The morning air hung heavy with mist as lines of banners snapped in the rising breeze across the sprawling training fields outside Alwyn Keep. Derreck stood at the edge of the open training ground, surveying the growing mass of soldiers, handpicked units of troops from across the armies of all the kingdoms of Varinja they were assembling under the banners of their kingdoms. Sunlight struggled against the gray clouds overhead, turning the field in the distance into a patchwork of shifting gold and shadow.

  Hundreds of men and women gathered in ordered rows—some wearing polished plate mail gleaming like mirrors, others wrapped in simpler chain and leather from distant provinces. Orcish mercenaries towered in their ranks, their tusked faces grim and ready. Sharpshooters from the northern steppes stood at quiet attention, their longbows slung over their shoulders. Across the open middle ground, soldiers murmured among themselves, eyeing one another warily. For many, this was the first time they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with warriors from rival kingdoms. Old hatreds from generations ago simmered under the surface.

  Derreck ran a hand through his hair and breathed deep, steadying himself. This was it. The first real step to forging them into one.

  Beside him, Captain Clyde barked orders to the squads of knights from Atalantha, their light blue cloaks catching the wind. At their sides, Derreck’s lieutenants moved with purpose, each prepared to learn this new fighting style none of these soldiers had ever seen before.

  “Troops assembled, my lord,” Clyde reported, giving a short bow.

  Derreck nodded. “Good. Let’s show them what they’re here for.”

  Derrecks knights walked in formation as a modern military unit would partly in thanks to tom and his old marine training the night before drilling the men for hours but it paid off they looked like quite the imposing force as they made there way onto the training field where a dozen warriors had stepped forward into the center. Each wore colors from a different kingdom—Virinia, Theris, Evenmoor, Karhold—and carried weapons that gleamed with enchantments. They began a series of martial demonstrations, the clashing of steel and the roar of spellwork ringing out across the grounds.

  Derreck watched closely, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had wrote about all of these techniques when writing his novel. But seeing them brought to life was something else entirely.

  A pair of knights from Karhold demonstrated the famous twin-blade dance—blades flashing faster than the eye could track. A squad of Theris’s shield bearers locked into a perfect phalanx, forming an impenetrable wall. Then came the mana blade demonstrations: soldiers channeling raw mana through their weapons, creating bursts of elemental fury—fire, ice, crackling lightning.

  Derreck leaned forward. Looks different then in my head, he thought.

  Just as the demonstrations ended and the assembled soldiers clapped politely, a hush fell over the field.

  A special carriage—dark and iron-bound—rumbled into view, escorted by four grim-faced prison guards. The carriage door creaked open, and two guards roughly pulled a man from within.

  He was tan-skinned and dark-haired, his body lean and corded with muscle despite the manacles around his ankles and wrists. His tunic was torn, his face bruised, but his sharp eyes burned with defiance.

  King Balric of Theris approached on horseback, resplendent in his gilded armor. His booming voice carried across the field.

  “This man is a prisoner of war," Balric declared. "Captured after holding an entire regiment at bay to allow his comrades to escape. He has endured torture and refused to yield. His fate was to be execution—but I offer instead a demonstration. Let all gathered here see what devilish ways of Zion we face!"

  The guards pushed the prisoner forward. His feet stumbled under the shackles.

  Derreck frowned.

  Balric gave a sharp whistle, and ten of his finest knights stepped onto the field, blades drawn. Each carried mana-forged swords that shimmered with barely contained power.

  The plan was clear: the prisoner would be slaughtered for the soldiers’ education—and their fear.

  But something about it didn’t sit right with Derreck.

  “Unshackle him,” Derreck said, stepping forward.

  Balric turned in his saddle, raising a skeptical brow. "You would risk it?"

  "If he’s to show us how Zion fights," Derreck said calmly, "then he should fight as he truly fights. Not hobbled."

  Balric frowned. "He has killed two guards already attempting escape."

  "And yet we will learn nothing shackling him like a dog," Derreck pressed. "I will take responsibility."

