The command area was ablaze with messengers, guards, and distressed soldiers. Alton waited patiently to be granted entrance with the guards at the main tent. He understood the source of the chaos. Being caught unprepared for a night raid would rattle anyone. The casualties had been light compared to the last night raid he was a part of. He cycled with his eyes closed and tried to fill his raw core.

“Cap’n,” the guard said with a nod, and opened the tent flap.

Alton walked in and took a deep breath at the threshold. The inside was a hive of activity, with aides swarming over tables, messengers and maps being marked. Alton had to search for Corbin before finding him standing with the infantry major. He walked up and studied the map they were focused on. It detailed the passes on the south side of Fort Kitsu and in the direction of the night raid.

“Alton, good you're here. This raid caught us completely off guard. Latest intelligence had them gathering further down in the valley for a ground assault. There has to be another pass up there that we don’t know about. The question is, how did they herd this many mindless deep in the mountains?” Corbin stated and asked.

“Doesn’t matter how right now. What matters is can they keep doing it? The mindless are perfect shock troops to disguise the movement of their real army. If their heavy infantry had pressed tonight, we would have been sorely tested to respond.” A different major that Alton didn’t know said.

“We were sorely tested to respond tonight. Without rapid intervention from three skirmisher teams and two strike teams, it may well have ended in disaster. Do we have a casualty report?” Corbin asked.

“Seventeen casualties and forty-three seriously injured.” One of the aides responded.

“Acceptable given the circumstances.” Corbin said out loud.

“Alton. Rest up today and report back at first light. I am tasking Wolf with an expedition through those mountains. You will get the full details tomorrow.” Corbin dismissed him.

—-

“Push her! Don’t back off!” Alton yelled out to the sparring blades.

The sound of practice blades slapping against each other echoed across the training yard. It was midafternoon by the time his team recovered enough to begin training for the day. Rico and Amelia were sparring directly in front of Alton. The young blades moved in lockstep, executing well practiced moves taught by the sword instructors at the academy. Rico’s shorter sword flashed out and was met by Amelia’s longer blade, each compensating in their own preferred style.

Rico had taken Rork’s teaching to heart and focused on increasing his speed with each attack. He darted in and out of range, scoring minor hits that added up over time. His body was becoming leaner, his muscles adapting to the increased strength and flexibility. Alton watched him fumble his footing a few times, each giving Amelia enough time to react and block his advances. When he finished adapting to his new style and progressed to the fourth tier, Rico would be a menace in one-on-one combat. An infused sword moving that quickly would devastate slower foes.

Amelia followed a path more similar to Alton. She preferred to trade minor wounds for devastating blows. Her muscle bulged under her training clothes as she parried and returned attacks on her smaller foe. She had a foot or more reach on him and used the advantage well. Her body was also leaning out, the fat borne of a well-fed youth melting away under the harsher conditions of the strike teams.

Alton activated his manasight and watched the circulation patterns of the two. Since his ascension to the fifth tier, his understanding of mana had increased. Small bursts became easier to decipher in real time. If it kept improving, he would be able to track his opponent’s circulation and anticipate attacks. He spent the rest of the sparring session tracking their movements and trying to read their body language and anticipate their moves.

When they finished sparring, the three of them walked over to join Miser and Nelson in the strength training area. This corner of the training yard was littered with various weighted blocks and rods. Strikers were required to train both with and without enhancement from mana. As always, one needed a powerful body in the absence of mana. Alton began his routine without mana and marveled at the different in his body in just a month.

One of the camp trainers wandered over to keep the kids on track. Alton was trying to find a routine that would take full advantage of his new body. He flew through the weights that had previously been his limit. Jonah would love to collect all of this data, he thought. He settled in and focused on pushing himself. When it came time to enhance, he ran into a fresh problem for the strikers. There simply weren’t enough weights to stress his enhanced frame. He worked as best he could and brainstormed a solution.

