The camp lay quiet under a heavy, clouded sky, the stars concealed as if the heavens had turned their gaze elsewhere. Michael sat cross-legged near his tent, his face illuminated by the wavering glow of a dying fire. Around him, the murmurs of soldiers faded into the distance, leaving only the crackling embers and the weight of his thoughts. Recent events churned in his mind—the enemy's relentless pursuit, the kingdom's calculated use of him as a symbol, and the bitter truth that surviving wasn't enough. If he wanted to protect others, to shield them from the callousness of those in power, he needed more than strength. He needed authority.
Closing his eyes, he centered himself. The Verdant Cultivation Method pulsed within, a quiet yet insistent rhythm urging him forward. His core throbbed with latent power, and he reached deep, drawing it forth. The strain was immediate, a pressure that clawed at his very being, threatening to unravel him.
He pushed harder, his mind conjuring the image of an ancient oak—its roots unyielding against the earth, its branches defying the sky. Pain surged through his limbs as the pressure mounted, a dam straining to contain a raging river. Then, with a force that left him breathless, the barrier shattered. Mana poured through him, flooding every fiber of his being.
The transformation was agonizing and exhilarating. His core expanded, and deepened, its edges refined like tempered steel. When he opened his eyes, the air around him seemed alive, vibrating with energy he could almost touch. He flexed his hands, feeling the newfound strength coursing through him. It wasn't just power—it was clarity, a sharpened sense of purpose.
Morning brought a new chapter for many in the camp. Alric stood before a gathering of soldiers, the insignia of Lieutenant gleaming against his armor. Michael watched from the crowd, pride and unease mingling in his chest. As Alric's promotion was announced, cheers erupted, but Michael's thoughts lingered on the implications. Leadership came with responsibility, and responsibility brought risk.
Afterward, Alric approached him, his characteristic smirk tempered by the weight of his new role. "Michael," he said, "you've been making waves. It's time to stop playing the role of the quiet genius. Apply for Sergeant. You've earned it."
Michael arched a brow. "And you think they'll promote me? Last I checked, I'm more valuable to them as a tool than a leader."
Alric's grin widened. "Tools are only useful when they're sharp, and you've been cutting through more than anyone expected. Don't waste the chance."
Later that day, Captain Garren summoned him. The tent was dimly lit, the air thick with tension as the captain paced like a restless predator. "Do you know why you're still alive, Michael?" Garren asked his tone low but charged. "Because you're useful. The higher-ups don't give a damn about talent—they care about results."
Michael met his gaze without flinching.
"But," Garren continued, his voice softening, "you've got something they can't ignore: grit. Brains. You've earned your shot. Apply for Sergeant, and I'll back you. This war isn't kind to talent—it chews up anyone without the rank to protect themselves. Get the authority. Use it."
The promotion didn't come easily. There were whispers of doubt and sneers from officers who saw him as a convenient puppet of the kingdom's propaganda. But Garren's influence and Alric's recommendation carried weight. When the decision finally came, it was delivered with thinly veiled reluctance.
"You've been promoted to Sergeant," the officer said, his tone clipped. "Don't make us regret it."
Michael accepted the insignia, his expression impassive. Inside, he felt the weight of the responsibility settle over him, heavy but not unwelcome.
The first task of his new role came swiftly. Alric's promotion had left a void in the squad, and Garren wasted no time filling it. "You're in charge now," the captain said bluntly. "You've got Seren, Kara, Gregor, and Torval—good fighters, reliable. But we're adding someone new. Velara's her name. Fire mage. Strong, but she's got a temper that'll test you. Keep her in line, or she'll burn more than the enemy."
Michael nodded, though his mind was already racing. Leadership wasn't just about orders; it was about trust.
He met Velara near the training grounds. Her arrival was as striking as her appearance—red hair that flared like embers in the wind, and golden eyes that burned with defiance. She carried herself with an effortless confidence, though her expression betrayed a simmering impatience.
"So, you're the new Sergeant," she said, her tone sharp and edged with challenge. "Let's skip the formalities. Just tell me where to aim, and I'll take care of the rest."
Michael studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Velara, this squad doesn't work like that. We fight as one, or we fall apart. If you have a problem with that, speak now."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't look away. "Fine. Just don't waste my time."
"Good," he said, gesturing toward the training grounds. "Show me what you've got."
The squad gathered as Velara demonstrated her abilities. With a flick of her wrist, flames erupted around her, coiling like serpents ready to strike. She sent a fireball streaking toward a distant target, the resulting explosion shaking the ground beneath their feet.
"Not bad," Seren said, her usual smirk replaced with genuine approval.
Michael remained calm, though inwardly he was impressed. "You've got power, Velara. Now let's see how you use it with the team."
The week that followed was grueling. Michael pushed the squad to their limits, crafting drills that forced them to work as a unit. Seren's agility complemented Torval's raw strength, Gregor's defensive barriers shielded Velara's destructive magic, and Michael's traps tied their strategies together.
Velara's temper flared more than once, but Michael met her fire with unyielding calm. Slowly, grudgingly, she began to trust his leadership. By the end of the week, as they sat around the fire after another punishing day, she spoke with a hint of respect.
"You're not bad, Sergeant," she said, her tone lighter than before.
Michael allowed himself a small smile. The squad was coming together, their bonds forming like the roots of an unshakable tree. For the first time, he felt the weight of leadership not as a burden, but as a calling. This was just the beginning.