For a moment, Leo couldn't bring himself to open his eyes.
He held his breath, steeling his mind. Then, slowly, he looked at the result of the synthesis.
"Oh…"
The first thing that caught his eye was the golden border framing the synthesis result window.
Gold. A color revered across cultures and ages. It was hard not to take it as a good omen.
Quickly closing the synthesis window, he pulled up his updated skill list.
"Wow…"
Gone were the days of monotonous "N"-rank skills. For the first time, he had something more.
– Ancient Warrior's Swordsmanship (R) / 30%
'Ancient warrior…?'
The name stirred unease.
If this was a technique so old it bore the label 'ancient,' was it truly superior to Rays' practical swordsmanship?
Perhaps it belonged to a bygone era of excellence… or perhaps it was just outdated.
But as if to answer his doubts, pain surged through his body.
"Agh—!"
It was far worse than anything he had felt before. A brutal wave that wracked his nerves and twisted his insides.
It was pain that felt like dying.
But within the agony, something was being carved into his mind—knowledge, etched deep into his bones like the retreating sea leaving its mark in the sand.
And when it finally ended, Leo collapsed onto the ground, drenched in sweat and gasping.
"Ugh… I'm seriously going to die one of these days…"
Despite the hellish experience, no one around him paid much attention. Too many had seen worse—death, dismemberment, despair. In a camp soaked with suffering, one man groaning in pain was nothing unusual.
As Leo lay there regaining his composure, he focused on the knowledge now woven into his very being.
The skill itself didn't seem all that flashy.
If anything, Rays' techniques felt more refined, more practical.
Some of the stances within Ancient Warrior's Swordsmanship felt nearly inhuman—movements a normal body couldn't realistically replicate.
But that wasn't the point.
Its value wasn't in the complexity of its strikes, but in how it unified breath and movement.
Each swing of the sword, when synced with breath, began to accumulate mana within the body.
It was rudimentary—primitive, even—but it was true aura cultivation.
Leo's lips trembled, eyes shimmering with excitement.
He wanted to shout with joy, to laugh, to leap—yet no one was there to share it with. That made the triumph feel… hollow.
'So this is what real growth feels like.'
Even so, the mastery was just 30%. Higher-grade skills clearly demanded more than just acquisition—they needed experience.
Especially techniques as deep as this.
Leo finally sat up, letting the cool night breeze brush against his skin.
The square hadn't changed much. Scattered fires dotted the area now, with small clusters of soldiers huddled around them.
Some groups had three people. Others, six.
'Is this allowed?'
There was no strict discipline here. No barked reprimands. The knights that passed by didn't scold them—they just turned away.
In wartime, preserving morale and warmth took precedence over protocol.
Leo sighed.
"There's no real sleep for me tonight."
The sky had already begun to pale at the horizon.
He carefully picked a bonfire that wasn't too crowded and crouched close to the warmth. Drawing a worn blanket from his pack, he wrapped himself up and rested his head.
He clutched his backpack tightly. In this place, even a moment of carelessness could cost you everything.
I wonder how I'll even fall asleep like this.
But exhaustion beat uncertainty. The fire crackled softly, and with warmth to lull him and weariness pressing in from all sides, sleep came swiftly.
Leo awoke to the stir of footsteps and the chatter of men.
Day had broken.
The sun rose over a field of broken stone and blood-stained earth, but the rhythm of life didn't stop. Peoples moved through the ruined streets. Soldiers hauled crates. Repairs were underway.
Around him, others began waking—groggy and stiff.
"Ugh… so stiff…"
He rubbed his shoulders and got to his feet, body aching from the cold, hard ground. The fatigue clung to him like a second skin.
"Soldiers from Izell Castle, over here!"
The voice rang familiar.
Leo turned—and his heart leapt.
Ray.
The instructor who'd molded him into a soldier. A man of strict training, sharp eyes, and unshakable presence.
