Will of the Battlefield

Unlike the frantic days of the Aspirant Trials, the academy woke with discipline.

Bells echoed from the central tower. Dormitory doors opened one after another.

Students hurried across polished stone walkways carrying books, practice weapons, and bundles of parchment.

Thane, meanwhile, was carrying a roasted chicken.

He walked through the academy grounds chewing happily, utterly unaware that every noble-born student who passed him wore expressions somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

"You shouldn’t eat while walking," Sky muttered.

"I’m saving time," Thane answered through another bite.

Conor laughed. "I don’t think anyone else has ever considered breakfast a military operation like Thane."

Simon simply sighed.

Max quietly looked away. "I don’t know either of them."

Before they reached the lecture halls, an academy servant hurried toward them. "Aspirant Thane Ironforge."

Thane swallowed. "Yeah?"

"The Principal wishes to see you."

Conor nudged him. "Did you break something already?"

"I don’t think so."

Thane scratched his head. "Maybe Garret got angry because I accidentally snapped his practice axe."

The Principal’s office sat atop Blue Leaf Academy’s central tower.

The room overlooked almost the entire campus.

Training fields spread beneath the windows like giant squares upon a game board.

Beyond them stretched the capital itself, alive with merchants, towers, smoke, and banners fluttering from every district.

Principal Athenok Ravenshade stood beside the window with both hands behind his back.

He did not turn immediately. "You came quickly."

"I ran when I heard you called. What’s up, Geezer?"

"Call me Principal."

"Okay, Principal." Thane was breathing heavily. "I thought I was in trouble."

Athenok smiled faintly. "Not today."

He motioned toward a chair. "Sit."

Thane obeyed, and the chair creaked ominously.

For several moments, silence filled the room as Athenok adjusted several documents.

Then he produced a sealed parchment.

Upon the crimson wax rested the emblem of a soaring dragon encircling a golden sun.

Thane raised his eyebrows. "Pretty seal."

"It belongs to the Great Murak Empire."

Thane blinked. "Oh, really."

"You know what this means?" Athenok asked.

"No."

"I expected as much."

The principal couldn’t suppress his disappointment.

"The Emperor himself has announced a Grand Aspirant Tournament."

Thane immediately stopped fidgeting.

"The strongest fresh aspirant from every nation will participate. Eight kingdoms. Eight champions."

"No veterans or seasoned generals. Only those who have recently become aspirants."

Thane leaned forward. "So... people my age?"

"Mostly. The strongest of every nation."

The words settled heavily.

Athenok continued. "It will be held here, in Bentram. The Emperor wishes to witness the future generation before they become legends."

He placed the parchment onto the table. "The winner shall receive wealth beyond imagination.

"A noble title. Imperial recognition. Rare treasures and perhaps something far more valuable..."

He paused before continuing. "The attention of every ruler on the continent."

Thane’s eyes sparkled. "So... I can fight people from every country?"

Athenok stared.

"...Yes."

Thane slapped his knee. "I’m joining."

There wasn’t even half a heartbeat of hesitation.

The principal laughed openly this time. "I expected nothing less."

As Thane stood to leave, Athenok spoke once more.

"Do not misunderstand. This tournament isn’t merely entertainment. The kings will observe, the generals will observe, the great families will observe.

"What happens there... may shape alliances before the coming wars."

Thane nodded earnestly. "I’ll win."

"You sound awfully confident."

"I promised," replied Thane.

Athenok was curious. "To whom?"

"Myself." Thane winked.

For some reason, that answer pleased the old principal more than any boast could have.

The morning lessons began shortly afterward.

Today’s instructor was Professor Aldric Morn.

Unlike Professor Ringo, Aldric carried himself more like an engineer than a scholar.

His robes bore burn marks, and his fingers were stained black.

Small mechanical tools hung from his belt.

Without introduction, he walked toward the enormous iron device standing beneath a cloth at the front of the classroom.

With one pull, the cloth fell away.

Gasps filled the room.

It resembled a massive furnace connected to dozens of brass pipes.

Crystal gauges glowed softly.

Inside a glass chamber rested a crimson heart.

It pulsed slowly. Rhythmically.

Despite clearly belonging to something long dead.

Thane’s eyes widened. "That thing is moving."

Professor Aldric nodded. "It still lives."

"No..." He corrected himself. "It still functions."

"This..." He rested a hand upon the glass.

"...is the preserved heart of a 2-Finned Cursed Beast.

"It has been dead for forty-three years. And yet..." He turned a wheel.

The classroom lights immediately brightened.

Several ceiling fans began spinning. Steam hissed through hidden pipes.

"...it continues producing energy."

Students watched in fascination.

Professor Aldric smiled proudly.

"This," he declared, "is why kingdoms wage wars."

He began pacing before the class.

"Gold is valuable. Food is necessary. Iron builds nations. But none compare to Cursed Beast Hearts."

He tapped the machine again.

"They power factories and can automatically move siege engines. They illuminate cities and even purify water.

"From heating homes to operating workshops, they can do it all. With experienced blacksmiths, they become advanced weapons.

"They even sustain some defensive fortresses."

Max raised his hand. "So technological superiority depends on acquiring stronger beast hearts?"

"Precisely." Professor Aldric pointed toward him approvingly. "The richer a nation’s supply... the stronger its industry."

