Chapter 21: Harrowood
Gyra stood alone beneath the high stone arch of the balcony, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the training grounds far below. For two days, she'd watched the chaos unfold—lines of recruits, a grueling trial, and the swelling pride in Basil's growing unit.
But through it all, she remained on the sidelines.
No orders. No summons.
Her magic pulsed beneath her skin like a coiled serpent—restless, waiting. She wasn't one to crave praise or attention, but still, a small question gnawed at the edges of her mind: Is there even a place for me in this? Why did I bother to come along?
_______
That evening, she found Basil and Lace alone in the strategy hall, hunched over a sea of maps and applicant forms lit by soft crystal lanterns. Their conversation hushed as she approached.
"Basileus," she said evenly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Basil looked up. For a long moment, he studied her—not with judgment, but with something closer to understanding.
"No," he said simply. "Not yet."
Gyra's fingers curled slightly at her sides.
"But I will," he added. "Soon. I'll need you at your best. No one in the empire rivals your pure talent with water or damage magic. I plan to make you even stronger—and when the time comes, I want you training the Stormblade Company."
"Stormblade?" she echoed, surprised.
He nodded. "Eight hundred elite mages. All handpicked. Their role will be unlike anything the Empire has ever seen. I need you to shape them. And if they accept you—possibly lead them."
The weight of those words settled over her like warm rain. Relief flickered through her chest, but the hollowness of waiting still lingered.
"I understand," she said quietly.
Later that night, Gyra sat in her quarters, legs tucked beneath her as she stared out the open window. Moonlight washed the floor in pale silver. Her blue hair danced in the wind that slipped through the cracked pane.
A soft knock tapped at the door.
She didn't move. "It's open."
Lace stepped inside, holding a small cloth-covered tray in one hand, the other tucked behind his back.
"I figured you might like something sweet," he said with a grin. "Had one of the imperial chefs whip up a batch of honey-grain cookies. You said they were your favorite."
She blinked. "You remembered that?"
He shrugged, a little sheepish. "I remember a lot when it comes to you."
She sat up straighter as he approached, setting the tray on the table between them. The aroma of warm honey and spice filled the room. He handed her one and took a seat beside her on the cushioned bench.
They sat in silence for a while—the kind that didn't demand conversation.
Gyra bit into the cookie, warmth blooming in her chest as much from the taste as from the gesture.
"I know it's hard," Lace said finally. "Feeling like you're on the outside, powerless to help. But you're not."
She glanced at him and smiled, her blue eyes squinting from how wide it was. "You always say the right things, Lace."
He returned the smile. "No, I just mean it."
She looked back out the window, the flickering campfires in the distance reflecting in her gaze.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Their hands brushed as they reached for the same cookie. Neither pulled away.
For a moment, the room was still. Close.
"Ah—ehm! Well, I should be going. Got an early day tomorrow." Lace stood abruptly, his face slightly pink. He walked out of the room and gently shut the door behind him.
Gyra watched him go, and a soft smile spread across her face as she took another gentle bite.
⸻
At dawn, the horizon burned orange behind the capital walls. A sea of bodies stood shoulder to shoulder across the vast clearing outside the city—a flat plain large enough to fit thousands.
Basil stood at the edge of a raised platform, eyes scanning the formation below. Over 13,200 applicants had showed up—soldiers, guardians, civilians, and other races, all arranged in battalion-sized blocks. Organized. But untested.
Behind them, a dense forest stretched into the horizon. Harrowood, the locals called it. Named for the fear it inspired. It was said to be stalked by mana beasts older than the people themselves.
Lace stepped beside him. "It's all you."
Basil stepped forward.
His voice rang out, loud and unflinching, carried on the crisp morning wind.
"This isn't a normal legion," he began. "You didn't sign up for garrison duty or border patrol. The Black Legion is a sword, not a shield. Our missions will be suicidal. We will be unthanked, paid like shit for the risk, and sent where others flee."
He let that hang.
"Some of you are here for glory. Others for revenge, redemption, or purpose. But hear this—if you stay, your names will be carved into the annals of history. Every generation after you will know who stood and bled for the cause that changed the fate of the continent."
A ripple moved through the crowd.
"Today, we begin our first cut."
His tone sharpened.
"Discipline is everything. Not strength. Not magic. Discipline. If you can't follow orders, if you break under pressure—you're a liability."
He raised one hand.
"You will now stand at attention. You will not speak, eat, drink, or move until I say otherwise. If you falter, you go home. No exceptions."
Then he said nothing else.
Hours passed. The sun climbed. Sweat soaked through uniforms. Feet throbbed. Backs ached. Flies buzzed.
By mid-afternoon, the first collapsed.
Some cursed and walked off, pride wounded. Others were carried away by healers.
