Ludger’s eyes lingered on the wounded for a moment longer before he finally asked, voice low but steady,

“Where are they? The barbarians.”

Arslan followed his son’s gaze to the horizon. He lifted a hand and pointed westward, past the haze of smoke and broken ground, to where jagged walls rose in the distance.

“There,” he said. “That town was ours once. A border post, nothing grand, but strong enough to matter. We lost it months ago.”

Ludger narrowed his eyes. The walls looked battered, half-collapsed in places, stone scorched black and timber scaffolds clinging where repairs had been made poorly or not at all. Yet even from this distance, he could see movement on the ramparts—shadows pacing, figures watching, banners of rough cloth fluttering in the wind.

The enemy occupied it openly, like a dog sprawled in someone else’s bed.

“They’ve turned it into a nest,” Arslan continued, jaw tightening. “And they’re not leaving. We’ve pushed, we’ve bled, but they don’t come out to meet us in the open field. They don’t need to. They sit behind those walls like it’s all the same to them—half ruined or whole, it makes no difference. They’re content to wait while our men rot out here.”

Ludger’s fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms through the gauntlets. They’re not even fighting. Just squatting, letting time and exhaustion do the work.

The smoke from the campfires curled between them, carrying the sharp stench of ash. For the first time, Ludger understood the true shape of the battlefield—it wasn’t glorious clashes of blades, it was a stalemate, a grind, a slow bleed where even victory tasted like rot.

“How many?” Ludger asked, eyes locked on the ruined walls. “How many are inside?”

Arslan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Too many. A few thousand at least—fighters. Twice that if you count the shamans, the beasts they drag along, and whatever poor bastards they’ve enslaved to carry their supplies. Enough that every time we even talk about a push, the scouts come back saying it’s suicide.”

Ludger’s brow furrowed. “And they just sit there? Like that? No raids, no charges?”

“Not the way you’d expect,” Arslan admitted, rubbing at his stubble. “Barbarians are supposed to be wild, reckless. They hit fast, burn what they can, and fade back into the wilds. But these?” He gestured sharply at the town. “They’ve dug in. They’re defending like trained soldiers, not raiders. Every attempt we’ve made to draw them out gets shut down. They don’t bite. They just… wait.”

Ludger’s smirk didn’t return this time. His stomach turned with unease. That’s wrong. That’s not how they’re supposed to fight.

He thought of what Maurien had told him months ago, of portals and whispers of things stirring. Of how the labyrinths warped everything around them.

“They’re not acting like barbarians at all,” Ludger muttered. “It’s like someone’s holding their leash.”

Arslan glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Exactly. And until we know who—or what—is giving the orders, we’re stuck bleeding men against a wall we should’ve broken already.”

The ruined town stood in the distance, its broken towers like teeth in a hungry mouth, and Ludger felt the air grow heavier.

Something’s off. And whatever it is, it’s not just brute strength keeping them in there.

Ludger’s eyes stayed fixed on the ruined walls, but his voice was sharper now.

“And the labyrinth? Where is it?”

Arslan grunted, shifting his stance. “A bit further ahead. You can’t see it from here—terrain dips too much. But it’s there, squatting like a curse. That’s why they’re dug in so deep.”

Ludger turned toward him, brows knitting. “So why not strike at it directly?”

“Because it’s suicide,” Arslan snapped, though his tone wasn’t angry—just heavy. “The labyrinth’s not just a hole in the ground anymore. They’ve ringed it with guards. At least two thousand of them.”

He jabbed a finger at the distant town. “And that’s not counting the ones holding this place. You try to march on the labyrinth, you don’t just fight an army—you fight two. One on the walls, one in the field. It’s a noose waiting to close.”

Ludger exhaled slowly, the weight of it pressing down. Two thousand at the labyrinth. thousands more in the town. A double wall of enemies, patient enough to grind the empire’s soldiers into ash without lifting a finger.

No wonder the camp reeked of exhaustion. No wonder the wounded piled higher every day.

Arslan’s jaw tightened. “That’s the truth of it, Ludger. We’re stuck staring at stone and waiting for orders from the capital that never come. And every day, we bleed more men for nothing.”

Ludger clenched his fists, gaze drifting back to the horizon. The labyrinth hidden just beyond their sight might as well have been breathing, pulling strings through the barbarians that waited like wolves on a chain.

Two armies. Two thousand guarding the labyrinth. And we’re just standing here, rotting.

