Exhaustion clung to Luke like a second skin. The gruesome aftermath of the battle swam before his eyes as he drifted off to a restless sleep. Images of clashing blades and fallen warriors flickered in his mind, a stark contrast to the peaceful haven of his dreamscape.
He found himself standing before the familiar, imposing stele within the dreamscape. This time, an ethereal glow emanated from its surface, beckoning him closer. As he approached, tendrils of light erupted from the stele, wrapping around him in a warm embrace.
A kaleidoscope of memories flooded his mind. He saw figures clad in unfamiliar armor, their movements graceful and precise as they channeled a strange energy that flowed within them. Unlike the focused bursts of aura he was accustomed to, these warriors seemed to breathe in this energy, their bodies becoming vessels for its power.
The visions subsided as abruptly as they appeared, leaving behind a profound sense of understanding. Luke instinctively knew this was the advanced knight breathing method the stele had promised. He felt a surge of energy course through his veins, invigorating him with sudden clarity.
He awoke with a gasp, sweat clinging to his brow. The events of the dream were vivid, and the memories of the breathing technique were etched into his mind. He sat up, eager to test his newfound knowledge.
Focusing on his core, he imagined drawing in the frigid air of the barracks. But this time, it wasn't just air he was inhaling. He visualized a sparkling silver mist intertwining with the air, infusing it with his aura. As he exhaled, he felt a wave of exhaustion leave his body, replaced by a renewed sense of vitality.
He repeated the cycle, each breath growing smoother, more efficient. With each cycle, he could feel the silver mist intensifying, swirling within him with increasing potency. He stopped after a dozen repetitions, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.
The memories within the stele had gifted him the first active benefit – a superior breathing technique that accelerated his aura's flow and replenished his stamina. This, he realized, could be the edge he needed to survive the harsh realities of the northern border.
But the question that gnawed at him remained – what other secrets did the stele hold? Were there more techniques waiting to be unlocked? A thrill of anticipation coursed through him. The stele was more than just a guardian, it was a gateway to forgotten power, and Luke was determined to unlock its secrets.
The clanging of armor and the gruff voices of his fellow knights filtering in from the corridor pulled him back to reality. He rose and stretched, feeling a newfound lightness in his step. Today, he would train with renewed vigor, using this gift from the stele to push himself further, to honor his fallen comrades, and to prepare for the next battle that inevitably awaited them.
A Month Later
The relentless training schedule at Fort Boreas, fueled by Luke's newfound breathing technique, bore fruit. His aura control improved dramatically.He also reached the Silver Middle Stage successfully. He could sustain his silver aura for longer periods, channel it with greater precision, and unleash bursts of concentrated energy that surprised even the veteran knights.
Knight Alistair, who had initially dismissed Luke as a green recruit, couldn't help but acknowledge the young knight's rapid progress. "You've got the makings of a fine warrior, lad," Alistair boomed, his voice gruff but laced with respect. "Keep at it, and you might just make Captain one day."
News of Luke's prowess spread through the fort. He became a source of inspiration for younger knights, a testament to the transformative power of dedication and discipline. Even Captain Steph, a man of few words, offered a rare smile and a nod of approval during their sparring sessions.
One crisp morning, a commotion erupted in the training yard. A mounted messenger from the capital thundered into the fort, bearing a sealed scroll addressed to Baron Rayland. The baron's usually stoic expression unraveled as he read the message, his eyes widening in surprise.
He beckoned Luke over, his voice low and serious. "Son, this is for you." He handed Luke the scroll, the royal seal emblazoned on the crimson wax. Luke's heart pounded in his chest as he carefully broke the seal and unfurled the parchment.
The elegant script proclaimed a royal decree. King, impressed by Luke's bravery and potential displayed during the recent barbarian attack, bestowed upon him a great honor—a marriage contract with Princess Elara, the eleventh princess of the Aurora Kingdom.
Luke stared at the document, speechless. Marriage to a princess? The implications were staggering. It meant recognition, advancement, and a life far removed from the harsh realities of the northern border. Yet a pang of uncertainty gnawed at him. This path hadn't been part of his plan.
