The sun dipped low over the camp, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the land, as if the very weight of the day was pulling everything down. The noise of preparation outside the tent—a mix of boots on the dirt and quiet conversation—was a steady hum, a backdrop to the conversation unfolding within.
Michael sat at a weathered table, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of a map spread before him, his thoughts far from the task at hand. The quiet hum of the camp felt like a veil hiding the storm brewing just beneath the surface. There was a suffocating stillness in the air, like the calm before something terrible was about to unfold.
Garren stood across from him, his posture tense, eyes dark with unspoken concern. The older man's voice, when it came, was a low rumble. "You've heard the reports from Halford?"
Michael looked up, his gaze meeting Garren's, his eyes sharp but weary. "The assassins. Yes. I've heard." The word tasted bitter in his mouth. The assassins had killed their way through several of their squad leaders, each death sending ripples through the ranks. But there was more now—a deeper threat looming.
Garren exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's more than that. The situation's deteriorating. The war's at a stalemate. Our forces are stretched thin, and morale is at an all-time low. The kingdom's resources are all but drained. People are tired, Michael. Desperate."
Michael's stomach churned, the weight of the world pressing on his chest. He could feel it too—the fatigue of the soldiers, the restless murmur of rebellion in the villages, the whispers in the streets. The kingdom was unraveling at the edges. "So, what are you saying?" he asked, his voice steady despite the gnawing unease that coiled in his gut.
Garren's eyes darkened. "They're talking about making you a martyr."
Michael's chest tightened at the words. He tried to steady his breath, but the meaning behind them sunk deep. "A martyr?" He repeated the word, almost disbelieving. "You mean to say they're sending me on a mission to die?"
Garren met his gaze with a sorrowful nod. "They think it'll rally the people. Give them something to fight for again. If you die in the line of duty, it'll spark something in the kingdom. It'll unite them, give them hope. They're willing to sacrifice you to win the war."
Michael's mind raced as the weight of the decision bore down on him. He'd seen countless men and women go to their deaths over the course of this war—some willing, some not. But to be sent to die for a political gain? To be cast aside like a pawn in a larger game? It felt like the worst kind of betrayal.
"What am I supposed to do?" Michael asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with disbelief. "What if I refuse?"
Garren's gaze hardened. "Then they'll find someone else. It doesn't matter to them. You know that." He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if the truth was too heavy to say aloud. "They need a hero, Michael. Someone they can make into a symbol. And if that symbol has to die to give the people something to believe in, they'll do it. You'll be a martyr for the cause. You can't say no."
Michael's heart pounded in his chest as he fought to maintain control. His mind was swirling with a thousand thoughts—anger, disbelief, a sense of betrayal that left him feeling hollow inside. But beneath it all, there was something else—something more subtle. A cold, calculated clarity that had started to settle over him. He was lucky, in a way. The cultivation breakthrough he had achieved, reaching level 3, had given him confidence he'd never had before. His powers were sharper now, more refined. The sensation of control that came with it had fueled his belief that he could survive this ordeal—whatever it might be.
And yet… could he survive this mission, if it was truly a suicide run?
Garren's voice broke through his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Michael. You're not just a soldier anymore. You're a symbol. And whether you want it or not, they're sending you into the heart of danger."
Michael nodded, his jaw tightening. "I don't have a choice." He knew that. It was the truth they both danced around, the unspoken reality. If he didn't take this mission, they'd send someone else—and he knew how it would end. He couldn't just stand by. Not when the war was so close to consuming everything.
But as he stood up to leave, Garren's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Just… be careful. You're not alone in this, Michael. I'll be here, but this mission is bigger than all of us. Don't let them use you."
Michael gave a stiff nod, feeling a sense of weight settle on his chest as he stepped out of the tent. The night air was cool, the firelight from the camp sending warm flickers across the ground. He had no time to waste. But as he walked toward his squad's fire, he knew that things were changing. For him, for them—for everything.
The fire crackled as Michael addressed his squad. They sat around him, their faces reflecting the warmth of the fire but shadowed with the fatigue of too many long nights and missions that hadn't seemed to end.
Michael looked out over them—Velara, her gaze intense and unwavering; Torval, his stoic presence an anchor in the chaos; Gregor, his usually calm demeanor now tinged with concern. They were his team. His responsibility. And this mission… this mission could tear them all apart.
"I've been given a solo mission," Michael began, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. He knew this wasn't going to go over well. He could already feel the tension in the air, the sudden stiffening of the squad as they waited for him to continue.
Velara was the first to speak, her voice cold and sharp. "A solo mission? Are they trying to get you killed, Michael?" Her words were like a lash, each syllable cutting through the air with the heat of her anger. "You're not going alone. I don't care what the higher-ups say."
Michael held up a hand, silencing her. "I don't have a choice." His voice was quiet but firm. "I've been ordered to investigate the assassins targeting Halford's squad leaders. It's dangerous, yes. But it's something I have to do."
Torval's voice rumbled with quiet anger. "This is madness, Michael. If they want you to go in alone, they're expecting you to die."
Velara was already on her feet, her fists clenched. "You can't go. You're the heart of this squad, the reason we've made it this far. If you die, what happens to us?"
Michael met her gaze, and for the first time, he saw something more than just anger in her eyes. There was fear. Fear of losing him. But he also saw something else—something more complicated. A spark, one that had been growing between them over the past year, flickering and brightening.
"I can't refuse, Velara," Michael said, his voice softer now, but no less resolute. "The war won't stop if I sit back. If I refuse this, they'll just find someone else. And the war will continue without any end. I have to try. I have no choice."
A long silence stretched between them. It was Velara who finally spoke again, her voice quieter now, tinged with emotion. "Just come back, Michael. Please. If you don't—"
Michael nodded, his heart heavy. "I will come back. For all of us. We'll survive this. I'll make sure of it."
The weight of the conversation hung in the air as Michael turned to leave, his mind spinning with the gravity of what lay ahead. He couldn't ignore the gnawing fear deep inside him, the realization that this mission might be his last. But he had reached level 3 in his cultivation for a reason. His powers, his leadership—everything he had learned—were what would keep him alive. He would survive this. He had to.
For his squad. For the kingdom. For the people who were relying on him.
And above all—for the promise he had made to himself.