Winter had come to the Northern Military Academy.
Every breath crystallized in the air. Frost crawled across the stone walls like living things, tracing patterns that reminded Arden of home—of Valekrest's perpetual snow, of ice that never truly melted.
The training grounds were slick with morning ice, and students moved carefully between buildings, wrapped in furs and cloaks that did little against the biting wind.
The cold didn't bother Arden.
It never had.
His Valekrest blood made winter feel like a homecoming rather than hardship.
But the fourth-year ranking battles?
Those had been as expected.
Arden stood at Rank 47 among fourth-years.
Elara held Rank 52.
Brick and Rykard hadn't even broken into the top 60.
Not because they'd performed poorly—they'd fought admirably, won matches they should have lost, surprised veterans who'd underestimated them.
But fourth-years were different.
Most were 3rd Stage, with the absolute top five touching the threshold of 4th Stage. They had years of Integration optimization, refined techniques, and the kind of combat instinct that only came from surviving actual frontier rotations.
The gap between prodigy first-years and seasoned fourth-years was real.
Measurable.
Undeniable.
"It's frustrating," Brick had said after his final match, nursing bruised ribs.
"I hit him with a fully charged strike. Should've ended it. But he just... tanked it. Then countered while I was recovering."
"3rd Stage peak durability," Rykard had noted clinically.
"Our attacks lack sufficient power to breach their advanced mana reinforcement."
Elara had been quieter about her losses, but Arden had seen the way her jaw clenched after each match.
The determination in her eyes as she reviewed her performances, cataloging every mistake.
But the academy professors had been impressed regardless.
"First-years holding their own against fourth-years?" Professor Aldwin had announced to the assembled students.
"That alone is unprecedented. You've earned your advancement."
So now, officially: Arden, Elara, Brick, and Rykard were second-years.
Serra, Thrain, Garrett, Kari, and twenty-four others from the original top 30 were also second-years.
The rest of the first-year class remained first-years, but with significantly improved rankings and combat capability.
The Golden Generation had proven itself.
But the real test was coming.
Arden sat in the advanced Integration theory class—one of the few courses he still attended regularly—reviewing reports from the frontier.
Four months had passed since the ranking battles.
Four months of intensive training, Integration core hunting, and preparation.
In that time, several key developments had occurred:
Integration Acquisitions - First Year Class:
Serra had successfully integrated a Frost Serpent Core during a sanctioned hunting expedition.
The acquisition had been dramatic—she'd tracked the creature through a blizzard, fought it alone for twenty minutes, and emerged victorious but hypothermic.
The core enhanced her ice magic significantly, allowing her to create sustained freezing zones and ice constructs with much greater efficiency.
Thrain had claimed a Stone Bear Core after a brutal melee encounter that left him unconscious for two days.
The Integration granted him enhanced durability and earth-element defense.
Combined with his naturally large frame, he was becoming a genuine tank.
Kari—despite her ongoing health issues—had acquired a Tide Caller Core from an aquatic monster during a coastal training exercise.
The Integration was perfect for her naval aspirations, granting water manipulation and enhanced awareness of maritime conditions.
Garrett had somehow stumbled into a Wind Strider Core while fleeing from a pack of monsters.
The irony wasn't lost on anyone—his panic had led him directly to an Integration that enhanced speed and evasion.
He was now one of the fastest runners in the second-year class.
Brick had integrated a Titan Beetle Core, further enhancing his already formidable physical strength.
Combined with his Accumulated Destruction technique, he was becoming genuinely dangerous.
Rykard had acquired two additional cores—Phantom Blade and Mirror Edge—both of which synergized perfectly with his telekinetic sword control.
He now wielded five weapons simultaneously with terrifying precision.
Elara had integrated a Storm Falcon Core, granting her enhanced speed and aerial awareness.
Her twin-sword style had evolved to incorporate devastating dive attacks and impossible mid-air repositioning.
And Arden...
Arden had been deliberately cautious.
In four months of frontier rotations and sanctioned hunts, he'd encountered dozens of potential Integration cores.
Powerful ones.
Rare ones.
Cores that would have made him immediately stronger.
He'd rejected them all.
I can't just grab whatever's available.
