The air crackled with tension in the makeshift war council tent. Baron Reyland, his face etched with fatigue, joined the gathering of nobles and high-ranking military officials. The pungent scent of oiled leather and stale bread hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the harsh realities of war.
"The Rubik forces have retreated for now," General Petrov, a weathered man with a mane of gray hair, announced, his voice laced with weary frustration. "But make no mistake, this is a temporary respite. They'll be back, bolstered by the Seventa reinforcements."
A murmur of discontent rippled through the room. The first battle had been costly. Reports from the field hospitals painted a grim picture–hundreds lay wounded, and the list of fallen soldiers grew longer with every passing day.
"We need more than just resilience," Baron Vargas, a man with a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes, stated. "We need a strategy. Throwing young men at an enemy fueled by sheer numbers is a recipe for disaster."
A heated debate ensued, filled with accusations, pleas for caution, and demands for swift retaliation. Luke, still recovering from his wounds, stood silently in the corner, his gaze flitting from one weathered face to another.
The war council dissolved into a flurry of orders and renewed vigilance. As the nobles and generals dispersed, Luke lingered behind, seeking out his father.
"Father," he began, his voice low, "the casualties... it's worse than I imagined."
The baron nodded grimly. "War takes its toll, son. But we cannot falter. We fight for our home and for our families."
Luke fell silent, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He was no longer just a scrawny office worker thrust into a foreign world. He was a knight, a protector, and a single cog in a war machine stained crimson with sacrifice.
Later that night, as the camp settled into an uneasy slumber, Luke sat beneath a canopy of stars, his mind consumed by two pressing thoughts. The first was the stele. Ever since the battle, a faint hum resonated within him, a constant reminder of its presence. He yearned to understand it and unlock its secrets.
The second thought gnawed at him like a persistent itch. He had broken through to Tier 3 – the Bronze Late Stage Knight. Master Morris had declared it a near-impossible feat for someone with so little training. Perhaps, Luke mused, the stele had played a role. Maybe, while he trained, the stele subtly absorbed some of his aura, unknowingly accelerating his growth.
A sliver of hope bloomed in his chest. Maybe the key to understanding the stele wasn't brute force meditation, but a deeper connection with his aura. As he delved deeper into the intricacies of his magical energy, perhaps the stele would reveal itself, its purpose became clear once he reached the Silver Stage—a level where knights could truly begin to manipulate and understand the flow of aura within them. It was a long shot, a theory born of desperation, but it was a spark nonetheless, a flicker of hope in the darkness.