Ludger’s lips parted, the words already forming—If we keep waiting, we’ll just—

But Arslan cut him off with a sharp look, his voice low but edged with steel.

“Don’t.”

Ludger blinked, the retort caught in his throat.

“You’re smart,” Arslan continued, his tone steady, the same way he might explain a battle plan to a stubborn recruit. “Smarter than I was at your age. But don’t start thinking you’ve got the whole picture. Strategy isn’t just looking at the pieces in front of you—it’s the supply lines, the morale, the politics choking every order before it reaches us. You don’t see all of it yet.”

He laid a hand on Ludger’s shoulder, the grip heavy, grounding. “You’re here to learn, not lead. To see what war really is—not to start barking orders like some lordling who’s never bled on the dirt.”

Ludger’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t shrug him off.

Arslan’s eyes softened, if only a fraction. “One day, maybe. One day you’ll be the one who makes the calls. But right now? You watch. You learn. And you survive. Leave the rest to those who’ve already burned half their lives on this cursed line.”

The camp noise filled the silence around them—groans, hammers, murmurs of tired soldiers. Ludger looked back toward the ruined town, its broken walls clawing at the sky, and forced himself to nod.

“…Fine.”

But inside, the thought lingered, sharp and unyielding. Learning doesn’t mean staying silent forever. And if they can’t fix this, then maybe I will.

Before Arslan could say more, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the camp’s murmur. A young runner skidded to a halt beside them, sweat streaking down his dirt-caked face.

“Sir—Lord Torvares requests you. Immediately.”

Arslan’s jaw tightened. “What is it now?”

The boy shook his head quickly. “Didn’t say, sir. Only that it was urgent.”

Arslan exhaled through his nose, the kind of long, weary breath that carried both frustration and inevitability. He gave Ludger one last, heavy look.

“Stay put. Don’t wander into anything stupid.” His hand squeezed Ludger’s shoulder briefly, then he turned and strode off with the runner, cloak snapping in the wind.

Ludger stood alone in the dirt, the sounds of the camp pressing in again—the moans of the wounded, the hammering of armor, the quiet murmur of tired soldiers trying to keep the world from collapsing around them.

He turned back toward the horizon, eyes narrowing on the distant, ruined town.

Watch. Learn. Survive.

The words clung in his head, but so did the stink of ash and the sight of bodies stacked like cordwood. He clenched his fists, jaw tight.

If this is what passes for strategy, then someone needs to come up with better answers.

By the time Ludger made it back to the command tent, the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Viola stood outside, arms crossed tight, boot grinding into the dirt with each impatient tap. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes burning, lips pressed into a hard line. She looked like a kettle about to burst.

Ludger didn’t need to ask. One glance at her expression told the whole story.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, stopping a few paces away. “You and Grandfather had a civilized discussion about whether you’re old enough to be here.”

Viola snapped her head toward him, scowl deepening. “He thinks I should be sent home immediately. Like I’m some fragile ornament! I told him I’m not leaving, not when our people are bleeding for this war.”

Ludger smirked faintly. “And I bet you shouted that part loud enough for the entire camp to hear.”

She huffed, turning away, arms clamped even tighter. “So what if I did? He needs to understand I’m serious. I’m not going to crawl back to home and sit there useless while—while everything burns here.”

Ludger tilted his head, studying her. Behind the fire in her voice was something else—fear. Not for herself, but for their father, for Torvares, for everyone lying broken in the tents around them.

He leaned against a post, arms folding. “So neither of you budged.”

“Of course not,” Viola muttered. “He’s too stubborn. And so am I.”

Ludger snorted softly. “Like looking into a mirror, huh? Old man Torvares finally met his match.”

Her lips twitched despite her anger, but she refused to let the smile form. She kicked at the dirt instead, muttering under her breath.

From inside the tent, muffled voices rumbled—Torvares, barking orders, Arslan’s deeper tone mixed in. The war machine kept grinding, even with family sparks threatening to burn holes in the canvas.

Ludger pushed off the post and gave Viola a sharp look. “Don’t waste all your fire fighting him. You’ll need it when the real fight comes.”

For a long moment, Viola just glared at the tent flap, fists tight at her sides. Her jaw worked like she wanted to spit back another defiance, but then she stopped herself. She drew in a sharp breath, exhaled through her nose, and muttered, “Maybe… you’re right.”

Ludger’s brows lifted slightly. “Didn’t hear that. Say it again, louder?”