Integration cores shape who you become. Change your personality. Your instincts. Your fundamental nature.
The Shadow Devil core was perfect—stealth, assassination capability, conceptual manipulation. It synergizes with my Valekrest ice affinity and my combat style.
But adding more cores randomly? That's how you lose yourself. Become a confused mess of conflicting abilities.
I need to be strategic. Patient. Wait for cores that perfectly complement what I already have.
Quality over quantity. Synergy over power.
So despite his 3rd Stage advancement and the pressure to keep pace with his peers' Integration acquisitions, Arden maintained only his Shadow Devil core.
Refined it.
Optimized it.
Pushed it to levels most people never achieved with their primary Integration.
The results were undeniable.
His Void-Form was now nearly undetectable.
His Shadow Step could chain multiple teleports in rapid succession.
His Presence Concealment made him invisible to most sensory methods, including mana detection.
And the physical changes were becoming more pronounced.
When he activated the Shadow Devil's power, his naturally white Valekrest hair darkened—not gradually, but instantly, turning pitch black like shadows given physical form.
His ice-blue eyes, his family's signature trait, transformed into pure black voids that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
The first time it happened during training, Serra had actually stepped back in surprise.
"Your eyes," she'd said quietly.
"They're completely black. Like looking into an abyss."
Arden had checked a mirror later.
She was right.
When the Shadow Devil's power flowed through him, he looked nothing like a Valekrest.
He looked like something else entirely.
Something that belonged to the darkness rather than the ice and snow of his heritage.
Perfect Integration, he'd thought.
The core isn't just sitting in my Mana Heart anymore. It's becoming part of who I am. Changing me on a fundamental level.
This is what real optimization looks like.
"You're not acquiring more cores," Roy Voss had observed during one of their training sessions.
"No."
"Smart boy. Most soldiers grab whatever they can find. End up with five mediocre abilities instead of two excellent ones." Roy had nodded approvingly.
"You're building a foundation instead of piling on random enhancements. That's ranger thinking."
Professor Kross had been less approving.
"You're falling behind in total Integration count. Other top students have three or four cores now. You're limiting your versatility."
"I'm optimizing my specialization," Arden had countered.
"I'd rather master what I have than spread myself thin."
Kross had studied him for a long moment.
"You're gambling that quality beats quantity. Let's hope you're right."
I am right. Because I know what's coming. I know what abilities will actually matter when everything goes to hell.
Im the author for fucks sake
Shadow manipulation, ice control, and tactical positioning will be worth more than a dozen random elemental attacks.
He was now solidly into 3rd Stage peak, his mana capacity and control far exceeding normal progression for someone his age.
But it still wasn't enough.
Because the reports from Kar'eth were troubling.
And because he knew what people didn't talk about.
The true gap.
The insurmountable wall.
5th Stage.
In the Empire, power was measured in stages.
1st Stage—awakening.
2nd Stage—foundation.
3rd Stage—competence.
4th Stage—mastery.
These were achievable. Difficult, certainly, but achievable through talent, training, and dedication.
Veterans reached 3rd Stage.
Elite soldiers touched 4th Stage.
But 5th Stage?
5th Stage was transcendence.
It was the stage people didn't even dream of reaching, even if they worked all their lives.
The stage where mana didn't just flow through your body—it became your body.
Where techniques weren't performed—they were embodied.
Where the gap between you and everyone below wasn't measured in power levels but in fundamental existence.
A 5th Stage practitioner could walk through a battalion of 4th Stage soldiers and emerge unscathed.
Not because they were slightly stronger.
Because they existed on a different plane of capability entirely.
Arden's father—Grand Duke Vareth Valekrest—was 6th Stage.
One of the handful of transcendent practitioners in the entire Empire.
A living legend who'd crossed the threshold that most people couldn't even dream of reaching.
But even he had taken more than forty years to get there.
Forty years of constant cultivation, perfect Integration choices, and pushing beyond limits that broke lesser men.
The King's Marshal, commander of the entire Imperial Military, was 4th Stage peak.
The legendary Knight-Commander of the Royal Guard? 4th Stage peak.
Even the most elite warriors in the Empire rarely touched 5th Stage, let alone went beyond it.