Simon quietly scribbled notes as fast as possible.

Simon slowly raised a hand.

Professor Aldric smiled. "Yes?"

"If hearts are this useful... why don’t people just farm monsters?"

The classroom erupted with laughter.

The professor didn’t.

Instead, he nodded thoughtfully.

"A fair question. The answer is simple."

Before he could answer, Thane spoke. "They kill us first."

Silence immediately replaced the laughter. The professor looked at Thane and nodded.

"Cursed Beasts cannot be domesticated. They mutate, grow, devour, and destroy.

"Entire cities have vanished because someone believed they could control one."

Thane stopped smiling; the Ironforge clan knew more about cursed beasts than any other.

Professor Aldric looked around the classroom.

"Remember this: the heart inside this machine... cost hundreds of lives."

No one spoke again, and Professor Aldric left after some details.

After a short break came another lecture.

Military Foundations.

This time the instructor was an elderly veteran named Professor Bram Holden, a former colonel.

Three faded scars crossed his weathered face.

His left arm ended below the elbow. Yet when he entered, every student instinctively straightened.

War carried a presence books never could.

Without writing anything upon the board, Bram asked, "Who here wishes to become powerful?"

Every hand rose, even Simon’s.

The old soldier grunted. "Good."

He drew a straight line across the board. "Strength wins battles."

Then another line. "Leadership wins wars."

He picked up a piece of chalk.

"You all dream of becoming generals. I’ll tell you something.

"Most of you won’t even survive becoming captains."

The room quieted.

He began writing.

5-Man Captain

"The smallest command. Five soldiers."

"You eat together, sleep together, bleed together.

"If one dies... you feel it."

Next came:

50-Man Captain

"You now command ten squads. You no longer fight only for yourself."

"You think, you organize, and possibly, you inspire."

Then:

100-Man Captain

The old colonel underlined it.

"This is your first true officer’s commission. You stop being merely a warrior.

"You become responsible for the lives of one hundred families."

His voice hardened. "If ninety-nine return... you have failed one family."

The classroom had grown utterly silent. Thane listened without blinking.

Bram continued.

"After that: two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. Five hundred."

Each title carried greater responsibility.

Greater expectations, greater burdens.

Then the chalk paused.

He drew another line.

Above it, he wrote: Commander

"One thousand. Two thousand. Three. Four. Five thousand."

He looked around the room.

"By now... your decisions decide cities."

He erased half the board.

Then wrote in much larger letters:

GENERAL

"Ten thousand soldiers. Twenty. Thirty. Forty, and fifty thousand."

He let the number linger. "You no longer command men; you command history."

Conor slowly raised a hand.

"Sir... how does someone rise?"

The colonel smiled. "A good question."

He placed the chalk down. "Not by birth."

Several nobles shifted uncomfortably. "Not by wealth."

More silence, then he uttered gradually, "By merit."

He spoke each sentence like hammer blows.

"You capture enemy banners, you break sieges, you save allies.

"You kill opposing officers and win battles. You survive, again and again and again."

"Every promotion... is written in blood."

Max asked quietly, "What if someone fails?"

Colonel Bram answered without emotion. "Then someone else wears the rank."

Finally... the old soldier wrote two final words.

The classroom seemed to grow colder.

Titled General

No explanation came immediately.

Instead... he turned around slowly.

"Does anyone know what separates them from ordinary generals?"

No one answered.

Then, Thane raised his hand. "They’ve got seven lines."

Bram nodded. "Correct. 7-Lined Blessed. They stand at the absolute peak of mankind."

He folded his arms. "They are not merely commanders; they are strategic weapons.

"When a normal general wishes to wage war, he requests permission from the King.

"When a Great General wishes to march... he informs the King."

"But..." He looked at everyone. "When a Titled General stands upon a battlefield... he may decide the course of the war himself."

Several students stared. Even Max looked excited. "They possess that authority?" He knew, but still wanted to make sure.

"They do. They are trusted with nations."

The old veteran looked toward the academy banners fluttering outside.

"Every nation calls their titled generals by a different name. In Bentram... our seven-lined blessed also carry such a name."

He spoke it almost reverently.

"The Four Heavenly Heroes."

No one interrupted, not even the wind outside.

Colonel Bram continued quietly.

"They are more than generals; they are symbols. When one marches... entire armies regain courage.

"When one falls... kingdoms mourn."

Thane felt something stir inside his chest.

Not excitement alone; it was something deeper.

He had always known stories about the Four Heavenly Heroes.

Children sang songs about them, and bards celebrated them. Villagers toasted their victories. His father, Thomas, admired them as well.

But today... for the first time...

He understood: they weren’t simply strong men.

They stood above every officer, every commander, and every general.

They carried the authority to shape wars with their own judgment.

To bear such trust, a man had to become more than powerful.

He had to become indispensable.

Thane’s hands slowly clenched beneath the desk.

Not from anger, nor from fear. But from longing.

His pulse echoed loudly in his ears.

One day... he wanted soldiers to trust him that way.

He wanted comrades who would follow him without hesitation.

He wanted to stand where even kings believed in his judgment.

Colonel Bram noticed the expression.

A fierce hunger. The old soldier smiled to himself.

Perhaps... just perhaps... the giant had finally found the road he truly wished to walk.