Her glare snapped to him, cheeks coloring. “Don’t push it.”

That smirk crept across Ludger’s face again. He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, fists tightening in his gauntlets. “Good. Then let’s put that fire where it belongs. Spar with me. Show me you can keep your head clear while fighting instead of burning it all yelling at your Grandfather.”

Viola blinked, caught off guard. “Here? Now? I only have my real sword.”

Ludger spread his arms in mock invitation, grin widening. “So what? Use it. I’m not planning on getting hit anyway.”

Viola’s lips curled into a grin of her own—half frustration, half excitement. The anger in her shoulders shifted, sharpening into energy as she drew the blade from her scabbard.

“Fine. Don’t cry when I cut too close.”

“Don’t miss too much,” Ludger shot back, dropping into stance.

Around them, a few soldiers slowed in their work, the sight of Torvares’s granddaughter and the infamous boy from the tournament squaring off drawing their attention. The low murmur of the camp softened, as if even the war itself was pausing to watch.

Viola didn’t wait. The moment her feet dug into the dirt, her aura flared hot, Overdrive surging through her legs. She shot forward like a bullet, sword gleaming in the midday sun.

The first strike came fast and heavy, steel hissing down toward Ludger’s shoulder. He slid back a step, body tilting just enough for the blade to cut air.

Viola pivoted, her boots grinding into the earth, Overdrive shifting into her arms as she swung again. A diagonal slash meant to catch him off-guard—Ludger dipped low, the edge whistling inches over his head.

Blow after blow came, her attacks fast, vicious, a storm of steel and raw intent. But Ludger’s movements were water to her fire—slipping past, leaning away, twisting his frame so each strike barely missed. His feet slid across the dirt in short, sharp steps, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Faster than last time,” he muttered between dodges, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “But still predictable.”

“Shut up!” Viola snapped, her cheeks flushed with the effort. She poured more mana into her legs, exploding forward with another Overdrive burst, blade carving arcs that would’ve split a lesser opponent open.

Ludger ducked, sidestepped, weaved—never rattled, never flinching. His gauntlets caught the light as his hands flicked out to parry the air near her blade, never quite touching steel but close enough to make her second-guess her rhythm.

The soldiers watching began to murmur, some grinning despite their exhaustion. It wasn’t just a spar—it was a spectacle. Torvares’s granddaughter raging with fire, and the boy in red-and-silver gauntlets flowing around her like smoke, untouchable.

Viola’s breathing grew heavier, her attacks sharper but wilder. Ludger, meanwhile, smirked faintly, every dodge deliberate, every escape a lesson.

Keep your head clear, Viola. Let’s see if you can fight smarter, not just harder.

Viola’s sword tore through the air again and again, each strike sharper than the last. She drove her legs with Overdrive, her blade with Enhancing, sweat already slicking her brow—but no matter how fast or hard she struck, Ludger slipped away.

He leaned back just enough for her blade to graze the space before his chest, tilted his head so steel hissed past his ear, slid a foot aside to let the ground take the blow meant for his shin. His gauntlets flashed as he moved, arms loose, body flowing.

Never once did he block. Never once did her sword bite anything but air.

The soldiers nearby slowed their work, heads turning toward the clash. At first, they only glanced. Then they stopped. Tools and weapons stilled in their hands as they watched, murmurs rising like smoke.

“Those are kids, right?” one whispered.

“Torvares’s granddaughter—sure, she’s always had fire, but look at that skill—”

“And the boy… he’s not even armed.”

“No, he’s worse. He’s calm. Like he’s been doing this for years.”

More soldiers drifted closer, exhaustion forgotten for a moment. The spectacle carried its own kind of weight—the granddaughter of their commander fighting like a storm, and the boy who danced around her with a smirk, untouchable.

Whispers rippled through the growing crowd.

“They’re more skilled than half the line.”

“More than half? Hell, I’ve seen sergeants who couldn’t keep up with those movements.”

“Kids like this? Maybe the gods haven’t abandoned us after all.”

Viola, panting now, gritted her teeth and swung harder. Ludger twisted aside, the edge missing his cheek by a hair’s breadth. He grinned faintly, his voice cutting through the hush of awe.

“Come on, Viola. Don’t just swing harder. Swing smarter.”

The murmurs grew louder. What had begun as a spar was now something else—a moment of spectacle in a camp drowning in despair. And Ludger could feel it: eyes on them, soldiers pulling strength from the clash of two children who fought with more purpose than most grown men.

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