The battlefield did not erupt again.
It simply… stopped.
Dust hung frozen in the air, caught between falling and rising, illuminated by the fading afterimage of the explosion I had torn into the sky. Heat rippled upward in invisible waves. Shattered clouds drifted apart like torn cloth, revealing raw blue morning beyond.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
I stood there with my right arm still raised, palm open toward the heavens, fingers trembling—not from fear, not from pain, but from the violent echo of Axiom still reverberating through my bones.
Below me, the ground was scorched in a perfect radial pattern, stone vitrified into glassy veins. Above me, the sky bore a wound that refused to close.
Behind me, two of my squadmates remained frozen where I had shielded them—one crouched, one flat on her back, both staring upward with wide, disbelieving eyes.
I exhaled slowly.
My body ached.
Not the sharp agony of overload. Not the tearing pain of collapse.
This was different.
This was recoil.
The kind that told me I had held the power instead of being crushed by it.
I had improved.
Then a voice descended from the sky itself, calm and absolute, amplified by the Grand Monitoring Construct.
"Cadet Corps 89. Due to negligent casting and uncontrolled Axiom fluctuation, you are hereby dismissed from the battlefield. Point deduction applied. Report immediately to the command center."
The words struck harder than any spell.
The fire cadet stood motionless for several seconds, eyes locked on the sky where his spell had nearly killed us all—where my counterforce had erased it.
His hands shook.
His shoulders sagged.
Slowly, like a man waking from a nightmare, he turned and walked away, nameplate glowing faintly as the system marked him eliminated.
I watched him go.
Not with hatred.
Not with triumph.
With understanding.
Because I knew how thin the line was.
The moment his footsteps faded, my strength left me.
I dropped to one knee.
Not because my body failed—
—but because relief finally caught up.
I pressed my hand into the dirt, breathing hard, feeling the earth's solidity beneath my palm. Someone grabbed my shoulder.
"Elrin—!"
Another voice. Another hand.
"You did it."
"You actually—"
I laughed once, breathless and shaking.
"I didn't kill anyone," I said hoarsely.
That was all that mattered.
—
The exercise did not end.
War never paused for miracles.
The battlefield roared back to life in fragmented bursts—skirmishes reignited, objectives resumed, squads clashed and disengaged like waves against rock. Cadet Squad 28 reformed around me with frightening speed.
Captain Renia's voice cut through the chaos, steady as iron.
"Formation Nautilus. Move."
We moved.
Together.
We escorted civilians through collapsing ruins while defenders rotated shields like clockwork. When one of our scouts was pinned by suppressive fire, our support cadets chained barriers and smoke illusions until we extracted him without loss.
I fought.
Not wildly.
Not recklessly.
Every step was deliberate.
Every spell measured.
I used vector steps sparingly, shield constructs precisely, and when I struck, I struck with purpose. The squad trusted me now—trusted that when I said "hold," they would be safe.
By dusk, the field was littered with glowing elimination markers.
By nightfall, the whistles stopped.
—
The announcement came after evaluation.
We stood in ranks, battered, filthy, exhausted—and smiling like fools.
Madam Roseanne stood before us, her presence sharp and dignified, projection arrays hovering behind her. Beside her stood General Ignis, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Cadet Squad 28," Roseanne announced, "successfully completed all assigned objectives."
Cheers erupted.
"Due to exemplary coordination, adaptive tactics, and civilian preservation—Cadet Squad 28 is approved for frontline exposure and internship deployment."
I barely heard the rest.
My name followed.
"Elrin Mornye—additional standing points awarded for rapid response, Axiom stabilization under extreme conditions, and life preservation."
Hands grabbed me.
Someone shouted.
Someone hugged me so hard I nearly fell over.
Captain Renia smiled—not wide, not loud—but with quiet, burning pride.
General Ignis met my eyes once.
He nodded.
That was enough.
—
Five days passed not like time—
But like steel being hammered.
There was no rest in those days. Only refinement. Conditioning drills that pushed joints and tendons to their limits, controlled Axiom circulation under fatigue, live-fire exercises stripped of ceremony. Our bodies were not allowed to recover fully—not because the instructors were cruel, but because the frontlines would not care whether we were ready.
Pain became background noise.
Fear became familiar.
And resolve hardened into something quieter… heavier.
On the fifth morning, the order finally came.
Deployment.
We packed in near silence.
Not because we were afraid to speak—but because words felt inadequate. Each strap tightened, each weapon checked, each folded garment placed into a kit carried meaning now. Not practice. Not training.
