This was a large green military tent, spanning over ten square meters. Both sides of the tent were lined with rare and curious objects: a red-leafed sapling growing in a flowerpot, a string of pearls dangling from a suspended metal rack, a grayish-brown bearskin, a wooden carving of a soaring eagle… Daemon recognized some of these as highly valuable; others he didn't recognize, which probably meant they were even more rare.
At the very front of the tent sat a glossy orange-red wooden desk. To the right, a large screen blocked off a section of the space, Daemon assumed that was where Young Lord Solon slept.
Standing before the desk was a tall young man with jet-black hair and faint red pupils. He gazed calmly, and with curiosity, at the gray-haired, similarly aged officer standing before him. The red eyes were a signature trait, proof of Solon's noble blood from the prestigious House Slate of the capital.
Solon recognized the man in front of him, Daemon, the one holding two bottles of beer. To be honest, Daemon looked rather comical with his messy gray hair, worn-out leather armor, and those two bottles in hand.
Yes, comical. With his refined noble upbringing, Young Lord Solon's first impression of Daemon was that he looked rather ridiculous. But upon remembering that Daemon was a commoner through and through, Solon let it go, and even felt a hint of curiosity toward him.
This gray-haired squad leader, whose build was even more robust than Solon's, had come up in conversation quite a lot lately. The army was about to mobilize, and with the 3rd and 4th squads nearly crippled, they needed two new squad leaders. The fresh troops from the rear had already arrived, yet no appointments had been made.
Several rounds of discussion had failed to settle on the candidates. The problem wasn't a lack of qualified men, it was that there were only two slots, and plenty of hopefuls. These were real positions of power, and many had their eyes on them. More importantly, the top two figures in the camp had yet to express their opinions, Baron Kenning (Solon's father) and his instructor, Knight Captain Willasas. Without their word, everything else was just noise.
Daemon was among the more popular candidates, having been recommended by both his squad's current leader and vice leader. But Solon dismissed these recommendations. These were all commoners, they didn't understand the balance of power among nobles. For two squad leaders to both push their own man so crudely? That was textbook faction-building and made Solon shake his head.
That said, Daemon had the strength, the experience, and, perhaps most importantly, the reputation. Reputation meant everything in the military. It not only kept your position secure but also enhanced group cohesion and combat effectiveness. What bothered Solon, though, was Daemon's age.
Solon himself was 19 and already deputy captain of the cavalry squad. Though he'd only joined the army last year, and hadn't fought in the bloodiest battles like the Battle of the Felmer Gorge (since cavalry typically avoided the brunt of hand-to-hand combat), he still had a prestigious role.
Daemon, on the other hand, had served for four years, seen numerous battles, and earned real respect. Among the new recruits, there was no question who they looked up to, Daemon. So realistically, Daemon's chance of promotion was about fifty-fifty.
Looking at Daemon, who stood there with beer in hand and a slightly tense expression, Solon understood what he was here for. Not bad, he thought. This one has brains.
"Lord, I'm Daemon from the Second Squad. I recently came across two good bottles of beer and thought you might like to try them," Daemon said respectfully, calming himself quickly after a moment of nervousness. He held out the bottles as he bowed.
"Mhm, not bad. Put them there," Solon said, pointing to a side shelf.
Daemon carefully placed the beer on the shelf and couldn't help sneaking a glance at the treasures arranged on it, he was clearly fascinated by them.
He then returned to the center of the tent and stood with lowered eyes. Solon, seeing how respectful and well-mannered Daemon was, felt his opinion of him rise further.
"Which town are you from?" Solon asked casually.
"Sir, I'm from Minertown."
"How old are you?"
"Sir, I'm 18."
Now Solon was intrigued. People had been saying Daemon was too young to be a squad leader. He'd heard it before but hadn't realized Daemon was younger than him, by a whole year. Looking at Daemon's rugged face and the beard on his chin, Solon had assumed he was in his twenties.
"I heard you fought in the Battle of Gondor Heights?" Solon asked with interest.
"Yes, sir."
That battle was known as the turning point in the war between Northwild and Storm. Solon had heard many old soldiers recount the story, each exaggerating their valor and kill count. He didn't believe half of it.