The earth trembled beneath Luke's boots as a guttural war horn echoed across the desolate plains. A plume of dust rose on the horizon, a monstrous black wave surging towards Fort Boreas. The barbarian legion had arrived, led by their infamous commander, Varick the Savage.
Captain Rayland's weathered face was grim beside him. "Varick never leads from the back. He craves blood and glory just as much as any foot soldier." He clapped Luke on the shoulder, his voice laced with a hint of pride. "Remember, son, a true knight doesn't just fight with strength, but with strategy."
Luke, his silver aura shimmering around him, grasped the hilt of his sword tighter. The memory from the dreamscape—the figures wielding auras with purpose—flickered in his mind. This wasn't just about brute force, but about using his growing skills strategically.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the far end of the battlements. A small contingent of barbarians, clad in black war paint and wielding wickedly curved blades, detached from the main force and sprinted towards the fort's western flank.
"Look there!" cried a young knight, his voice laced with panic. "A kill squad! They're aiming for Luke!"
Realization dawned on Captain Reyland. Varick, aware of Captain Rayland's reputation as a formidable warrior, had sent this elite squad to eliminate their greatest threat. But Luke, Captain Rayland's son, was his target.
"Stay here and defend the fort!" The commander roared, his voice cutting through the din of battle. He sprinted towards the western flank, his golden aura blazing a defiant trail.
The kill squad, a terrifying mix of hulking brutes and agile assassins, had already breached the outer wall and were scaling the inner ramparts. One, a hulking barbarian with a single braided horn protruding from his skull, bellowed a challenge and charged towards Captain Rayland and Luke.
Luke didn't hesitate. He launched himself into the fray, his silver aura clashing against the barbarian's great axe. The impact sent a shockwave through Luke's arm, but he held his ground, channeling the advanced breathing technique from the stele to bolster his strength and stamina.
The remaining assassins, their eyes gleaming with a feral hunger, turned their blades towards Luke. A whirlwind of steel erupted. He parried a blow aimed at his head, the barbarian's axe whistling past his ear. He countered with a burst of his aura, momentarily stunning his opponent before delivering a swift, precise cut that sent the barbarian crashing to the ground.
The battle raged around them. Captain Rayland, a whirlwind of steel and silver light, fought back to back with Luke, their movements a practiced dance honed over years of training. But the assassins were relentless, their movements were honed for stealth and lethality.
Just as a hulking barbarian with a spiked mace swung down at Luke, a streak of silver flashed across the battlefield. Alistair, his face a mask of grim determination, slammed into the barbarian, knocking him off balance. The distraction allowed Luke to deliver a decisive blow, sending the would-be assassin sprawling.
The remaining assassins, their initial surprise fading, fought with renewed desperation. But Luke, fueled by his newfound power and the need to protect his father, fought with a ferocity that surprised even himself. Each breath he took fueled his aura, each strike was precise and deadly.
One by one, the assassins fell. The last one standing, a wiry figure with a poisoned blade, lunged at Captain Rayland. But Luke was faster. He intercepted the blow, his silver aura clashing against the poisoned blade. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his arm, but he held firm, disarming the assassin with a swift kick.
With a final roar of defiance, the assassin lunged at Luke, a desperate attempt to take him down. Luke, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, countered with a burst of aura, the energy erupting from his hand and sending the assassin flying backwards. He landed with a sickening thud, his body still.
The battle on the western flank was over. Luke stood panting, his arm throbbing from the poisoned blade, but alive. He looked around, the battlefield, a macabre tapestry of fallen warriors, both knights and barbarians. Captain Rayland, his armor dented but his spirit unbroken, walked towards him, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"Well done, son," he rumbled, clapping Luke on the shoulder, a gesture that spoke volumes of his pride. "You fought well today. A true knight, indeed."
Luke, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, nodded. They had repelled the kill squad, but the war was far from over. The main barbarian legion still surged towards the fort.