Prian and Letty wandered over after a few more minutes. Prian was grumbling about losing at archery drills, blaming it on the bows they used. According to him, it was difficult to switch between enhanced and normal bows and maintain accuracy. That Letty could do it didn’t change his opinion. Even Lews joined them in strength training despite his awkwardness and less than stellar ability.

He dismissed the rest of the team for the evening. They would need all their strength for what lay tomorrow. Alton wandered over to the main sparring grounds of the camp. In contrast to the muted and serious yard for the strike teams, this one was crawling with men and women of the army. Boisterous laughing, angry yelling and drunken singing all mixed into a cacophony of soldiery. Sparring was both training and stress relief to the common soldier. They may go weeks without seeing combat.

A few cheers and howls met him as he walked into the yard and grabbed two practice swords. His fighting style was changing with his new physical abilities. He found himself longing for a companion to Fang. His half shield was becoming less useful in the situations he was finding himself in. He gave the practice swords a twirl and began a series of swings.

The noise level dropped until it was silent as everyone watched him to see what he would do. Alton rarely visited the general yard, preferring to spar the other strikers. Even those deep in a spar stopped to see what was going on. Alton’s new level of fame was making it increasingly hard to move around the greater camp. A loud voice called out from the gathered crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Look who decides to grace us commoners!” A massive man that made even Alton’s two shields look small called out.

“Ricar, just the kind of ignorant lout I was looking for.” Alton returned the barb.

There was silence in the yard as the two strode towards each other. No one wanted to be in the middle of a fight between the Wolf and the Vanguard. Ricar led a group of infantrymen that were famous among Agorrans. Nicknamed the Vanguard, Ricar demanded to be at the front of every advance. The man felt most at peace when dozens of swords and arrows were heading directly for him. His infamy was further stoked by his brutish appearance and quick anger.

There was no love lost between the two. Alton had pulled Ricar out of the fire during an ambush years earlier, when they both served in the first army. Ricar’s wounded pride had yet to forgive Alton for it. The Vanguard often ridiculed the strike teams, considering them cowards for not engaging in the front lines. Alton ridiculed the Vanguard for wearing more metal than skin, generally low intelligence or whatever else he fancied in the moment.

“I need some practice being surrounded by a horde of mindless and Edorians. Figured the only ones dumb enough to simulate that accurately are the Vanguard. Thank the Mad God I found you here instead of your usual lovemaking in the pens.” Alton said loudly.

“Bold words. Last I heard, a horde of mindless did you and yours in. How’s the team, Alton? I heard the services were lovely. Next time, I’ll be sure to send flowers.” Ricar replied with a nasty smirk.

Alton tightened his grip on the two swords. In all the nasty insults thrown back and forth, never had this line been crossed. His intentions had been innocent and true to start. He just wanted to practice against a large crowd. Now, however, he intended to send a message. A very, very painful one.

“Pick up a sword, Ricar.” Alton growled.

“Ho! Someone is a little angry!” Ricar laughed and spun in a circle with his arms raised. “The little pup wants a sparring match, boys. Let’s give him a nice little beating and send him back to his replacements.”

Alton waited precisely ten seconds as everyone not involved scattered out of the yard. Twenty-two remained and Alton smiled. Those that remained were about to learn a very valuable lesson. He rolled his shoulders a few times and let his joints give an audible crack. This was going to be just what he needed.

—-

A sliver of afternoon sun remained in the sky, casting an orange hue over the training yard. A silent witness to the conflict brewing between Alton and the infantryman known as the Vanguard. Alton stood in the middle of the yard with two practice swords gripped tightly in each hand while twenty-two men surrounded him. The infantrymen used various weapons, and each wore a different amount of armor.

Jonah arrived just as the violence was about to start. He sighed and took a seat in the bleachers with the rest of the spectators. This rivalry was an old one and a tired one. He knew there would be no point in trying to stop the two. After what Ricar said, this only ended one way. Jonah only hoped Alton would spare his life. Ricar was a blowhard, but his men revered him and he was effective.

The result of the coming fight was a foregone conclusion in Jonah’s mind. The gap between the fourth and fifth tier was staggering even a month ago. His mind could only imagine how far Alton had pushed it since. The tales coming out of the camp only added to Jonah’s certainty. That didn’t stop him from adding to the wagering pot going around. A fool and his money, after all.