  Murmurs rippled through the ranks of lords and knights. Clyde stepped beside him, muttering urgently, “My lord, think carefully. This is no tavern brawler. He’s trained to kill."

  “I know,” Derreck replied simply.

  After a tense pause, Balric sighed and nodded to the guards. Reluctantly, they unlocked the prisoner’s ankles. The chains clattered to the ground.

  The dark-haired man looked to Derreck—silent, unreadable—and gave a faint nod of respect.

  Derreck nodded back.

  The prisoner moved into a low stance, his movements flowing like water. To Derreck’s eyes, it looked strangely familiar—like kung fu, but more brutal, more direct. His center of gravity was low, his hands loose and ready.

  The ten knights fanned out around him, moving with military precision. At a shouted command, they attacked as one—each wielding a different mana technique: blades wreathed in flame, lightning crackling along steel, winds whipping up a howl.

  The prisoner exploded into motion.

  He dodged the first blade with an effortless slip, spinning low under a sweep of fire. A brutal strike to a nerve cluster dropped one knight instantly. The prisoner flowed into a joint lock, disarming another and sending him sprawling. His hands moved faster than the eye could follow—precision strikes to nerves, pressure points, tendons followed by joint locks and then powerful throws.

  Within moments, all ten knights were on the ground, groaning or unconscious.

  The entire field stood in stunned silence.

  “They use no mana at all," Derreck said, almost in awe.

  "No," Balric growled. "The heathens use only their devilish arts—much like yours."

  A scoffing voice rang out. Count Sparridge, a foppish noble newly raised to Balric’s court, sneered, also a friend of the former Viscount Rupert Vargas boasted “ I’d like to see how a knight of Atalantha fairs against these heathens of the northern wastes.."

  Derreck said nothing. He simply began unbuckling his armor, piece by piece.

  Clyde grabbed his arm. “My lord, no not this time I beg you. He’s not a common street fighter. That man’s a trained killer in those heathen arts." Several orcs also voiced a need to show their orc strength to all these noble pink bellies.

  Amelia, standing nearby in her polished silver plate, gave a slight wave. Clyde, gritting his teeth, relented.

  Derreck approached the dark-haired prisoner, tossing his breastplate and gambeson aside.

  The man bowed, surprisingly respectful. Derreck returned the bow.

  Gasps and mutters spread through the noble ranks. None of them had ever seen a Zion soldier never showed any sign of respect to an adversary, was it because Derreck insisted on giving him a fair fight or the fact that he would put himself before any man in his command to face him they didn’t know.

  The dark-haired man moved first, launching a series of rapid, precise strikes aimed at Derreck’s nerve clusters. Derreck deflected the first few attacks with mostly bobing and weaving but also measured blocks, feeling the sharp crackle of each blow through his arms. The prisoner was fast—unreasonably fast—and his movements were an economy of lethal force.

  Derreck absorbed a joint lock attempt and twisted free, but not before the man pivoted and executed a perfect hip throw, sending Derreck sprawling onto the packed dirt with a heavy thud.

  A collective gasp rose from the gathered soldiers.

  Derreck recovered just in time to block a series of kicks to his head and spine then Derreck wove his legs in between the man’s and rolled him into a painful wrestling toe hold wrenching the man’s ankle at a painful angle.

  but the man managed to strike Derreck’s forearm in a precise way numbing his hand and causing him to let go., wrenching the man’s ankle at a painful angle.

  They both rolled away, coming to their feet at the same time.

  Across the field, the nobles watched with wide eyes. Even the orcs leaned forward with interest, their deep voices murmuring, the most confused was the prisoner who was eyeing Derreck puzzled, he fought like no one in all Varinja, and what was that hold that almost crippled him. Now Derreck shifted his stance put his weight on the balls of his feet giving a few short hops on his toes like a boxer before settling into position waiting for the next attack which did not come at first, the dark haired man was shocked. He had been told as a boy never to shift his stance or alter his strategy in mid fight. What was this man thinking.