In this foreign land and war-torn world, he felt like home.
Leo wanted to run to him, to shout, "Instructor!" But restraint won.
It wasn't right to show personal attachment in a military setting. So he walked over and stood at attention.
"Leo."
Charles greeted him with a rare softness.
There was so much he wanted to say. But they settled for a small nod—for now.
Even among mercenaries, no one was truly safe on the battlefield. Knights could die in an instant. There were no exceptions.
The sight of Ray brought to mind all the others.
Those who trained with him. Ate with him. Laughed with him.
Are they still alive?
He hoped. But hope was fragile.
Leo's gaze drifted to the line forming around Ray. Around fifty men.
But when they left the castle, there had been more than a hundred.
Half gone.
A weight sank into his chest.
"That ambush at the end… it really was devastating…"
And then he saw Mark's face in his mind—pale, bleeding, desperate.
Before the sorrow could consume him, Ray gave a sharp command.
"Follow me!"
They were led to a cluster of shabby wooden structures, probably once used for storage.
"This is your temporary lodging. It's cramped, but it's better than sleeping under the stars. Split into groups and get some rest."
Crude walls, dirt floors, old straw. Yet compared to the bitter cold and open air, it felt like a palace.
A nearby well promised fresh water—enough for a rinse and a drink.
As the soldiers rushed to claim spots, Leo stayed behind to speak with Ray.
"I'm glad to see you're unhurt."
"Yeah, just a few scratches. I thought you'd still be in the castle…"
"So did I. But they gathered us quickly. The situation's worse than it looks."
Ray sighed.
"At first, we were holding the river bridge just fine. No signs of pressure. Then the enemy numbers surged. We started losing ground. Eventually, we evacuated all the civilians into the castle."
"And now?"
"Now it's worse than ever. Their numbers grew again, and they've got these strange, ominous weapons…"
Leo hesitated.
"My comrades… do you know if any of them made it?"
He wanted to ask if they were unhurt—but he couldn't bring himself to say the words.
Ray paused.
"…No, Leo. They didn't make it."
Leo's breath caught in his throat.
"Alun, Tiel, and Ort are gone."
Three names. Three men. All once part of his world.
Their faces flashed before him: grinning, tired, determined.
Now, memories.
He let out a quiet, trembling sigh.
Ray placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Your group's set up near the blacksmith. Take your time. Join us later."
And then he was gone.
Leo stood there, motionless.
Eventually, he found a quiet space inside the warehouse and slumped down against the wall.
The elation from his new skill was gone—drowned beneath sorrow and fatigue.
"I haven't even gotten my shoes back…"
He remembered Tiel, who'd promised to fix and return them.
In truth, he didn't care about shoes anymore. He'd trade ten pairs just to have his friends back.
He always knew death was part of war. But knowing it and seeing it—feeling it—were worlds apart.
Eventually, it was hunger that pushed him back to his feet.
His friends had died.
But his stomach growled.
He hated himself for it.
But he couldn't afford to skip meals—not in this place, not with another battle always on the horizon.
Outside, a pot of water and pemmican simmered by the fire.
He added meat and grain powder, stirred until it thickened into a hearty porridge, and sat by the flames.
The smell drew stares.
Hungry eyes from tired soldiers.
But none approached.
Not just because of discipline, but because they had seen Leo in battle.
They knew he was not a man to steal from.
Leo said nothing. He didn't offer to share.
He knew how this world worked.
There is no law of kindness among the desperate.
He'd learned that since arriving here.
The poor weren't kind. Not inherently.
Desperation breeds greed, and in the face of starvation, even good men covet and deceive.
So Leo ate quietly, ignoring the eyes. He cleaned the pot, packed it away, and stood up.
Warmth and food restored a bit of strength to his weary body.
"I shouldn't leave my backpack unattended."
One lapse, and everything he had could be stolen.
He slung his backpack over his shoulders and turned in the direction Ray had gone.
Another day awaited.