Jonah watched Alton close his eyes and take a deep breath. He activated his manasight and saw Alton begin to circulate a small amount at first, but then…mana exploded from him. Alton whipped his sword out and smashed it into the head of the closest man. Despite being a practice blade, blood flew from the man’s skull and he landed with an audible thunk, unmoving. A stunned silence settled before the yard erupted in violence.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The Vanguard attacked as one, a disciplined wave of attacks designed to leave no room for escape. Alton moved with a dancer’s grace, slipping through the onslaught with calculated steps. He ducked, jumped and weaved through the strikes without taking a single hit. His body in the manasphere was glowing brighter than any Jonah had a comparison for.

As the Vanguard pressed around him, Alton switched from defense to offense. He unraveled the unity of their attacks with counterattacks that left the soldiers bleeding and incapacitated. Jonah could feel his anger as Alton broke arms and legs with no regard for safety. In less than ten seconds, Alton had shattered the formation and pressed towards Ricar. Bodies littered the ground around him.

Ricar, never one to back down from a fight, advanced in tune. Alton grinned and sprinted forward, pointing both swords at his foe. When he was six paces away, he stopped and spun on one foot, throwing one of his swords at Ricar’s throat. At the same time, he used his momentum to jump towards the man with his other sword still gripped tightly.

Ricar got his enormous battle axe up in time to block the thrown sword. He continued his swing upwards to try to hit Alton as he flew by, but realized his folly too late. Alton’s remaining sword thundered against the side of Ricar’s neck, smashing his throat and vocal cords. Alton nudged the axe out of the way and completed his jump, landing on the other side. Ricar fell to his knees, grabbing his throat and sputtering while trying to breathe.

“Get up, Ricar!” Alton roared. “I am not satisfied.”

When Ricar didn’t answer, Alton kicked one of the remaining soldiers in the leg hard enough to snap it in half. He hacked viciously at the man until he conceded with a whimper. Alton stalked across the yard towards the remaining members of the Vanguard until they threw their swords down and retreated. Jonah saw with horrified eyes that Alton almost pursued them anyway.

“GET UP RICAR! I AM NOT SATISFIED!” Alton screamed at the man, still desperately trying to breathe.

Jonah hurried across the practice yard, trying to get between Alton and Ricar. If Alton killed him in cold blood, there would be chaos in the camps. Other soldiers were rushing in to the yard to tend to the downed fighters. Few dared to approach Alton. Alton kicked up Ricar’s axe and threw it at the man. It slashed across his thigh and landed on the ground. Ricar stared helplessly back at Alton, his hands still grasping his throat.

“Alton! Stop this madness!” Jonah yelled out over the yard.

Jonah reached Alton just as he kicked Ricar in the chest and sent him stumbling. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him. Alton turned and the look of anger he was wearing made Jonah’s stomach drop.

“You heard what he said. That filth doesn’t deserve to live,” Alton snarled.

“Cease this foolishness. We are surrounded by real enemies. He may be a lousy excuse for a man, but he is a soldier of the Agorran army.” Jonah pleaded with his friend.

Alton tightened his fist around his sword but made no move to advance. He turned in a slow circle and observed those around him. Healers were tending to the downed soldiers, guards were standing around awkwardly, not sure what to do. The infantry major was strolling into the yard, surrounded by his men.

“Let this be a lesson to you all. Make light of what happened again and no force in this world will keep me from your throat.” Alton said loud enough for all to hear before he turned and stalked away from the training grounds.

“Stop him!” The infantry major shouted to the guards on that side.

The guards turned to look at the major, then Alton, then each other. Alton stopped and waited patiently for them to decide. They both nodded to him and stepped aside. Jonah sighed and felt the anxiety flee from the air. He gathered his things and followed Alton towards the striker quarters.

---

“That was unwise,” Jonah said once they settled in his tent.

