The Valkary's training continued relentlessly.
Every day, brutality.
Every night, exhaustion.
Every moment, war sharpened them into weapons.
Their month of preparation was nearly over—and soon, blood would stain the battlefield.
---
FENRICK: BREAKING THE LIMITS
BOOM.
Fenrick crashed through the training hall's stone wall, coughing up blood.
Commander Osric Volg stood over him, arms crossed, grinning like a predator. His monstrous fists were coated in Fenrick's blood.
"Still conscious? Not bad!"
Fenrick wiped his mouth. "You hit like a drunk ox."
Osric laughed. "And you take a beating like a damn legend!"
Fenrick staggered up. His muscles burned, his knuckles were split open, but his golden eyes still gleamed with defiance.
Osric grinned. "Alright, brat. Time for the real lesson."
He cracked his knuckles, and the floor beneath them shattered.
"Fight me like your life depends on it."
Because it did.
---
XERANIEL: SURVIVING THE STORM
The scorched wasteland of Squad Four's training grounds was now a frozen battlefield.
Ice spikes jutted from the ground. The air itself was razor-sharp, suffocating.
Commander Seraphine Velgrith stood in the center, untouched by the blizzard. Her Esdeath-like gaze was calm, yet suffocating.
Xeraniel stood opposite her, panting, his arms bruised from deflecting countless ice spears.
Seraphine exhaled, her breath turning to mist. "Disappointing. You're just dodging."
Xeraniel smirked, his violet eyes flashing. "I was studying you."
Then—the ground beneath Seraphine crumbled.
Gravity shifted violently. The ice around her shattered into floating shards, twisting unnaturally.
Seraphine's smirk widened. "Now we're talking."
She vanished in a blur of frost.
And the real battle began.
---
DANTE: CLASHING WITH A MONSTER
CRACK.
Dante's fist slammed into Bran's side, sending a shockwave through the training grounds. Lightning arced across the sky, splitting the air.
Bran grinned through the hit, his cigar still between his teeth. "Better."
Then—he grabbed Dante's wrist.
BOOM.
In the next instant, Dante's body was buried in the dirt, a crater forming beneath him.
Bran stretched his arms. "Still not good enough, though."
Dante coughed, but his amber eyes still burned with defiance.
"Next time, old man. Next time."
---
MODRED: UNDER THE PREMIERE'S SHADOW
"Again."
Modred struggled to his feet, his body covered in bruises, his breath ragged. His sword was chipped, his knuckles bloodied.
The Premiere took a long drag from his oversized cigar, laughing. "Tired already? You got another ten rounds in you."
Modred said nothing. He simply gripped his sword and charged.
The Premiere's grin widened.
"That's the spirit."
---
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WAR
The training had finally ended.
Tomorrow, they would begin their first conquest.
The squad gathered on the fortress balcony, staring at the distant horizon.
The first kingdom to fall lay beyond the mountains.
No one spoke.
Then—Arthur broke the silence.
"Let's make a promise."
Xeraniel rolled his eyes. "What are we, a bunch of kids?"
Arthur smirked. "That we'll survive."
Silence.
Then—one by one, they nodded.
Modred stood last. His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness.
"We won't just survive. We'll win."
And with that—the storm of war began.
TO BE CONTINUED.