Brimhold City...
Josh Aratat had his mask on, as his robe dancee in the wind.
The square was a forest of raised hands — eight thousand martial artists swearing allegiance with solemn faces and clenched fists. But Josh Aratat wasn't impressed. He'd seen smiles that masked daggers, oaths that were lighter than air. He tapped into his kingly system's interphase, letting its cold logic cut through the veil of performance.
A glowing panel flared before his eyes, flickering with data that made his heart tighten.
Death-level loyalty: 12 — Lola, Conrad Stan, and 10 others.
Debt-level loyalty: 300.
Above-normal loyalty: 2,000.
Normal loyalty: 4,000.
Disloyal: 1,000.
Undecided: 690.
Josh's gaze hardened.
Out of 8000, only a fraction could be trusted when blades started swinging.
"These numbers..." he muttered, eyes scanning the sea of faces. "Most of them... are just pretending."
His voice was low, but heavy with disappointment.
A gust of wind passed, lifting the edges of his robe. He knew Amiel Racta was approaching. Time was scarce, and trust was even scarcer.
"No matter," he breathed, resolve setting into his bones. "Let's awaken the blades."
He shifted his eyes toward Conrad Stan. A silent signal passed. Conrad nodded stiffly and stepped forward, voice booming with authority.
"Everyone, silence! My Master is about to initiate an amplifying technique. Assume a meditative posture. If your spirit is willing, your strength will grow before the enemy arrives!"
His voice rolled across the field like thunder, but it didn't shake the skepticism of the disloyal. Many stood with arms crossed, whispering to each other with doubtful eyes. Only the truly loyal moved swiftly, settling into meditation without hesitation.
Conrad's brow furrowed. Lola leaned in, whispering, "I thought they were all fired up to fight. Why are most of them just... standing there?"
Josh's eyes didn't flicker. "Loyalty isn't loud. It's proven when no one's watching."
Then, with a smooth motion, he brought out a bamboo flute — one he had used so often within the past week to help train Lola and Conrad Stan.
The bamboo flute had markings that shimmered as if alive. The moment it touched his lips, silence fell like snowfall. His voice rose, low and clear, threading through the night air with haunting intensity:
"This song is called Rise of the Blade," he said. "Let it sharpen your soul. If your loyalty is true, your strength will answer. Cultivate while you can — before Amiel Racta arrives to devour the unready."
Then came the melody — eerie, beautiful, like wind singing through swords. Josh's voice joined it, low and rhythmic.
---
Verse I
From shadows deep, I rise unseen,
Increase in strength, a force serene,
Every step, a dance with death,
An assassin maid with whispered breath.
---
Chorus
Rise, rise, let the world tremble,
A blade that cuts, a force to assemble,
No foe can stand, no tyrant remain,
Mastery earned through fire and pain.
Rise, rise — from shadows we lead,
A lieutenant's heart, an assassin's creed.
---
The impact was immediate. Ten death-level loyalists gasped, their bodies very core were glowing with inner light. Energy surged through their cores like a storm awakened. A moment later — four of them broke through to the 5th stage of the Ocean Opening Realm, power erupting from them like geysers.
The debt-level loyalists trembled as well, their veins pulsing with increasing strength. Even the above-normal loyalists felt a surge, though softer, like a tide rising within.
Josh exhaled — then his body quaked.
A golden aura burst from his chest as he ascended into First Sergeant rank — equivalent to the 7th level of Ocean Opening realm. The ground beneath his feet cracked from the pressure.
Then it came — like the pounding of war drums echoing through the earth — boots, hundreds of them. A relentless, rhythmic thunder that rolled across the plains and crawled into the bones of every listener.
Conrad's eyes widened, lips parting with alarm.
"They're here…"
The once-still horizon churned with dust and shadows, and out of the haze emerged a terrifying spectacle — a wall of armored bodies, disciplined and synchronized, their spears catching the dying sunlight like slivers of bloodstained crystal. Black banners unfurled behind them, emblazoned with the insignia of tyranny — Balek Aratat's image inside the circling of a flaming serpent.
Josh lowered his flute, and with it, the music died. His eyes—sharp, unblinking—were as cold as steel dipped in frost.
"Let's see," he murmured, voice like a whispering blade, "which of our blades are truly forged to rise."
The battlefield responded. The loyal subjects surged forward, their formation tight, postures alert, wills ignited. But behind them… the illusion shattered.
Over five thousand warriors began stepping back—(5690), hesitant at first, then retreating in waves, slipping away like cowards into the shadow of betrayal. Gasps followed. Eyes widened.
Only 2,310 stood firm — those whose loyalty pulsed through the song, whose strength had surged from the rise of the blade.
And then—he appeared.
A figure broke through the dust storm, riding a black war-beast with crimson eyes. Clad in dark armor with a billowing robe, etched with glowing runes, Amiel Racta sat like a god of war. His gaze swept across the battlefield, resting on Josh with the smugness of a man who believed victory already belonged to him.
Behind him stood about 400 elite soldiers, each one a seasoned killer. Among them—Uzziah Bilu, eyes burning with restrained fury, power radiating from his every pore. And Amiel himself… glowed with an aura of terrifying power. Sixth level Ocean Opening Realm.
He drew his sword slowly, the scraping sound slicing through the tension like a warning bell.
"I am Amiel Racta, right hand to His Lordship, The First Prince, Balek Aratat!" His voice roared like a hurricane, deep and menacing. "Lay down your weapons and surrender, and I may grant you the mercy of service. Resist… and I will grind your bones into the soil of Brimhold!"
His words thundered across the battlefield.
Silence followed.
Then, like sheep finding their shepherd, the 5,690 deserters marched to Amiel's side without a fight, dropping their banners and raising their hands in submission. No pleading. No convincing. Their loyalty had always been paper-thin.
The wind howled as the dust of betrayal settled.
Josh stood tall, unmoved. Beside him, Conrad's face twisted in disbelief, his voice nearly cracking.
"Master… Can we truly win this?"
Josh didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked over the 2,310 who remained — their eyes fierce, their stance unwavering. Warriors forged not by fear, but by fire.
Then he smiled — slow, confident, unyielding.
"We may be fewer," he said calmly, "but we are the storm. Our strength is Greater and we are truly united. Our spirits are unbreakable."
He turned his gaze toward the enemy and whispered with deadly certainty,
"Let them come. And may they regret what they wished for."
Conrad felt something stir within him. Not fear… but fire, and suddenly, numbers didn't matter anymore.