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  When The dark-haired man finally lunged again, Derreck sidestepped easily, parrying each blow with light redirections from his palms tapping wrists and elbows, sending the strikes just wide enough to avoid impact, this was modern reflex blocking not the slow hard blocking of traditional martial arts and something that the man had never seen before and had no plan to counter.

  Then, mid-dodge, Derreck launched his own counterattack—a tight chain of rapid punches straight line piston punch from his wing chun training aimed squarely at the man’s center mass. The strikes landed with sharp cracks, forcing the man back on his heels.

  Before he could recover, Derreck pivoted on his rear foot, launched a heavy overhand right to the Man’s jaw as he ducked under the man’s arm and flowed instantly into an almost perfect shoulder throw, slamming the man hard into the ground. as he held on to his arm then as the man lay dazed Derreck jerked the man half up sliding in behind him to sink in a triangle choke.

  The dark-haired man struggled, thrashing briefly—but the choke was in deep, cutting off the blood flow to his brain.

  Within moments, he went limp.

  Derreck released him carefully and rose to his feet, breathing hard but steady.

  For a moment, there was only silence across the field.

  Then a roar of cheers and applause from the assembled armies as Derreck’s knights rushed forward to congratulate him. Clyde clapped him on the back, grinning despite himself.

  The guards moved in quickly, hauling the prisoner upright and slapping shackles back onto his wrists and ankles. He swayed dizzily, blood dripping from a split lip.

  King Balric rode forward, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Now you have seen, lords of Virinja! Even the best of Zion’s devils can be broken by the knights of Atalantha!”

  Derreck frowned.

  As the guards began shoving the prisoner roughly toward the carriage again, something twisted in Derreck’s gut.

  This man had fought a duelwith honor. He had bowed to show respect and fought well. And now they would treat him as an animal.

  Derreck asked King Balric “ what was going to happen to the man now”, King Balric simply said “now that we have seen the strength of Zion and that it can be broken we have no more use for him”

  “like fucking hell,” Derreck said, striding forward.

  The guards froze, unsure.

  Derreck grabbed the prisoner by the arm, steadying him, and turned back to the nobles. “This man fought against me with honor. His only crime is fighting for the wrong side of a war he did not start. He does not deserve death anymore than a knight in my kingdom would.”

  Murmurs erupted among the lords and knights. Some voices barked protests. Clyde stepped forward again, concern etched across his face.

  King Balric frowned deeply. “And what would you have us do with him, Derreck of Atalantha? Release him to fight against us once more?”

  Derreck nodded, unflinching. “Exactly.”

  Gasps broke out.

  Balric narrowed his eyes, studying him carefully. After a long pause, he gave a terse nod to the guards.

  The shackles fell away with a clatter.

  The dark-haired man—free now—staggered back a step, staring at Derreck in disbelief.

  “Why?” the man rasped, his voice hoarse from fighting and captivity.

  Derreck met his gaze evenly. “Because a soldier who fights with honor should not die like a criminal. Because today, you showed courage and strength. And more importantly because I need you to send a message to Zion.”

  The man’s dark eyes sharpened at those words.

  “Tell your masters—the generals of Zion and the old man of the mountain himself—that if Varinja falls, it will not just be this world that crumbles, but everything. Tell them that the Knights of Atalantha will do anything to stop this fate so we have chosen to stand with Virinja. That we fight not for conquest or spoils, but to save everything that matters.”

  The dark-haired man’s breath caught. His expression shifted from suspicion to shock.

  The old man of the mountain... Only someone who had walked in the lands of Zion, a devotee of the faith would know that title for Fenrah Shahan, their prophet and leader.

  Derreck motioned for a horse.

  A squire hurried to bring one forward, and Derreck held the reins steady as the prisoner—no, the man—mounted.

  The man hesitated at the saddle, then turned back to Derreck.

  “I am Abinesh Zerishter,” he said formally. “Captain in the army of General Varnak.”

  At that revelation, half a dozen knights reached for their swords.

  Derreck raised his hand, stopping them.

  Abinesh bowed deeply from the saddle.