Intent.
Our internee uniforms awaited us in sealed cases at the foot of our bunks.
White coats.
Not ceremonial white—this was a utilitarian shade, reinforced with layered fabric and lightweight plating beneath the seams. The Military Academy's crest sat over the heart, stitched in silver thread that faintly resonated with Axiom. Heavier than cadet wear. Lighter than an officer's full combat coat.
A deliberate balance.
A reminder of what we were—
And what we were meant to become.
When I fastened the clasps and slid my arms through the sleeves, the coat settled against my shoulders with unfamiliar gravity.
It fit.
Too well.
I stepped outside the barracks—
And stopped.
The sky itself seemed occupied.
Dozens of newly issued airships dominated the field beyond the gates, their sheer scale dwarfing everything around them. Hulls of reinforced steel and enchanted brass curved like the bodies of ancient leviathans, rune-etched plating interlocked with exposed mechanical frameworks. Massive turbine rings hovered along their flanks, rotating slowly, each rotation accompanied by a low, resonant hum as Axiom conduits synchronized with steam-driven cores.
Vents hissed rhythmically.
Mana engines stabilized.
Glowing sigils crawled across their surfaces like living script, adjusting lift, pressure, balance—magic and technology speaking fluently to one another.
This wasn't transport.
This was doctrine made manifest.
Sunspire used flight.
But Mythril commanded the sky.
Around me, my squad slowed instinctively, heads tilting upward. Someone let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Another whispered a prayer under their breath.
Captain Renia stood at the front, arms crossed, watching us carefully.
"Burn it into your memory," she said calmly. "You don't forget moments like this."
We boarded.
The interior of the airship was cavernous—rows of reinforced seating, weapon racks secured with magnetic clamps, observation windows running the length of the hull. The deck thrummed beneath my boots as the engines surged.
A horn sounded.
Deep.
Final.
The airship lifted.
The sensation was nothing like Sunspire's transports. There was no sudden lurch, no aggressive acceleration. Instead, the world seemed to sink away from us, gravity loosening its grip as the ship claimed altitude with dignified certainty.
Clouds swallowed us whole.
Then parted.
The land below unfolded.
At first, green.
Fields. Roads. Rivers.
...Then scars.
Cratered earth stretched outward like open wounds, trenches cutting through soil, ruins standing half-swallowed by ash and creeping corruption. Darkened land resisted purification, its Axiom sick, unstable—evidence of battles fought and barely won.
Beyond that—
The Grand Frontlines of Mythril.
I stopped breathing.
The base spanned the land like a colossal sigil carved into reality itself—a pentagram-shaped fortress etched into the earth, each point anchored by massive bastion towers bristling with artillery and barrier pylons. Purification fields shimmered along its perimeter, overlapping layers of runic light repelling the Blight like a living wall.
At the center—
A tower.
Not merely tall.
Absolute.
It rose from the heart of the base like a sword driven into the world, its edges sharp, its form unmistakable. A monument of steel, stone, and spellwork, radiating authority so potent I felt it through the hull of the ship.
Like the Excalibur.
The name surfaced unbidden.
"This is…" I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.
Captain Renia stood beside me, gaze fixed forward.
"The nerve center of the war," she said quietly. "Every expedition. Every defense line. Every counteroffensive. What you're seeing isn't just a base."
She looked at us.
"It's resolve given shape."
The airship descended.
Landing thrusters flared.
The ramp lowered with a thunderous clang.
Heat, metal, and disciplined silence washed over us.
The cockpit opened with a blinding flash of sunlight.
And there waiting on the platform, came into view—
General Ignis.
Standing like an iron boundary between worlds.
And beside him—
King Eeza of Mythril.
He stood tall, cloak billowing behind him, crown catching the light as if it were forged from sunrise itself. His arms were open, palms raised—not in dominance, but in declaration.
Behind him stood battalions of professional soldiers in perfect formation, armor polished, weapons grounded, eyes forward. Their presence pressed down on my senses like gravity.
This was not ceremony.
This was power.
King Eeza lifted his head, voice carrying effortlessly across the landing field.
"I welcome thee," he declared,"to the Grand Frontlines of the Empire of Mythril."
The words struck my spine like cold lightning.
I stepped forward with my squad.
Not as a cadet.
Not yet an officer.
But no longer uncertain.
Ahead—
The Blight waited.
And for the first time—
I felt ready to meet it.