Alton grumbled under his breath and poured himself a drink, offering one to Jonah, who accepted. They toasted, and Alton slumped down into his chair. The rage of battle had left him on the walk over and was replaced with feelings of regret and frustration. It seemed every time he used his mana these days, he lost control of his emotions.

“Ricar crossed the line.” Alton replied stubbornly.

“I agree. Does crippling his unit for days and nearly killing him seem an adequate punishment to you?” Jonah asked.

“It certainly did at the time.” Alton muttered.

They drank in silence for a few minutes while each digested their thoughts. Alton needed to practice fighting large groups. He needed practice not losing control of his emotions. The power he wielding now came with steep consequences in that regard. He knew he needed to gain control over them. The power was too strong to ignore.

“I found some more information. Deep in the vaults of one of the council families, hidden away for decades.” Jonah broke the silence.

“And they just gave it to you?” Alton asked with a smirk.

“Certainly.” Jonah replied, “after a little persuasion, anyway.”

He took out a scroll and unrolled it over Alton’s desk. Alton could tell it was ancient, just from its appearance. His knowledge of history was certainly lacking compared to Jonah or any other scholar. He found it all interesting, just difficult to sort through fact from tale.

“This scroll contains the last known record of Pyramar and his last battle against the Triene. The family that I ahem borrow this from are direct descendants of Pyramar. Do you know the stories?” Jonah asked.

“Hah. Better off asking him if he can count to eleven.” Davih said as he barged into the tent. “Alton, I heard you were a little more murdery and maniacal than normal today. Did you miss me that much?”

Davih walked over and poured himself a drink before sinking down on Alton’s cot. Alton groaned while leaning forward and burying his head in his hands. Jonah laughed and toasted Davih to his friends’ discontent.

“Now, where were we?” Davih asked, and tried to look innocent.

—

“Sir! Enemy movement spotted across the cavern. General Abraxxes requests back up.” The messenger relayed and saluted before sprinting off to finish delivering messages.

Pyramar sighed and rolled his shoulders. The stress was getting to him, his body breaking down over the course of the war. Today was the day, one final battle. Pyramar raised his horn to his lips and blew through it. The call of the Dragon sounded through the camp and his men came to attention.

“The Triene have made their choice. They march on General Abraxxes. This is it, men. Abraxxes is the anvil. We are the hammer. One last fight for the future of our people. Everything we have fought for over this last decade comes down to this. We march in ten.” He said to the assembled army.

He sighed as he watched his men ready for the ultimate battle. He hated to ask this of them again, so soon after the last. The Triene were a tenacious foe. They bred four times as fast as humans and reached maturity after eight years. Able to replace losses in their fighting force far easier than humans. Two hundred years since being sealed in this mountain and the men and women of Agorra were facing another extinction event.

Kulthar still claimed that the Triene were peaceful in Kael’s time. He hadn’t expected the threat they would pose. He blamed a nameless force behind them, driving them to war. Still urged peace between the races, despite the last decade of bloody battle. It mattered not in the end. One race would live, one would perish to history.

—

The battle raged on. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers fighting a battle for survival. The Triene commanded terrible battlefield magic and as many as one in three members of their race could wield it. Compared to the one in ten for humans and mana, it was a stark disadvantage. Without the advancing smithing techniques and mana laden armor, humanity would already be a footnote in the mountain's history.

Pyramar observed his army clash with the forces of the Triene commander, Elu’tril. The strategic games of the last decade abandoned here and now in the face of such raw violence. The battlefield was a canvas of chaos filled with the sounds of swords clashing on shields, thunderous booms of magic and cries of the unfortunate souls wounded but not dead.

Agorrans fought valiantly under Pyramar’s banner. Disciplined formations attacked with precision. A testament to years of grueling training and preparation for this moment. He watched his lines hold against the furious assault of the Triene. They figured out now that they were trapped between two armies with no escape. The fighting would continue until the last, no surrender would be offered by either side. This was a battle for the end of all things.