In the entire Northern Empire, there were perhaps twenty people who'd achieved 5th Stage.
And among those twenty, only five had ever reached 6th Stage.
Five.
In a territory of millions.
They were treated like living gods.
Walking natural disasters.
Strategic assets that nations built their entire defenses around.
In my novel, the Northern Front's collapse happened partially because Father was deployed to the Eastern Sectors during the critical moment.
The North lost its only 6th Stage practitioner right when it needed him most.
4th Stage experts could fight tactically, win battles, defend positions.
But they couldn't turn tides. Couldn't single-handedly stop multiple Calamity-class threats simultaneously.
Only 6th Stage could do that.
And when Father wasn't there, the North fell.
Arden pushed the thought aside.
Even 5th Stage was so far beyond his current capability that worrying about 6th Stage was pointless.
Right now, he needed to focus on surviving Kar'eth.
On preventing the disaster he knew was coming.
On keeping his friends alive.
Everything else was secondary.
Roy Voss appeared in the classroom doorway, interrupting the lecture.
"Number 0001. We need to talk. Now."
Professor Chen glanced at the ranger captain with mild annoyance.
"Captain Voss, I'm in the middle of—"
"Kar'eth deployment orders just arrived. The second-years leave in three days."
Roy's expression was serious, all theatrical charm stripped away.
"And the situation has changed."
Arden stood immediately, gathering his materials.
As he followed Roy into the hallway, the captain's voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
"The fortress garrison is understaffed. Northern Command pulled half their forces for an emergency deployment to the Eastern Sectors. They were supposed to rotate back two weeks ago."
"But they didn't."
"No. Which means Kar'eth is operating at 60% normal strength."
Roy's jaw clenched.
"And the monster activity in that region has been... unusual."
"Unusual how?"
"Increased coordination. Pack behaviors that don't match historical patterns. Attack timings that suggest planning rather than instinct."
Roy stopped walking, turning to face Arden directly.
"Someone at Northern Command is worried. Worried enough that they're sending you and the other advanced students despite the reduced garrison strength."
"They want us to observe," Arden said, understanding dawning.
"Document the changes."
"Exactly. But here's the problem—if something happens, if the situation escalates, there won't be enough veteran soldiers to protect the students."
Roy's green eyes were intense.
"You'll be expected to fight. Really fight. Not training exercises—actual combat."
This is it. The beginning of the timeline I wrote.
Kar'eth. Where the warning signs appear. Where the coordination starts becoming obvious.
Where people start dying.
"I understand."
"Do you?" Roy stepped closer.
"Because I'm serious, Arden. The professors are treating this like an advanced training rotation. Field exercises with appropriate supervision. But I've seen the intelligence reports. If I'm right about what's happening..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Didn't need to.
----
The journey to Kar'eth took two days by military convoy.
Every mile north, the temperature dropped.
The landscape transformed from the academy's controlled grounds to true frontier wilderness—endless stretches of snow-covered plains broken by jagged rock formations and dark forests that looked like wounds in the white earth.
Arden sat in one of the reinforced transport wagons, watching the world pass by through frost-covered windows.
His breath crystallized in the air despite the heating runes carved into the wagon's interior.
The cold felt familiar, comfortable—like coming home.
Outside, the wind howled.
Fifty second-year students made this journey—the advanced group who'd earned frontier rotation privileges through their performance in the ranking battles.
Another thirty third-years who needed the experience.
Twenty fourth-years serving as senior supervision, their faces showing the weathered confidence of veterans who'd survived multiple deployments.
The wagons moved in tight formation, pulled by massive draft horses bred specifically for frontier conditions.
Their breath came out in great white plumes.
Their hooves left deep prints in the snow that the wind immediately began erasing.
Arden reviewed his equipment for the third time that day.
Steel sword—maintained and sharpened to razor edge.
The blade caught light from the heating runes, gleaming coldly.
Combat knife—always at his belt, leather-wrapped handle worn from use.
Mana-shot pistol—fully loaded with spare magazines in his belt pouches.
The weapon was new, a frontier-standard model issued two months ago. He'd practiced until loading and firing became muscle memory.
Grenades—flash, smoke, and mana disruptor types, secured in specialized carrying loops.
Each one a tactical option, a way to change battlefield conditions in seconds.
Shadow Devil Integration—fully optimized after months of intensive training.
He could feel it now, the core's presence a constant weight in his Mana Heart, its power flowing through channels that had become second nature.
3rd Stage peak mana capacity—stable and controlled, refined through countless hours of circulation practice.
Everything I can prepare, I've prepared.
But preparation only gets you so far when chaos hits.
Across from him, Serra sat quietly, her distinctive periwinkle-blue hair pulled back in a practical braid.
Frost patterns crawled across the wood where her hand rested—unconscious manifestation of her Frost Serpent abilities.
The air around her was noticeably colder than the rest of the wagon.
She'd been more withdrawn since acquiring the Integration.
The near-death hypothermia experience during her solo hunt had shaken her more than she admitted.
But she'd also been stronger.
More confident.
The successful kill had proven something to herself, though Arden suspected she still questioned whether the cost had been worth it.
Her friend—the girl who'd been teasing her since first year—sat beside her, chattering about something.
Serra's responses were monosyllabic, but there was a subtle softening in her expression that suggested she appreciated the company even if she wouldn't admit it.
Elara sat near the front of the wagon, Storm Falcon Integration making her unconsciously lighter.
She didn't quite touch the wooden bench, hovering a fraction of an inch above it.
Her twin swords rested against the wall within easy reach.
She caught Arden's eye and nodded once—silent acknowledgment of shared understanding.
She knew something was coming too.
Had known since the deployment orders arrived.
Sometimes Arden wondered how much she actually understood about what they were walking into.
Brick dominated one corner of the wagon, his massive frame taking up space that would have fit two normal-sized people.
His mace rested across his knees, the weapon as much a part of him as his tattooed forearms.
He was testing his physical limits, deliberately flexing against resistance to feel his muscles respond.
His grin was eager, almost manic.
"The instructors said we might see real combat. Finally." He flexed his massive hands, watching muscles shift under scarred skin.
"I want to test my limits properly. See how strong I've actually become."
"Try not to get yourself killed testing," Rykard observed from his position near the wagon's side.
His three swords rested beside him, but Arden could see the faint shimmer of telekinetic energy keeping them perfectly balanced despite the rough road.
Even sitting still, Rykard was practicing—maintaining the control that defined his fighting style.
"Where's the fun in that?" Brick laughed, but there was something calculating in his eyes.
He wasn't reckless.
He just had a different relationship with danger than most people.
Thrain was arm-wrestling someone in the opposite corner, their combined effort making the wagon creak alarmingly.
His Stone Bear Integration gave him durability that made him nearly impossible to hurt, and he used it to test his strength against anyone willing to compete.
"Ten gold coins says I win this time!" he grunted.
"You said that last time."
"This time is different!"
"You say that every time."
Kari bounced excitedly despite the rough road, her Tide Caller abilities making her eyes seem to glow with inner light.
Her dual-soul condition was finally under control thanks to the academy's medical division, and the treatment had given her more energy than ever.
"We're going to see real frontier defense! Actual fortress operations! Naval supply routes!" She turned to Arden, her enthusiasm infectious despite the circumstances.
"Did you know Kar'eth has one of the most complex logistics networks in the Northern Command? They coordinate seventeen different supply lines simultaneously!"
"I did not know that," Arden said, smiling despite himself.
"It's fascinating! The maritime operations alone require—"
"Can we not talk about the ocean?" Garrett interrupted from his position wedged firmly in the center of the wagon, as far from the windows as possible.
His face was slightly green despite the absence of any actual water.
"I get seasick just thinking about it."
"We're in a wagon on solid ground," Kari pointed out.
"Doesn't matter. Still nauseous."
Garrett's Wind Strider core had made him faster, but it hadn't done anything for his motion sickness.
If anything, his enhanced spatial awareness made it worse—he was more conscious of every movement, every jolt.
The transport wagon hit a particularly rough section of road.
The entire structure jolted violently, sending students grabbing for handholds.
Garrett went pale.
"I hate frontier deployments. Why did I advance to second-year? First-year was safe. Boring. SAFE."
"Because you're better than you think," Serra said quietly—one of the few times she'd spoken unprompted all day.
Her voice cut through the wagon's ambient noise with surprising clarity.
Garrett blinked at her in surprise.
"Really?"
"You survived everything the Golden Generation went through. You earned advancement." She paused, considering.
"Stop selling yourself short."
"See?" Thrain called out cheerfully, still locked in his arm-wrestling match.
"Even Serra thinks you're capable! And she never says nice things!"
"I say nice things," Serra protested, then seemed to realize she'd walked into a trap.
"Sometimes."
"Name one time," Brick challenged.
"I... there was..." Serra's face colored slightly, frost patterns intensifying on the wood.
"I told Arden his technique was... adequate."
"Adequate!" Thrain laughed so hard his arm-wrestling opponent almost won by default.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said!"
Arden smiled despite himself.
"I was honored by the compliment."
Serra's blush deepened.
She turned to stare determinedly out the wagon's window, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
The frost patterns on the wall began forming what looked suspiciously like the word "stupid" before she caught herself and the ice melted.
Her friend materialized beside her like a ghost, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear:
"'Adequate.' That's Serra-speak for 'I think you're amazing but I'm too proud to admit it.'"
"I will freeze your tongue," Serra hissed.
"You've been threatening that for months. When are you actually going to do it?"
"Right now—"
"ATTENTION!"
The convoy commander's voice cut through all conversations like a blade.
"We're approaching Kar'eth. Maintain formation. No one leaves the wagons until we're inside the fortress walls."
The atmosphere immediately shifted.
Students who'd been joking moments ago went quiet, checking weapons and equipment with sudden professionalism.
The laughter died.
The casual banter ended.
Because they all understood what that order meant: the frontier beyond these wagons was truly dangerous.
Hostile territory where death came quickly to the unprepared.
Through the wagon's window, Arden could see it now: Frontier Fortress Kar'eth.
The first thing he noticed was the walls.
Massive barriers of reinforced stone rose from the snow-covered ground like man-made mountains—thirty feet high, ten feet thick, their surfaces covered in defensive runes that pulsed with barely visible mana.
They were scarred by combat, pockmarked by impacts that spoke of constant battle.
Dark stains marked where monsters had died against those walls.
Fresh repairs showed lighter stone where breach attempts had been sealed.
Guard towers stood every fifty meters, each one equipped with artillery and mana cannons whose barrels pointed outward at the wilderness.
The cannons were battle-worn, their magical etchings showing signs of heavy use.
The fortress sat on elevated ground, providing clear lines of sight in all directions.
Whoever built this place understood siegecraft—there were no blind spots, no easy approaches.
Anyone attacking would have to cross open ground under withering fire from multiple angles.
But something was off.
The walls should have been lined with soldiers.
Fully manned.
Alert.
Ready.
Instead, Arden counted maybe half the expected personnel.
Gaps in coverage that shouldn't exist.
Guard towers with one soldier where there should be three.
Patrol routes that showed obvious holes.
Roy was right. They're severely understaffed.
As the convoy rolled through the main gates—massive reinforced structures that could withstand siege weapons—Arden studied the garrison soldiers they passed.
They looked tired.
Not the good tired that came from hard training.
The bad tired that came from too many consecutive combat rotations without proper rest.
Bandaged wounds that should have healed weeks ago if they'd had time to recover properly.
Exhausted expressions that spoke of too many night watches, too many emergency deployments, too many close calls that drained mental reserves.
These weren't fresh troops rotating in.
These were veterans who'd been holding the line for too long without reinforcement, and it showed in every movement, every thousand-yard stare, every set of shoulders that carried weight they shouldn't have to bear alone.
One soldier caught Arden's eye—a woman maybe twenty-five years old, with a fresh scar across her jaw and exhaustion written into every line of her face.
She looked at the wagons full of students, and for just a moment, something flickered in her expression.
Relief?
Hope?
Or maybe just resignation that they were throwing children at a problem that adults couldn't solve.
The convoy stopped in the main courtyard.
A scarred veteran stepped forward—Commander Krauss, according to the insignia on his weathered armor.
He looked like someone who'd seen too much combat and not enough sleep.
His hair was iron-gray, his face all hard angles and old scars.
His eyes swept across the assembled students with professional assessment, cataloging strengths and weaknesses in seconds.
"Welcome to Kar'eth." His voice was rough, pragmatic, carrying the weight of command.
"I'm Commander Krauss, garrison commander."
He paused, scanning the assembled students.
"You're here for advanced training and observation. You'll be assigned to various sections—logistics, patrol routes, defensive positions. Consider this real experience."
Another pause.
"But understand this: Kar'eth is an active frontier fortress. We've been experiencing increased monster activity over the past month. If something happens, if we go to combat alert, you follow orders immediately. No heroics. No independent action. You are students first, soldiers second. Clear?"
"Yes, sir!" The response was unified.
"Good. Instructors will assign you to your rotations. Dismissed."
As students filed out to their assigned barracks, Arden caught sight of Roy Voss standing near the command building, talking intensely with another ranger.
Their expressions were grim.
"Something's wrong," Elara said quietly, appearing at Arden's side.
"The garrison is too thin. The soldiers look exhausted. And did you see the patrol schedules posted on the wall?"
"What about them?"
"They're running continuous rotations with minimal rest periods. That's not standard procedure. That's crisis management." Her voice dropped further.
"They're expecting something. Soon."
Arden nodded slowly.
It's starting. Just like I wrote.
The coordination. The unusual activity. The garrison stretched too thin.
Everything aligning for the disaster I know is coming.
"We need to be ready," he said.
"All of us."
"We will be." Elara's hand rested on her sword hilts.
"The Golden Generation didn't come this far to fail now."
They moved toward their assigned barracks, but Arden's mind was already racing through scenarios, contingencies, preparations.
Somewhere beyond Kar'eth's walls, in the monster-infested wilderness of the Northern Frontier, something was changing.
Something that would force everyone—students, soldiers, commanders—to face a threat they weren't prepared for.
And Arden was the only one who knew it was coming.
Three days, he thought, remembering what he'd written.
In my novel, the first major incident happens three days after the students arrive.
A coordinated assault. Multiple breach points. Casualties that shock everyone.
The beginning of the Northern Front's slow collapse.
He checked his equipment one more time, then headed to his bunk.
Three days to prepare.
Three days until everything changed.
The countdown had begun.
---
The moon was barely a sliver in the sky.
Arden stood on the eastern wall during his assigned watch rotation, staring into the darkness of the frontier forest.
The wind cut across the battlements like knives, carrying the scent of pine and snow and something else—something wrong that he couldn't quite identify.
The night was cold.
Proper northern cold, the kind that made inexperienced soldiers clumsy and slow.
But Arden's Valekrest blood turned it into an advantage.
The colder it got, the more his mana responded.
Ice crystals formed on the stone where he rested his hand, spreading outward in fractal patterns.
Behind him, heating runes carved into the wall provided minimal warmth for the soldiers who needed it.
In front of him, the forest stretched endlessly—dark shapes against darker shadows, the tree line a jagged wound separating civilization from wilderness.
Poor visibility conditions.
Perfect for an attack.
"Couldn't sleep?"
He turned to find Serra standing nearby, wrapped in her cloak against the cold—though Arden suspected the cloak was more habit than necessity.
Frost patterns crawled across the stone where she stood, unconscious manifestation of her enhanced ice affinity.
Her periwinkle-blue hair caught the faint moonlight, making her look almost ethereal against the dark stones.
The air around her was noticeably colder than the rest of the wall.
When she breathed, her exhale came out in pure white clouds that lingered longer than they should.
"Watch duty," Arden said.
"You?"
"Same. Eastern section, tower three." She moved closer, her footsteps leaving frost prints that glittered in the dim light.
"It's quiet."
"Too quiet."
"I thought that was just something people said in stories." But she was listening now, her head tilted slightly, ice-blue eyes scanning the tree line.
"Sometimes the stories get it right." Arden gestured to the forest with one hand.
"No animal sounds. No insects. Nothing. Like everything natural has fled."
Serra went very still.
Listening.
Analyzing.
After a long moment, she nodded slowly.
"You're right. That's... not normal. Even winter forests have ambient noise. Owls. Foxes. Something."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the treeline.
The wind picked up, howling across the battlements.
Serra's cloak billowed.
Arden's white hair whipped around his face.
But neither of them moved from their position.
"Are you scared?" Serra asked quietly, her voice barely audible above the wind.
"Yes."
The honest answer seemed to surprise her.
She turned to look at him directly, frost patterns spreading further across the stone as her unconscious control slipped.
"Really? You always seem so... confident. Like you know exactly what's going to happen. Like nothing could possibly go wrong because you've already planned for it."
"Confidence doesn't mean fearless. It means acting despite the fear." Arden glanced at her, meeting those ice-blue eyes.
"Are you?"
"Terrified," Serra admitted, and for once there was no pride, no defensive walls, just honest vulnerability.
"But I'm trying not to show it. Everyone expects me to be... collected. In control. The ice princess who never feels anything."
"You don't have to be. Not all the time."
"I do, though." Her voice was barely above a whisper now, almost lost in the wind.
"If I'm not in control, if I let the fear show, then what am I? Just another failed noble from a disgraced family. Another Hallik who couldn't live up to the name."
She's still carrying that weight. Her family's fall. The isolation. The constant need to prove herself worthy.
"You're Serra Hallik," Arden said firmly, putting steel into his voice.
"Frost Serpent Integration. Top ten in our year. Someone who tracked a creature through a blizzard and survived a twenty-minute solo fight against something that should have killed you. That's what you are."
Serra was quiet for a long moment.
The frost patterns on the wall began forming words, then melted before becoming legible—her emotional control slipping in ways she probably didn't realize.
"Thank you," she finally said.
"For... for seeing that. When most people just see the disgrace. The family that fell. The girl who shouldn't be here."
Before Arden could respond, a sound cut through the night.
Distant.
Faint.
But unmistakable.
Howling.
Both of them tensed immediately, hands moving toward weapons without conscious thought.
"That's not normal howling," Serra said, her voice sharp now, all vulnerability replaced by tactical focus.
"No. That's coordinated. Multiple packs. Signaling."
More howls joined the first—coming from different directions, different distances, creating a chorus that made the hair on Arden's neck stand up.
The sound echoed across the open ground, bouncing off the fortress walls, creating an effect that was deliberately intimidating.
This wasn't random.
This was planned.
"We should report this," Serra said, already moving toward the alarm bell mounted at the guard station.
But Arden grabbed her arm gently, stopping her.
"Wait."
"What? Why?" Her eyes flashed—frost forming visibly on her eyelashes now, her mana responding to stress.
"If there's an attack coming—"
"Because if we sound the alarm now, we look like paranoid students overreacting to normal frontier noises. They'll dismiss it."
"But—"
"Listen."
They stood perfectly still, counting the howls, tracking the patterns.
Arden's mind worked tactically.
Three packs minimum, maybe four.
Calling from different positions—north, northwest, northeast.
Testing response times.
Gauging garrison strength.
Coordinating their approach.
The howling continued for exactly two minutes.
Then stopped.
Silence returned, somehow heavier than before.
"That was a warning," Arden said quietly.
"Or a signal. Something's out there, coordinating. But it's not attacking yet."
"How do you know?"
"Because if they were attacking, they wouldn't announce themselves." He released her arm.
"We report this to our section commander. Calmly. Factually. Let them decide how to respond."
Serra nodded, but her hand rested on her sword hilt—unconscious defensive posture.
As they moved toward the command post, Arden's mind was racing.
It's happening. Faster than I expected.
The coordination. The signals. The testing of defenses.
They're coming. Soon.
And when they do, everyone here—students and soldiers alike—will have to face something the Northern Frontier hasn't seen in decades.
A truly intelligent monster attack.
He just hoped they'd be ready.
Because in his novel, when this assault came, over forty people died in the first wave alone.
And he was determined to change that number.
Even if it meant revealing more than he should.
Even if it meant taking risks that would draw attention.
Too many people I care about are here. Serra. Elara. Kari. The entire Golden Generation.
I won't let them become casualties in a disaster I wrote.