By nightfall, 4,500 had broken.
The rest remained. Motionless.
Silent.
Waiting.
Basil stood beneath the moonlight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But something stirred in his chest.
These are the ones willing to suffer without complaint.
He finally spoke. "At ease, gents. It's been 20 hours and you haven't moved an inch. Congratulations—you passed the first test."
The remaining applicants—nearly 8,800 strong—collapsed the moment he gave the order. Some fell to their knees, others onto their backs, eyes shut, with exhausted faces. Uniforms soaked, lips cracked, muscles trembling.
But none complained.
Basil gave them an hour.
Then he stepped forward again.
"Your next trial begins now."
He gestured to the looming forest.
"My captains have scattered food and water throughout Harrowood. Not enough to get comfortable—just enough to survive. You have ten hours. Find it. Hydrate. Eat. Then return here and fall back into formation."
The wind picked up, sharp against the skin.
"If you don't make it back—you're out. If you take too long—you're out. There's not enough for everyone, so you may have to fight for it."
His gaze swept over them.
"Good luck."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Some looked to the trees with dread. Others cracked their necks and readied to run.
Lace whistled sharply.
From the forest behind them, the 33 captains emerged like ghosts—cool, precise, their formation silent and ominous.
No speeches. No fanfare.
Basil raised a hand.
"Go."
Thousands surged into Harrowood.
Within minutes, the clearing stood empty again—save for Basil, Lace, and the captains.
Lace crossed his arms. "Think they'll all make it back?"
"I'm counting on a few not to," Basil said, tone cool. "We only stashed enough for a thousand. That leaves them with two options: fight for scraps—or come back starving and dehydrated."
Lace winced. "Ruthless."
"We're not looking for comfortable," Basil replied. "We're looking for capable."
He gave the captains a silent nod.
They broke off into trios and slipped into the woods, soundless as falling snow.
"Where'd you send them?" Lace asked.
"While I was testing discipline, I had them bury the supplies deeper in the forest—closer to the center. What the recruits don't know is that Harrowood's crawling with mana beasts. Big ones. Unpredictable. Territorial."
Lace stiffened. "So the captains…"
"Are at the edges," Basil said with a small smile. "Their job is to steer the beasts inward. Nothing obvious—just enough to turn up the heat."
He turned.
"Come on. Let's watch."
———-
The two moved through the limbs, staying just below the top of the trees, cloaked in silence and shadow. Below them, the applicants scoured the forest floor, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Some checked beneath fallen logs or lifted mossy rocks. Others limped between trees, hands pressed to their sides, murmuring instructions to one another.
So far, no fights had broken out.
It was mostly men stumbling forward on fumes—too tired to argue, too hungry to think.
Basil's gaze flicked from face to face, tracking posture, pacing, teamwork—or the lack of it. Lace walked beside him, his scroll tucked beneath one arm, recording names and impressions in the shorthand symbols they'd created together.
"That one—he's a hunter. Look at the way he checks for markings on the trees," Basil murmured, nodding toward a lean man crouched beneath an uprooted stump. "He's moving with intention."
Lace nodded and jotted something down.
As they pushed deeper into the woods, faint growls echoed in the distance—low and wet, like something dragging claws through a riverbed.
Basil didn't flinch.
"We'll know soon," he said softly, "who's here to survive—and who's here to die."
Below, a pack of razor wolves stalked the tall grass, closing in on the group they'd been watching—twenty men, the hunter among them. Basil had made sure they were given nothing but leather armor and empty hands. No weapons. No use of magic. He wanted them to survive with nothing but their minds and bodies.
Weapons and magic skills were easy to teach.
A hardened mindset was not.
The hunter had already sensed something watching him.
A low growl cut through the underbrush.
Twenty men froze, forming a loose semi-circle. Their limbs were sluggish, their thoughts dulled by hunger and fatigue, but instinct rose like a blade when danger thickened the air.
The growl came again—followed by a flash of yellow eyes in the dark.
"Hold!" someone barked.
Too late.
The first razor wolf burst from the trees like a shadow made flesh, jaws wide and eyes burning with hunger. Within seconds, four more broke through the underbrush, flanking them from either side—lean, narly creatures, low to the ground and twitching with anticipation.
Mana beasts. Gray-shouldered razor wolves with translucent yellow veins running down their spines. Their bodies pulsed with latent energy, and their teeth gleamed—razor sharp, harder than stone.
The group scattered. Chaos bloomed.
Men dove for cover, slipped behind roots, or bolted blindly into the woods.
But one stayed calm.
The hunter.
He moved before the wolves did, a sharpened stick in each hand, eyes narrow and calculating. He'd sensed the pack two clicks back and already mapped out the terrain for retreat.