Pyramar judged the time appropriate and clasped his helmet on his head. The insignia of the dragon shone brightly on his chest, the sight of it filling his soldiers with hope. Pyramar descended on to the battlefield with a booming crash. He pulled from his writhing core and spew dragon flame from his outstretched hand. Dozens were incinerated on his entrance and the gap was filled by his army surging against their hated foes.

He triggered his second ability, dragon’s blood, and saw the response in his men. Fear lessened, replaced with the courage of a legendary beast. Movements became quicker, swords sharper, armor denser. The impact was apparent to all as his elite units charged through the Triene lines. Triene elites tried to counter the press but were routed by the enhanced elites backed by Pyramar. The amount of mana he was channeling now was staggering, fed by amplifiers and reservoirs strategically placed throughout his army.

Pyramar was a renowned warrior, in the tenth tier, and his dragon fire could devastate foes. His greatest strength, however, was empowering his men. Every soldier touched by dragon’s blood fought at the level of a tier eight elite. The strongest man left under the mountain flexed his metaphorical muscle and surged through his army. Like an arrow shot from a massive bow, the Triene lines were cleaved through.

Pyramar could see General Abraxxes forces in the distance. Once the two armies met, the fight would be over. No force could resist such superior numbers. He continued to surge, using his core liberally until it was at one fourth. He tailed off the support and his soldiers returned to regular form.

The moment he waited for happened soon after. Elu’tril made his appearance with his wicked scythe. The Triene general stood ten feet tall and was wrapped in scale armor of azure purple. He decimated a company on his mad approach towards Pyramar. This would be the fourth time the two legendary warriors met in combat, and this time would be the last, of that Pyramar knew.

He tapped the alta stones adorning his wrist and filled his core to half. Prior experience told him he would need every drop against Elu’tril. The two met in a clash of sparks. Dragon fire ran down the length of Pyramar’s sword while eldritch darkness adorned the scythe. Soldiers from both sides shied away from the fight as the battle continued on around them.

Pyramar surged to his limits and hacked away at his opponent. Elu’tril fought at the same level and the two traded dozens of blows in the span of seconds. Elu’tril attacked with black lightning, which Pyramar countered with dragon fire. For every attack from one, the other countered. Too many fights before, too much knowledge shared. To win this fight would require a sacrifice.

Pyramar gritted his teeth and backed away. They both stood and tried to catch their breaths. Covered in cuts and burns, each seemed like a spectre to those around them. Pyramar dove deep down inside his core, down to where his connection to the primal fire lay. His soul burned as he dove and when he reached the threshold, he made a final bargain. He grinned as his bargain was accepted. His men would live, Agorra would survive.

His body was bathed in dragon fire as it elongated. His hands became claws, his neck grew to ten feet. Scales covered him like armor and wings ripped out from his back. He was oblivious to the pain, mind focused on only one goal. For the first time, he saw fear in Elu’tril’s dark eyes. When his transformation was complete, he let out a roar that shattered ear drums for hundreds of feet. A ray of dragon fire lanced out and ended the lives of hundreds of the Triene.

Elu’tril only just blocked it by channeling his lightning into a shield around him. When his vision cleared, Pyramar was already on top of him. He hacked and bite, sliced and clawed his deadly rival. Every counterattack failed against his scale armor, every avenue of escape cut off by superior speed. When Elu’tril was too battered to resist, Pyramar surged every last drop of mana into his dragon fire skill and blasted the Triene leader until he was a burned out husk.

The battle ended shortly after as the Triene army was eradicated to the last. His men gathered around him with sorrow in their eyes. They knew he had crossed the threshold. Only one man in all of Agorran history had manifested an aspect in full and lived, and Pyramar was not a God. He shared a few last laughs and tears with those that had followed him for decades. His family would survive, he had ensured that. Agorra would survive, his sacrifice, like Kaels before him, bought them more time.

—-

Jonah finished reading the scroll, and the group sat in silent thought. Alton realized he knew less of his countries history than previously thought. How could a story like this be kept in a manor basement when it could hold the key to everything? Pyramar had skills related to his aspect and even manifested it entirely, though fatally.

“We have so much left to learn.” Jonah said softly.