**Chapter 41: The Drums of War**
---
The hole in the clouds slowly began to close, but the silence on the Summit remained absolute.
The Dean stood up, dusting off his golden robes. He looked at the monster standing at the edge of the cliff—a boy with arms of black star-metal and a chest of titan gold.
"The Legs," the Dean repeated, his voice weary. "You are greedy, Calamity."
"I prefer 'completionist'," Kaelen replied, flexing his new fingers. The air crackled around them.
The Dean walked over to the edge of the platform. He pointed North, past the lush mountains of the Academy, toward a horizon stained with red smoke.
"The Titan's Legs are not lost," the Dean said grimly. "They are stolen."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Who has pockets big enough to steal a Titan?"
"**General Bakara**," the Dean spat the name. "Leader of the **Iron-Blood Alliance**. He is a body cultivator who rejected the Dao to embrace pure slaughter. Ten years ago, he raided the Ancient Tomb in the Northern Tundra. He found the Legs."
The Dean summoned a projection of a map. It showed a massive fortress made of red steel, sitting in the middle of a desolate wasteland.
"He couldn't integrate them," the Dean explained. "His bloodline was too weak. So, he built his fortress *on top* of them. He uses the Titan's infinite stamina to power the defensive arrays of the **Iron Citadel**."
Kaelen grinned. "So, he's using my running shoes as a battery?"
"Bakara is a **Core Formation Stage 5** expert," the Dean warned. "And he is surrounded by an army of ten thousand fanatics. The Iron-Blood Alliance has been pushing into our borders for months. They are winning."
The Dean turned to Kaelen, his eyes hardening.
"The Empire is falling, Kaelen. The Academy is being drafted to the front lines tomorrow. If you want the Legs, you will have to walk into the meat grinder."
Kaelen looked at the map. He looked at the red fortress.
"System," Kaelen muttered.
> **[Quest Alert: The Titan's Stride.]**
> **[Objective: Retrieve the Titan's Legs.]**
> **[Optional Objective: Eliminate General Bakara.]**
> **[Reward: Evolution to 'Demon General' Rank.]**
Kaelen turned back to the Dean.
"Draft me," Kaelen said.
The Dean blinked. "What?"
"You said the Academy is going to war. Send me."
"You... you would fight for the Empire?" The Dean looked hopeful. "Out of patriotism?"
"No," Kaelen walked over to Viper, who was still trying to recover from the spiritual pressure. He picked her up by the collar of her assassin robes.
"I'm going because war has the best loot density."
He walked to the edge of the Summit.
"And General Bakara is wearing my boots."
***
**The Next Morning. The Academy Plaza.**
The atmosphere was heavy. Thousands of disciples stood in formation. The arrogance of the Inner Sect was gone, replaced by the cold fear of mortality.
They weren't students anymore. They were soldiers.
Wearing standard-issue grey armor, they waited for the transport airships.
Suddenly, a heavy *THUD* shook the plaza.
Kaelen landed in the center.
He wasn't wearing grey armor. He was shirtless, his black metal arms gleaming in the sun, the massive **Nameless Slab** strapped to his back.
The disciples parted instantly, giving him a wide berth.
"It's him..."
"The Calamity."
"Is he coming with us?"
A massive wooden airship descended from the clouds. It was the flagship, **The Azure Hawk**.
**Elder Iron** stood at the ramp. He looked at Kaelen.
"You're late, soldier," Elder Iron grunted, though he didn't dare make eye contact with the Star-Iron arms.
"I don't march," Kaelen walked up the ramp. "I hunt."
Viper followed him, looking resigned to her fate. She whispered to Kaelen.
"You know this is a suicide mission, right? The Iron-Blood Alliance uses blood magic. They detonate their own soldiers to create bombs. It's messy."
"Messy means plenty of leftovers," Kaelen said, finding a spot on the deck.
The airship lurched. The massive spirit sails caught the wind.
Hundreds of ships took off, darkening the sky. The Azure Dragon Empire was marching to its death.
Kaelen sat on the deck, sharpening his slab with a piece of scrap metal. *SCRAPE. SCRAPE.*
A young disciple, trembling with fear, looked at him.
"Brother Kaelen..." the boy stammered. "Are... are we going to win?"
Kaelen looked at the horizon, where the sky was turning the color of bruised flesh.
He didn't offer comfort. He didn't offer hope.
He grinned, revealing teeth that looked a little too sharp.
"I don't know about 'we'," Kaelen said.
"But I'm going to eat well."