As the first wolf lunged, the hunter rolled low, slashing upward with clean, lethal precision. Its belly tore open, blood flaring in a fine red mist. Another came at him from the left—he kicked it hard across the skull. It yelped, skidded against a root, and didn't rise again.
Still, the beasts overwhelmed the others.
Of the twenty, thirteen were torn from the fight—bitten, bloodied, or too shaken to continue.
They were disqualified.
The rest, pale and breathless, fled deeper into the forest, too desperate to look back.
⸻
Basil moved through the trees like a wraith, his cloak whispering against the foliage. Lace followed close behind, muttering field notes under his breath.
A soft chime echoed in Basil's mind.
Ding.
[ New Skill Acquired ]
– Stealth (F)
– Can conceal your movements and breathing with mana, allowing you to move quieter and stealthier.
Basil blinked. Stealth?
He smirked.
Not sure that's necessary. I can already slow my heart to a beat a minute and suppress my mana so deep even dragons wouldn't feel it. But… I'll take it.
He dismissed the notification and pushed onward.
Soon, they reached the center of the forest—a clearing roughly a hundred meters wide, the grass trampled flat from years of foot traffic. It was just large enough to hold a thousand men shoulder to shoulder.
At its heart stood a towering stack of sacks—bundled food and water wrapped in brown cloth, glinting in the moonlight. The second half of the rations were scattered throughout the forest—hidden beneath rocks, tucked under moss, wedged in branches—but here? Here it was obvious. A beacon. A temptation.
The trap was set.
Basil and Lace crouched beneath a wide tree trunk, high on the ridge that overlooked the clearing.
"There," Lace said, pointing. "First group."
A dozen applicants stumbled from the trees, the hunter leading them. One spotted the cache and shouted, "It's over here!" before bolting toward it.
The others followed, gasping in relief. Some dropped to their knees beside the pile, tearing into sacks like feral animals. Water spilled. Bread vanished in chunks.
But the smart ones—there were always a few—grabbed a ration, slung it over their shoulder, and slipped back into the woods without a word.
The strong ones? They strolled up like kings, claiming two, sometimes three sacks. One even sat cross-legged in the clearing's center, chewing on a salted root vegetable like he had all the time in the world.
Then came the rest.
Dozens poured in from every direction. Ragged. Starving. Desperate.
The clearing filled with noise—panting, shouting, the rustle of limbs and the voices of rising tension.
The pile shrank. Faster than anyone expected.
Now, only a few sacks remained.
And the mood turned sharp.
Arguments sparked.
Basil narrowed his eyes.
"It's about to start," he murmured.
Lace didn't answer. He simply flipped to a new page in his notes.
A massive man—broad-chested, arms like tree trunks—stood at the edge of the food pile, six sacks slung over his back. He'd claimed them without hesitation, lifting the last of the rations just as a new group stumbled from the treeline.
"Hey!" one of them called out, breathless. "Share some of that, man."
The giant didn't reply. He shifted the weight on his shoulder and turned to leave, carving a path through the crowd.
"That's not fair!" another shouted—and charged.
He slammed a fist between the giant's shoulder blades.
The big man didn't even flinch.
He kept walking.
That indifference? It was the spark.
All thirteen of them descended at once—fists flying, kicks landing. It wasn't about fairness anymore. It was desperation. A tide of bodies, clawing, shouting, swinging.
And the giant fought back.
Not with rage. Not even with effort.
He simply reacted.
Every time someone closed in, he shoved them away with brutal efficiency. One man flew ten feet into a tree and didn't rise. Another came at him with a sharp rock—he caught the wrist and crushed it until the weapon dropped. The sacks tumbled to the ground, but no one dared reach for them in the chaos.
More people flooded in from the trees, drawn by the noise and the scent of panic. Some arrived just in time to see the food gone, trampled, or hoarded. They turned on those who still had something left.
Shouts erupted.
Fists flew.
The clearing exploded into madness.
Dozens of fights broke out at once—brawls over a single sip of water, the last crumb of bread. Some ended in seconds. Others dragged on, bodies rolling through the dirt, blood smearing across leaves.
Those too late or too cautious hovered at the edges, eyes wide, watching what had once been a calm gathering now tear each other apart.
Up on the ridge, Lace grimaced.
His eyes tracked the giant—still standing, still swinging. He looked more irritated than furious, like a man brushing away flies.
One bold idiot leapt onto his back.
The giant spun and slammed him down hard enough to make the earth shudder.
But Basil wasn't watching the brawl.
His gaze was fixed on the distant treeline to the east.
The morning sun had begun to rise, casting long gold shafts between the leaves.
Then the birds fled—exploding into the sky in a frenzy.
And the trees began to shake.
The ground trembled beneath their boots.
Basil narrowed his eyes.
"Here they come."