His teacher, Knight Willas, a high-level knight squire, once told him that even he had been seriously wounded in that battle. In a clash involving over 100,000 troops, individual strength meant very little. Not even peak knight squires, who ranked on par with legion commanders, could make a difference. For Baron Kenning to produce a knight of such caliber was no small feat.
"Can you tell me about it? Just your personal experience is fine," Solon asked eagerly, gesturing to the left side of the tent. "That's a sofa. Northwild nobles really know how to enjoy life, we took that from the city lord's mansion when we captured Figor City."
"Thank you, sir." Daemon nodded and sat stiffly on the "sofa." Seeing how eager Solon was to listen, Daemon realized, this is my chance.
He wasn't much of a storyteller. He simply recounted what he'd seen and experienced, no exaggerations, no theatrics. But that honesty captivated Solon, who was tired of overblown tales. The plain, stream-like narrative of an ordinary man caught in a war beyond his control fascinated him.
Daemon spoke of how the battle took place in late autumn of his third year in the army. He'd fought under Uncle Joshek as a spearman. He described the battlefield: enormous fireballs streaking across the sky, icy spikes piercing the toughest armor, heavy cavalry warriors in full armor slashing shockwaves that toppled entire squads.
The more Solon listened, the more intrigued he became. He was hearing the story from a completely different perspective than from Knight Willas. In Daemon's version, he could imagine himself on the battlefield, the chaos, the terror, the thrill. He was captivated.
Solon had heard about supernatural attacks like fireballs and ice lances, but he had never seen them in person. Such secrets were restricted to higher-ranking nobles, perhaps only accessible after he inherited the title. So he was more curious about the knight-level warriors Daemon mentioned.
Having trained in battleforce himself, Solon knew that to knock down ten enemies with one swing, you'd need to be at least an Intermediate Squire. He himself was still at the beginner level, even after starting at age nine with his family's ancestral techniques.
"Are those kinds of warriors truly unstoppable?" Solon asked.
Daemon shook his head. "I've only seen one of those once. I can't say about others, but that one, after cutting down an entire squad in one strike, was immediately swarmed by enemy troops. A huge burst of blood rose, maybe three feet high… and then he was gone."
Solon couldn't accept that. An Intermediate Squire, someone who would typically hold the rank of squad commander, dying just like that? So plain? Just like a regular soldier, trampled under a sea of men?
Indeed, in a war involving over 100,000 soldiers, even a High Squire could only hope to survive. Daemon further described how, under Uncle Joshek's command, he and the others fought on the left flank of the plains at Gondor Heights. The once-yellow grasses were stained dark red with blood and corpses, and the battle still raged.
On the first day, his squad lost two men. On the third day more fell. Within just a week, Uncle Joshek's squad was down to only four. All the squires had died; even at the rank-and-file level, one was killed and another badly wounded. Since they were deep in enemy territory, no one could carry him back. With his consent, Uncle Joshek ended his suffering swiftly, no one wanted to be captured and tortured to death.
Despite being reduced to just one seasoned soldier and three rank-and-file, Uncle Joshek's squad remained effective, and miraculously, suffered no further losses in later actions.
War is unpredictable. After a month of continuous fighting, all command broke down. Gondor Heights had claimed over 100,000 lives. One night while on watch, Daemon's camp was ambushed. Amid the chaos, he got separated from Uncle Joshek and the rest.
Years of night marches had sharpened his vision in the dark, but that night, he wished he didn't have it. The ambushers were everywhere; he saw no end to the human wave in the darkness. He fought and retreated, running blindly until the next day, until he found himself in unfamiliar land, surrounded by fighting everywhere. He fell in with a band of soldiers at random.
By evening, the skirmish ended and the enemy pulled back. Daemon learned from his fellow soldiers that he had stumbled into the fighting lines of the Tiger Legion, many were from the 2nd and 3rd brigades, and even some supply troops, though most were from the Tiger Legion, and some from the Eagle and Wolf Legions as well.
About 200 of them regrouped under a captain named Ford from the Tiger Legion. They gathered around a bonfire, tended the wounded, and sat down to eat and rest. Lock exhausted from non-stop fighting, fell asleep after two sips of broth.
