**Time passed, and Smith began to change.*
He did not become a hero, but he stopped trembling.
He no longer vomited at the sight of blood—he would simply turn away and carry on.
That alone—for him—was a victory.
During one training session, after Smith parried a real sword strike for the first time, the commander was stunned and said: *"The chicken has learned to fly."*
From a distance, Damon smiled but said nothing.
The sun scorched the training grounds, and the clashing of swords echoed like war drums beaten too soon.
Damon trained with relentless determination, sweat dripping from his brow, his face tense with focus.
In his pocket, he carried an old, embroidered cloth—small but filled with memories. His mother had given it to him the day he left home. Its faint scent carried the warmth of her hands and the weight of everything he fought for.
As he prepared for another sparring round, a guard suddenly blew a loud horn:
"Attention! The Noble Guard approaches!"
Everyone stopped and stepped aside.
At that moment, the cloth slipped from Damon's pocket. He rushed to pick it up—but he wasn't fast enough.
Confident footsteps trampled it under a black boot.
The woman in the strange violet cloak passed without a glance—her stride as if the world itself bowed before her, her eyes lost in some distant realm.
Damon froze, staring at the cloth beneath her shoe.
His heart burned with anger, but he said nothing.
Only after she had passed did he kneel, gently pick up the cloth, and brush off the dust. He returned it to his pocket as if carrying his own heart.
She disappeared into the officers' hall, a room reserved for high ranks. No one truly knew who she was, yet all lowered their heads in her presence.
Hours passed.
When she finally emerged, she looked at no one.
But from afar, Damon watched her—not with curiosity, but with a question in his eyes: Who is she? And why does every step she take seem to carry a hidden story?
After the mysterious woman left the training camp, a guard shouted:
"I will call your names one by one!"
The soldiers were surprised but stood ready. The roll call began.
Night fell slowly as the recruits came and went, yet there was no noticeable change in their numbers or condition.
Damon entered the courtyard cautiously, his eyes scanning every movement.
Suddenly, a man from the royal palace appeared, dressed in an elegant black robe, holding a distinctive seal in his hands.
Damon recalled seeing six similar seals in his childhood, each bearing different symbols.
The man looked at Damon and said,
"You look like a warrior."
Then, in an authoritative tone, he added,
*"Step forward."*
Damon approached slowly. As he neared, the man lowered his robe.
He pressed the seal onto Damon's back—a gleaming emblem of a horse, adorned with intricate engravings.
Damon was startled but felt no pain.
This ritual marked his new allegiance, a badge of honor on his path as a warrior.
Or perhaps a mark of enslavement on his path as a pawn—but no one could say.
Days passed, and the training at the Kingdom of Neval's camp continued at full intensity. Sweat, shouts, the clanging of swords, and the creaking of armor became the daily soundtrack of the soldiers.
Damon and Smith grew close, sharing hopes and dreams.
Smith, despite his fear of blood, was slowly becoming more resilient, and Damon always lifted his spirits.
But that weary calm did not last long.
One day, as Damon and Smith sparred with swords in the sandy courtyard, a horn blared—louder than any they had heard before.
Everyone froze, exchanged glances, then began gathering near the main gate.
Suddenly, the great doors swung open, and **King Julius, the Golden Lion**, rode in on his majestic black horse, followed by his royal guards adorned in gold-embroidered armor.
The sight was awe-inspiring. Silence fell. All eyes turned to him.
Julius dismounted and stood at the center of the grounds. In a deep, commanding voice, he declared:
"Warriors of Neval,
The hour of reckoning approaches. Soon comes the day you prove yourselves true sons of Neval...
*War is coming—but not just any war. This is the **War of Heroes**.*
And we will fight it for our land... for our honor... for those who cannot defend themselves."
He continued his speech with fiery words of sacrifice, glory, and duty.
Damon was utterly captivated, his eyes alight. Smith felt a chill in his heart unlike anything he had known.
Then, suddenly, the king turned his gaze toward Damon and began walking toward him slowly.
Silence fell—even their breaths seemed to stop.
He stood before Damon, studied his face closely, then **gently cupped Damon's face in his hands** and said softly:
"Your eyes... they seem familiar."
Then he stepped back and raised his voice:
*"The war begins in three days... Prepare yourselves, heroes of Nival."*
With that, he turned, mounted his black steed, and rode away as the soldiers watched in admiration, chanting, *"Glory... Glory..."*
After King Julius's speech, everything changed in the Nival military camp.
Excitement turned into a blazing fire, and training became even more intense and demanding.
The soldiers prepared for the coming battle with all their might, as if destiny awaited them.
In those decisive days, **the soldiers began to notice Damon**.
He was different... His strength was unmatched, his speed in training surpassing even the instructors.
His sword strikes were impossible to counter, his steps as steady as if he had been fighting for years.
Smith watched him with admiration mixed with envy and awe—as if Damon had been born for war.
At last, the day of battle arrived.
The soldiers stood in gleaming armor, weapons gripped tightly, their hearts pounding with fear and pride.
A massive man—the one who would lead them into battle—entered.
In a booming voice, he shouted:
"Move out! Your glory awaits!"
The soldiers roared in response:
"We are coming... We are coming!"
The army marched through the camp gates in orderly ranks, moving through the heart of the city.
People lined the streets, throwing flowers and showering them with prayers.
Their faces were filled with hope and fear, and the soldiers felt their moment had come.
As for Damon, he marched in the front ranks, a faint smile on his lips.
He whispered to himself:
"This... is the life of a hero."
They marched for hours, crossing hills, plains, and forests until their feet touched the battlefield.
And there, before them, the enemy forces waited in eerie silence.
The battlefield was strange...
The air was still, heavy, carrying a scent like death on the wind.
Even the birds had vanished—all but a single crow, as if waiting for something extraordinary.
The soldiers stood silent, glancing around, trying to understand the land.
But there was no time for hesitation—war would begin at any moment, and there was no room for weakness.
Amid the silence of the land and the ringing of swords, Damon placed his hand on his blade...
His eyes gleamed, his heart pounded, and he whispered:
"Let it all begin... now."