The first light of dawn crawled over the horizon, painting the barracks in a sickly, pale gold. Kaelen adjusted the collar of his brand-new Troop Commander uniform, the fabric stiff and smelling of lye. The silver and bronze badges pinned to his chest felt heavy, but his stride was light, fueled by a purpose he hadn't felt since his awakening. He expected to find a regiment in mourning or perhaps mid-drill, eager to prove their worth after the slaughter at the gate. Instead, as he rounded the corner into the 4th Regiment's camp, he froze.
The practice grounds were a wasteland of ash and silence. No soldiers were drilling. No sentries stood at the posts. The only sign of life was a single campfire in the center of the yard, smoldering into a pile of grey embers. Kaelen's eyes narrowed, his silver aura beginning to prickle beneath his skin like a thousand needles. This wasn't just weakness; it was a rot.
He marched directly to the officer's quarters and kicked open the door to the Squad 2 leader's room. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale ale. A man lay sprawled across a cot, snoring with a rhythmic, wet wheeze that set Kaelen's teeth on edge. The anger he had suppressed for years—the rage of a servant who had been beaten for being a minute late—boiled to the surface.
Kaelen didn't call out. He didn't shake the man. He lunged forward and delivered a devastating kick to the side of the cot. The wooden frame shattered, and the squad leader was launched across the room, slamming into the stone wall before tumbling in a heap onto the floor.
The man scrambled up, clutching his side, his face a mask of groggy fury. He pointed a trembling finger at Kaelen, his voice cracking with sleep. "How dare you! Who the hell are you, and how did you get past the gates? I'll have your head for this!"
Kaelen stared at him, his disappointment outweighing his rage. "I didn't have to get past anyone. There are no gates. There are no guards. There is only a fat man sleeping in a room that smells like a tavern."
The squad leader squinted, the morning light finally hitting Kaelen's new badges. His jaw dropped, and the color drained from his face as if a plug had been pulled. "Sir... Commander? You... I didn't expect you this early. We were... we were resting. The battle, you see—"
"Quiet," Kaelen snapped, the word cutting through the air like a blade. "Get out there. Now. If all one hundred men are not standing in that yard in five minutes, I will start breaking bones instead of furniture."
Five minutes later, a motley assembly of men stood in the yard. Their tunics were unwashed, their armor was rusted, and half of them looked as though they were still dreaming. Kaelen stood on a small wooden crate, looking down at the broken remains of the 4th Regiment. He began to speak, trying to instill some sense of pride, some memory of the honor that came with the Vanguard name. He talked of the South-Eastern border, the threat of Drakon's Reach, and the glory that awaited those who rose from the mud.
The soldiers stared back with vacant eyes. One man yawned. Another scratched his beard, looking at the sky as if wishing for rain to end the meeting. They didn't care about glory. They were comfortable in their failure.
Kaelen stopped mid-sentence. He realized that rhetoric was useless for men who had lost their souls. He needed to target something they still valued: their bellies.
"Listen closely," Kaelen said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory hum. "I can see that honor means nothing to you. So we will speak in a language you understand. From this moment forward, the kitchens are locked. Breakfast will be served only to those who complete the full morning and evening drills. No exceptions."
A murmur of protest rippled through the ranks, but Kaelen raised his hand, silencing them.
"As for dinner," he continued, a cold smile touching his lips. "The military will no longer provide it. If you wish to eat at night, you will hunt. No man eats unless he brings back a kill from the forest. If you hunt mortal animals, you must bring at least five. If you find a spirit beast, one will suffice. If you return empty-handed, you sleep hungry."
The reaction was instantaneous. A few men looked at him with genuine sadness, their shoulders slumping. Others looked disappointed, as if the world had played a cruel joke on them. But the largest group—the "great men" of the 4th Regiment—simply chose to ignore him. They shared smirking glances, clearly believing that this boy-commander would break within twenty-four hours.
"You think I'm joking?" Kaelen asked, stepping down from the crate. He walked up to a particularly large soldier who was still grinning. "Go ahead. Try to enter the mess hall without finishing your laps. I'll be the one standing at the door."
The soldier's grin vanished as he felt the sheer, suffocating pressure of Kaelen's 7th-stage aura. For the first time in a long time, the men of the 4th Regiment felt the cold shadow of a predator. The "tough times" Kaelen had promised hadn't just arrived; they had moved in and bolted the door.