  “I see now that you are no mere barbarian," Abinesh said. "I have heard tales of you even in my captivity—tales I thought were mere children’s fables. But today you have shown me a man who values honor above bloodlust, you have shown me that there is a man like the one in the tales, a man who can free an enemy he respects to carry the hope of peace. Whether that means you are a justified man or not is not my place to say but I can say you have my respect barbarian and I owe you a debt for my life”

  He pressed his fist to his heart—a warrior’s salute—then spurred the horse and galloped across the field toward freedom.

  Derreck watched him go, feeling a strange heaviness settle over his heart.

  King Balric came up beside him, his brow furrowed.

  “You think it wise, setting a captain of Zion loose to report back to his masters?” Balric asked.

  Derreck shrugged slightly. “Maybe not. But fear and hate only fuel wars like this. Maybe honor will sow a different seed.”

  Balric grunted, unconvinced. “I hope your seed bears strong fruit, Atalanthan. Otherwise we will reap a bitter harvest.”

  As the gathered soldiers dispersed, preparing to begin their true training, Derreck stood alone for a moment, watching the horizon where Abinesh had vanished.

  One man won’t change the course of history, he thought. But maybe...just maybe...one act of mercy could.

  The wind stirred the banners above him, carrying the smell of sweat, steel, and coming storm.

  And far in the distance, dark clouds gathered over the lands of Zion.

  The next morning broke cold and gray. Mist clung low to the fields outside training field, muting colors and turning the world into a watercolor of shadows and steel.

  The soldiers of Virinja and Atalantha assembled at dawn, armored and armed, their breaths misting in the air. Derreck stood atop a makeshift platform, surveying them with a sharp eye. Hundreds of knights, footmen, and archers lined the muddy fields, restless and uncertain. A few still grumbled about the previous day’s duel and the release of the Zion captain.

  Derreck adjusted his cloak and raised a hand for silence.

  It fell immediately, a heavy, expectant stillness.

  “I know what some of you are thinking,” Derreck began, his voice carrying across the field. “That I’m soft. That I pity the enemy. That I don't know what real war demands.”

  He let the words hang a moment, sharp and cutting.

  “You’re wrong.”

  He stepped forward, voice tightening with quiet intensity.

  “I know exactly what war demands. I’ve seen it. Lived it. Written it in the blood of friends and enemies alike.”

  A ripple of confusion crossed a few faces at that strange phrasing.

  “I spared that man not because I’m weak, but because I’m building something stronger than fear and hate. We’re not fighting to survive. We’re fighting to win. And to win, we must be better than the ones who seek to destroy everything we love.”

  He paused, letting the conviction in his voice settle into their bones.

  “That’s why today, everything changes.”

  He turned and nodded to Clyde, who barked sharp orders.

  Squires and aides rushed forward, carrying bundles wrapped in oiled cloth.

  At Derreck’s signal, they unwrapped them—

  —and the soldiers gasped.

  Weapons of unfamiliar design gleamed under the misty morning light: shorter swords with balanced weights for faster strikes, spears reshaped and balanced for easy thrusting and quick withdrawals, tower shields reinforced with iron strips to resist the crashing war axes of Zion, forged with high quality steel of Atalantha and many worked on tirelessly by artificers to turn them into strong mana weapons.

  But most surprising of all were the training setups being erected behind them: wooden dummies with movable arms, obstacles courses, formations marked with lime on the ground.

  “Your old way of fighting won’t win this war,” Derreck said, pacing slowly. “Shield walls are broken by zealots who don’t fear death. Heavy cavalry is torn apart by guerrillas hiding in the woods. Single combat is swallowed whole by armies that fight like living storms.”

  He pointed to the training fields.

  “So we will fight smarter and smaller. We train as small unit independent of each other but connected to the whole so each piece will move faster and can change as needed mid battle.”

  A few of the younger knights exchanged excited glances. The grizzled veterans looked wary—but intrigued.