No direct superior meant he didn't have to do nighttime watch, his absence went unnoticed. Over the following days, they fought continuously. Unwilling to wander alone, Daemon stayed with the group. With no pigeons left to relay orders and no contact with headquarters, Captain Ford led them toward the center of Gondor Heights, aiming for the Lion Legion's position.
The Lion Legion was Storm's elite unit, and stood where the decisive battle would take place. The temporary unit had to go. First, after years of war, only the brave remained in the ranks. Second, desertion over twenty days meant being classified "missing," which was a worse fate than death, soldiers labeled deserters had their families enslaved; if caught, they'd be executed at camp gates as warnings. Missing soldiers, however, meant only modest provisions for the family, nobles wouldn't spend more, and they couldn't confirm whether someone deserted, was captured, or died.
So most soldiers, including commoners, stuck close. Daemon, by then two years in service, knew this well. If he died in battle, his family would receive enough compensation to survive five years without starving.
In late autumn of 1345, on a plain in central Gondor Heights, roughly 3,000 Storm soldiers clashed with about 2,000 Northwild troops. Black flags featuring roaring lions marked the Storm's Lion Legion; the Northwilds flew red banners with howling wolves of the Wolf Legion.
The battle had been raging for an unknown duration. Around 5,000 men created a meat grinder. The side with greater numbers surrounded the other, but the defenders wielded stronger supernatural powers. After the worst, only 3,000 remained. The battlefield blurred, no one could tell friend from foe. Soldiers hacked, stabbed, bit; everyone was soaked in blood, theirs or others'.
Daemon's temporary group witnessed this horror at a glance. Captain Ford unleashed his Battleforce, urged on his cavalry, and led them into the fray.
Their arrival shifted everything. The Northwilds, exhausted and trapped, assumed the reinforcements meant rescue, and sprang forward. The Storm's third brigade commander, a high squire, saw the chance to destroy the enemy's remaining strength. He'd already lost over half his men in two weeks of back-and-forth fights. He believed Storm's stronger, wealthier kingdom could swallow Northwild entirely.
Although their regiment had suffered heavy losses, shattering the enemy lines would earn him merit. Spotting the unexpected reinforcements, he seized the opportunity. Meanwhile, the Northwilds assumed the reinforcements meant another wave, they fought like cornered beasts. The commander let them press forward, directing them toward Daemon's group. Ford's men, perhaps reckless or inexperienced, charged in too.
As expected, once the two forces collided, it became a slaughter. Northwild veterans were killing machines. Daemon's ragtag force, newly assembled, was no match, still distrustful of one another, each soldier fought for himself. They were butchered like livestock.
Captain Ford was the first to meet the Northwild advance, a mid-level knight squire wielding aura clashed with him. Ford's head soared five feet in the air and crashed down. With their commander dead, the remaining 200 men were sliced down by waves of Northwild attackers. Daemon, standing near the center, witnessed Ford's demise, the head flying, blood spraying, and soldiers collapsing around him. Three years into service, his sword was stained by many kills. But it was now others killing him, and even he, hardened beyond fear of death, trembled in the face of his own mortality.
True to its reputation, the Lion Legion proved worthy. Even after intense fighting for two weeks, the Wolf Legion's strength endured. Their commander, a high-level knight squire, led less than 300 riders in a fierce charge that broke Daemon's small circle. The mid-level knight squire Storm commander (Ford) had fallen, tangled in fierce combat.
Meanwhile, the third brigade commander and about 700 lion soldiers surrounded the Northwild line, effectively sacrificing Daemon's force as bait.
Amid the slaughter, Daemon swung his iron sword like a madman. In close quarters, the long spear was useless, it had already been discarded early on. Surrounded, he held nothing back. He fought and retreated, survival was the goal. Anyone who could stay standing longer could live a little longer.
Remarkably, the battered group still managed to form a circle and stave off the Northwild advance. Daemon found himself near the outer edge of the main battle, between the Lion and Wolf Legion frontlines.
In that temporary ring, Daemon's strength was average. Far from invincible, he compensated with his wits. He realized hiding in the center only delayed his end, these fanatically red-eyed enemies wouldn't stop. To survive, he needed to break out, not toward the larger group, but outward, beyond the encirclement. Only then could he glimpse a chance at life.