Canna lay sprawled in the grass, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes closed as he tried to steady himself. His body bore the marks of relentless training—cuts and bruises marred his skin, each wound a testament to the fierce regimen he was undertaking. For three months, he had been preparing himself for the battle to come, pushing his limits every day. Mortem, his loyal subordinate, had been his sparring partner, pushing Canna beyond his physical and magical thresholds, ensuring he was ready for the upcoming clash.
There were still three months left until the fated encounter with the green orcs, and Canna knew he had to make every moment count. His subordinates were all hard at work, honing their skills and preparing their minds for the brutal war ahead. As he lay there, taking a moment to rest, Canna's thoughts drifted to the rankings of his most trusted allies and himself.
Currently, the rankings stood as follows:
