"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, kid!"
The voice boomed over the rhythmic clatter of steel on steel. Alab was struggling. His ten-foot ash pole, meant to be a beacon of hope, had become a death trap in the close-quarters desperation of the ridge.
"Hand over the banner, boy!" a Green Rose scout snarled, lunging with a rusted short-sword. "That silk will fetch more than your life is worth!"
Alab didn't answer. The wind caught the heavy silk, jerking his arms and throwing off his balance. It's not the height, Alab thought, his grip tightening as he felt the fabric act like a sail. It's the drag.
Under the influence of the rented Arm Power, he felt the surge of unnatural strength. With a violent, sudden tug, he ripped the waterlogged banner from its iron housing. The silk fluttered away into the mud, leaving him with a ten-foot, iron-tipped staff of solid ash.
"You should've kept the flag," another scout laughed, circling him. "Now you're just a boy with a stick."
"It's not just a stick," Alab muttered, his eyes narrowing.
The change was instantaneous. Without the drag of the fabric, the pole became an extension of his intent. As the first scout lunged again, Alab snapped the iron finial forward. He targeted the small gap between the scout's helmet and gorget—the brachial plexus.
"Gah—!" the scout gasped. His sword hand went limp instantly, the weapon clattering to the stones as his entire right side collapsed into a state of neural shock.
"What did you do to him?" the second scout yelled, charging. Alab didn't aim for the head; he drove the butt of the staff into the popliteal fossa—the soft hollow behind the knee.
Pop. The man screamed, his joint buckling as he tumbled into the dirt, neutralized but alive.
He looked up, gasping for air that tasted of iron and smoke, to see Lieutenant Marshal and his squad cresting the ridge.
"Make way for the pride!" Marshal roared, his claymore whistling through the air. "Lion Platoon, form up! Close the gaps and drive them into the ravine!"
"Get inside our formation!" Marshal yelled, grabbing Alab by the shoulder and hauling him toward the center.
Alab ducked behind the safety of the shields, finding himself in the hollow center of the "Lion's Mouth."
"Don't just stand there gaping, kid!" Sonny shouted over his shoulder, his shield vibrating under a flurry of blows. "Slip your pole through the gaps! Use the length to keep them off the wood!"
"I've got your back!" Alab replied. With Arm Power active, he used the pole as a lever, finding the pressure points in the enemies' stance. He jammed the iron tip into armpits and inner thighs—areas where the nerves were superficial and the armor was thin.
"My arm! I can't hold my shield!" a Green Rose soldier wailed as Alab's tip struck home.
"Push!" Marshal bellowed. "Stab and advance! Synchronize the rhythm!"
The Green Rose soldiers, realizing they were facing fresh, elite reinforcements and a bannerman who fought with the precision of a ghost, quickly retreated into the darkening ravines. The hill was secure.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Alab walked through the camp's makeshift medical area. The sight triggered an old, dormant ache in his chest.
"Hold him down!" an orderly shouted, pouring crude, high-proof alcohol directly into an open wound. The soldier screamed, thrashing against his restraints. "Bite the leather, soldier! You want to bleed out or get the rot? Choice is yours!"
Alab stood for a moment, his hands twitching with the ghost of a surgeon's habit. He saw a soldier with a sucking chest wound; he knew exactly how to perform a needle decompression with a hollow quill if he had to.
"The rags," Alab said softly to a passing nurse. "They need to be cleaner."
"Move it, kid," the nurse snapped, not even looking up. "Unless you've got a miracle in your pocket, stay out of the way of the dying."
Alab forced himself to stay back. He watched a man in pristine white robes move among the piles of injured men. Alab's Widen Vision caught a shimmer—a pearlescent aura weaving around a shattered leg.
"It won't knit the bone," the healer whispered to a sobbing soldier. "But it will keep the heat of the infection away. Be still."
"Hey, you did good as a bannerman there," a voice rasped from a nearby pallet. It was a member of the Dragoon Platoon. "If only the Giants were here. The Ghano Tribe from Kaliko Forest... they would have uprooted the whole ridge to save us."
"The Ghano Tribe?" Alab asked.
"Aye," the soldier sighed. "Cheerful bastards, strong as mountain trolls. They use trees for clubs. One of 'em could've cleared that ridge in ten minutes."
Alab recorded the name: Ghano Tribe. Kaliko Forest. He spent the next hour quietly gathering snippets. But his guard was down. A powerful blow struck him in the center of his back, sending him sprawling. Before he could roll, a heavy, iron-shod boot landed on the back of his head.
"Answer my question, kid, or this pierces the carotid," a cold voice demanded—cold and sharp. A needle-point stiletto pressed against his neck. "I know every soldier's face and name in this army. I keep the ledger. And I don't recognize you."
The stranger sat on Alab's back, crushing his ribs.
"Lucas... Lucas Ternos," Alab stammered, feeling a hot bead of blood trickle down into his collar.
Alab heard the distinct, dry rustle of pages. Was the stranger checking some kind of register? Were soldiers monitored so closely?
"Lucas Ternos… I see. Black hair…"
Black hair. That was the only similarity between Lucas and Alab. The people of Gaia had hair in every imaginable color. The stranger muttered something indistinct, flipping more pages with a speed that suggested a power focused on information.
"The record matches. So why haven't you killed anyone, 'Lucas'? You have the strength to snap a pole, yet you only disable. Why?"
"I'm a new soldier!" Alab lied, his voice cracking. "I don't know how to fight yet! I just wanted to keep them away!"
The weight on his back lifted suddenly. The knife withdrew, but the foot remained on his head for a second longer.
"Hmm… There must have been a mistake. My friend was wrong about you. Be a good soldier, farmer. Win a hundred battles, and you'll be rewarded."
The foot lifted. Alab saw a four-leaf clover tattoo on the man's leg as he walked away. He was gone in an instant.
That's what I get for standing out, Alab thought. I should have listened to Merlin and stayed in the shadows. But who was that man? And how did he know Alab hadn't killed any Green Rose soldiers?
He arrived at the Lion Platoon's fire, his heart still hammering.
"Ah, here he is! Mr. Bannerman!" Marshal boomed, waving a roasted rabbit leg. "Come, eat! You've earned your keep today."
"Marshal," Alab said, standing up after a few bites. "I want to challenge Sonny again. For a permanent place in the Lion Platoon."
The camp went silent. Sonny looked up with a slow smile. "You want to go again, farmer? I pinned you in three seconds last night. You sure you're ready for the weight of a Lion?"
"I'm sure," Alab said, rolling up his sleeves.
They locked hands over an oak mess table. Alab closed his eyes, activating the Arm Power. He didn't just push. He visualized the mechanics of Sonny's arm.
"You're shaking, kid," Sonny chuckled. "Just let it go."
"Not this time," Alab muttered. He slightly rotated his wrist, forcing the joint into a mechanical disadvantage. He shifted his center of gravity, turning his own arm into a rigid strut and using his shoulder as a secondary fulcrum.
The match stretched on for three minutes. The table groaned. Then, with a sudden, calculated shift of his weight, Alab drove Sonny's hand down.
Thump.
"I knew you were special," Sonny said, rubbing his forearm in genuine surprise. "No farmer knows how to find a grip like that. You used my own strength against me."
"Welcome, my boy!" Marshal boomed, clapping Alab on the shoulder so hard his teeth rattled. "I'd already signed the transfer papers, but it's good to see you earn it. You're a Lion now."
Marshal had taken the entire Dragoon contingent—the few who remained—just to get Alab into his unit. He had seen something in the farmer who refused to retreat. Alab, thinking he was following Merlin's advice, had found a good leader. The lion had found a cub, and the cub had finally found the protection of his new pride.
But as the fires died down, Alab looked at the four-leaf clover mark in his mind. He had found a place among the Lions, but the game was becoming far more complex than a simple military record. He wasn't just fighting a war anymore; he was being watched by the people who kept the tally—the ones who decided which names were worth keeping in the ledger, and which were meant to be crossed out.