression contort a little.

Cael exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to loosen before the wood of the hilt creaked under his fingers. He knew the truth, even if no one would say it to his face.

On the battlefield that was coming, talent alone meant nothing. No matter how clean his strikes were, no matter how fast his aura grew, he was still ten years old. His body had limits, his experience laughable.

’... No, I’m just making excuses for myself. Didn’t big brother go out on his own when he was twelve? Didn’t Father join his first monster wave defense at the age of nine?...’ Cael gritted his teeth.

His father, standing atop frozen ramparts, bloodied and unyielding at nine years old. His older brother, leaving the safety of Ironhold at twelve, stepped out into the world.

Why was he the only one who needed to stay back here in Ironhold? Cael sliced through several wooden dummies with a clean horizontal arc.

It was the best strike he had made without the use of his aura. That single strike alone would have made most swordsmen despair. To be able to perform such a strike at the age of ten was incredible.

The wooden dummies split cleanly, their upper half sliding away before collapsing into the dirt. Cael stood still, sword extended, arm steady.

There was no satisfaction. He looked at the ruined training dummy and felt nothing but distance.

Strength like this would matter one day, but not now. Not in the battle that was coming. Not against armies, siege weapons, monsters, mages, and veteran knights.

A genius was nothing more than that, someone with potential, but before that potential comes out, he was nothing more than an above-average child.

Slowly, he lowered his blade. He had always been told that the sword was everything. That as long as his technique was perfect, as long as his aura grew, the rest would follow.

But he didn’t need the strength that would come in years later; what he needed was strength now.

As his frustration was reaching a certain limit, Cael did something not many ten-year-olds would have done in a similar situation: he stopped himself.

Cael lowered his sword and closed his eyes as he started breathing in and out, softly and slowly. His mind was becoming as calm as a still lake.

With each slow breath, the heat in his chest faded. The frustration did not disappear, but it no longer ruled him.

Cael had been trained from a young age to control his body, his blade, and his aura. Not to mention, he was Vardon’s son, who had difficulty expressing himself.

Losing control of his emotions would mean losing control of everything else. That was unacceptable to him as Vardon’s son and as a Thornehart.

Cael opened his eyes. The training ground was the same as it had always been. Broken wooden dummies, packed earth. There was a faint scent of wood and sweat lingering in the air.

Nothing had changed on the outside, but on the inside, many things had changed. Cael had accepted that he would not be able to join this Styrhord.

He understood that with his current strength and experience, he would be nothing more than a liability, and he needed to accept that.

His mind and his emotions were feeling clearer than ever before. It was at that very moment that he felt something surging within him. His aura was bursting outward, and at that moment, a second mantle appeared.

Cael had broken through his limits and achieved an advancement. The surge of aura slowly receded, settling back into Cael’s body like snow after a storm.

The second mantle stabilized without resistance, its presence firm and unmistakable. His breathing remained steady.

His heartbeat did not quicken. There was no rush of exhilaration, no sense of triumph.

Cael, the ten-year-old, then showed a somewhat cynical smile as he didn’t feel joy in the breakthrough, just acceptance that even with this, he was not yet ready to join the upcoming Styrhord.

’... Yeah, thinking too much about it won’t help me or anyone else. It’s not like I’m my older brother, and I can think of other ways to help. The only thing I can do now is to swing my sword and try to get stronger. Yes, I don’t need to get stronger now; I just need to get stronger for the next battle to come. Aside from that, I can only hope... No, I’m sure that we will win this upcoming Styrhord. There’s no way my father and older brother could ever lose.’

With that out of his mind, Cael could finally focus on the sword in his hand. The way he swung it was no longer as violent and was more precise than it was before.

Cael’s swings cut through the air with minimal waste, each motion flowing naturally into the next.

His footing adjusted instinctively, weight shifting with precision rather than force. Where before his strikes had carried frustration, now they carried intent.

He trained until his arms grew heavy and his breathing deepened. When sweat soaked into his clothes and his muscles began to protest, he did not stop immediately.

He continued until his form threatened to degrade, then stopped without hesitation.

When he finally sheathed his sword, it was already nighttime. Cael felt relaxed and relieved more so than he thought. He left the training field different from when he entered it this morning.