  “For the next month, every waking hour you breathe, you will train. In new tactics. In mixed formations. In discipline unlike anything you’ve ever known. You’ll hate me for it before the end.”

  He smiled grimly.

  “But you’ll thank me when you survive battles that would have slaughtered your forefathers.”

  The soldiers straightened unconsciously, squaring their shoulders.

  Derreck turned to Clyde. “Begin.”

  Clyde grinned wolfishly. “With pleasure.”

  The field exploded into organized chaos.

  Groups were divided and sent running obstacle courses under heavy armor, as groups lined up to learn the basic throws, locks, and strikes of Derreck’s modified defense system. Shield teams drilled in synchronized formations, learning to absorb charges and deflect missile fire and use their shield as a powerful bashing weapon. Archers trained in rapid volleys under timed duress as the ranks behind them knocked arrows in perfect time so there was never an arrow not loose in the air. Cavalry practiced hit-and-fade tactics instead of suicidal charges. But most importantly teams rotated between different training giving many soldiers their first taste of things like archery of riding cavalry charges but many of the knight found an aptitude for skills their orders never practiced.

  Derreck walked among them all, correcting stances, shouting encouragement, and when needed, tearing strips off anyone who lagged.

  Hours bled into the afternoon.

  A drumbeat of exhaustion pounded across the fields—but amid the sweat and curses, something new began to form.

  A fighting force that moved with purpose.

  Later, as the sun began to sink behind ragged clouds, Derreck retired briefly to his command tent. His muscles ached. Dirt stained his tunic. But his heart thrummed with a fierce, quiet pride.

  Clyde entered, wiping mud off his gauntlets.

  “Gods’ honest truth,” Clyde said, flopping into a chair. “I didn’t think it would work. But they’re responding.”

  Derreck poured them both mugs of water.

  “They’re not stupid,” he said. “They just needed a to fill the training gaps their divided training from years of closing off their schools and giving them a reason to believe in something bigger than themselves, a real united Varinja.”

  A soft knock at the tent flap interrupted them.

  One of Amelia’s knights peered inside, bowing slightly.

  “My lord Derreck,” she said. “Lady Amelia requests your company. She awaits you by the eastern meadow.”

  Clyde smirked into his cup. “Duty calls.”

  Derreck rolled his eyes but stood, brushing the dust from his cloak.

  Outside, the air was crisp with the smell of coming rain. He made his way past the bustle of the camp toward the eastern fields, where a stand of wildflower-dappled grass waited untouched by drills and booted soldiers.

  There, standing alone under a crooked old willow tree, was Lady Amelia Barzod.

  Her armor not present, replaced by a simple riding dress of deep blue that caught the dying light. Her long red hair spilled loose across her shoulders.

  Derreck stopped a few paces away, suddenly unsure of himself.

  Amelia turned, her face unreadable.

  “Your training is quite different than most knight orders I’ve seen,” she said softly.

  Derreck shrugged. “I was taught to fight different battles on a different world, where knowledge isn’t guarded it’s shared freely.”

  She stepped closer, studying him. “You freed a Zion captain. You risked your standing among the kings. And now you teach knights and peasants alongside each other.”

  There was no malice in her voice—only curiosity.

  “I fight to win,” Derreck said simply “you know what’s at stake”.

  Amelia tilted her head, eyeing him in a way he couldn’t understand at first.

  “Or perhaps,” she said, voice almost a whisper, “you fight because you cannot bear to lose what you love.”

  He felt his heart stutter in his chest.

  Derreck stepped closer, unable to stop himself.

  “And what if I told you,” he said quietly, “that what I love most is standing right in front of me?”

  For the first time, Amelia’s cheeks flushed with color. She had been eyeing him all day thinking of how this moment would play out. She moved in closer now very close to him ready for what would come next.

  But before either could do or say more, a distant horn blast shattered the moment.

  Both turned instinctively toward the camp—where scouts on horseback were galloping back at full speed.

  Derreck’s heart sank at the loss of his moment but something else had now entered his mind.

  The scout could only mean one thing, a battle was looming on the horizon.