The next morning marked the beginning of Rashan's process to vet and select volunteers for his elite Anbu unit. He stood quietly inside his tent, carefully examining the sixteen masks laid out before him—each simple yet striking in their stark white porcelain. They resembled the masks he'd seen long ago in Naruto, smooth and featureless aside from subtle, painted lines and hints of color to depict various animals.
His own mask—a dragon—was clean, minimalist, fierce in its simplicity, with sharp, crimson lines around the eyes and edges suggesting scales and strength. Jalil's wolf mask had bold black accents around the eyes and muzzle, exuding the quiet intensity and relentless strength Rashan associated with him. Cassia's fox mask was subtly painted with delicate red and black lines around the eyes, cleverly reflecting her cunning, agility, and elusive nature.
The remaining thirteen masks sat in a neat row, each distinct in their minimalist artistry: a hawk, a tiger, a raven, a bear, a serpent, an owl, a stag, a boar, a hare, a ram, a bull, a panther, and a crane. Each mask seemed to wait silently, patiently, for the warrior who would wear it.
Time to find his warriors.
Rashan stepped out into the morning sunlight, his eyes immediately settling on the gathered crowd. Around one hundred volunteers stood in disciplined but restless ranks, shifting slightly as anticipation built in the cool air. Most were Redguards, but scattered among them were Nords, Dark Elves, Bretons, and even several imposing Orcs. His gaze paused briefly on the volunteers Cassia and Jalil had specifically recommended—a promising bunch, though he would test each of them just the same.
The murmuring in the crowd stilled slightly as he approached, but before he could speak, a loud voice cut through the tense silence.
"Oi! A wee lad's in charge of the unit that's supposed to bring death and carnage to the Dominion?"
A ripple of laughter spread through the ranks, many of the Redguards and Nords chuckling openly. Only two Nords—a father and son pair Jalil had personally recommended—remained utterly silent, watching Rashan with sharp, serious eyes.
Rashan stood motionless, expression utterly calm, eyes fixed on the man who'd spoken. He allowed the silence to stretch, heavy and uncomfortable, refusing to react. Slowly, the laughter faded away, replaced by awkward shifting as the volunteers began to grow uneasy under his prolonged, silent scrutiny.
Seconds became minutes.
Finally, Rashan moved. Without a word, he stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—closing the distance to the Nord who'd challenged him. Mid-twenties, brown hair, stocky build. The cockiness still gleamed in the man's eyes, though it wavered slightly as Rashan approached.
He stopped barely two feet away, staring directly into the Nord's defiant gaze. Rashan's voice came low and calm, edged with quiet menace.
"Would you like me to show you?"
The Nord hesitated for just an instant, but quickly doubled down, mouth twisting into a smirk. "Oh? And just what are you going to do?"
Rashan smiled dangerously, stepping back slowly. He gestured calmly, silently signaling everyone else to clear space. The crowd hurriedly stepped back, forming a wide circle around them, eyes bright with anticipation and unease.
Slowly, Rashan rolled his shoulders, feeling every muscle ease fluidly into readiness. He shook his hands out lightly, stepping into a relaxed stance, movements precise and practiced. His posture straightened with quiet confidence, balance perfect, breathing steady and calm. There was no need for words—his body language spoke louder than any boast.
Fifteen years of three-a-day workouts, twice lived through regression, shaped every effortless movement he made. Every subtle step he took radiated disciplined strength. His past life as a warrior had already taught him what he was capable of, and in this life, he'd honed that knowledge even further. He didn't need arrogance or bravado; the calm certainty in his eyes said enough.
He felt excitement burning in his chest, not just for this moment, but for the battles to come—the Dominion had no idea what was coming for them.
But first, Rashan would show this Nord precisely what the future Dragonborn was truly capable of.
Rashan stood utterly still, watching patiently as the Nord bounced lightly on his feet, fists raised, eyes glittering with misplaced confidence. Rashan could practically see the man's arrogance radiating from his tense shoulders, his cocky smirk betraying the certainty of victory he still foolishly clung to.
The Nord started aggressively, snapping out quick, testing jabs, aiming for Rashan's face and chest. Rashan moved with quiet ease, his head and shoulders subtly weaving, each punch slipping harmlessly by with mere inches to spare. He gave no indication of effort, no hint of discomfort—his breathing calm and steady, utterly in control.
Frustration flashed briefly across the Nord's face. He lunged again, jabbing quickly, hoping speed alone might overwhelm Rashan's flawless defense.
This time, Rashan reacted, slipping smoothly beneath the jab and stepping forward, driving a vicious fist into the Nord's exposed ribs. He chose the liver intentionally—a sensitive target, painful without causing permanent harm. The Nord's body buckled instantly, eyes widening in shock, mouth opening soundlessly as air fled from his lungs.
Rashan didn't relent, pressing his advantage ruthlessly but precisely, making an example without inflicting lasting damage. Another brutal punch smashed directly into the Nord's solar plexus, the strike perfectly measured to stun rather than cripple. The Nord doubled over, gasping desperately, eyes glazed with panic and pain.
Then, before he could recover, Rashan drove a sharp knee into the inside of the man's thigh, targeting a nerve-rich pressure point. The Nord staggered, his leg trembling violently, balance shattered. Rashan's foot lashed out swiftly, kicking hard into the Nord's kneecap—painful, debilitating, yet carefully restrained to avoid permanent injury.
The Nord collapsed briefly onto one knee, his face twisted in agony, blood trickling from a badly split lip, eyes wild and disoriented.
Still, Rashan waited, stepping back calmly, expression unchanged, waiting patiently as the man slowly struggled upright, swaying unsteadily, pride forcing him to continue.
With a reckless, guttural yell, the Nord threw one final, desperate punch, aiming squarely for Rashan's chest. Rashan allowed it to connect this time—casting Ironflesh in the blink of an eye, a shimmering shield enveloping his body. The Nord's fist smashed uselessly against Rashan's hardened flesh, knuckles audibly cracking, agony etching deeply into his bruised face.
Rashan didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The Nord swung again, each strike weaker, pitifully ineffective. Rashan simply stood, absorbing each blow calmly, utterly unaffected. Soon, the Nord could barely stand, gasping desperately, bleeding, pride reduced to nothing.
Rashan stepped back finally, his voice firm and calm, eyes locked onto the defeated warrior.
"Are you done?" Rashan asked calmly, looking down at the battered Nord, his voice perfectly steady, devoid of anger or disdain.
The Nord, gasping heavily, blood trickling steadily from his mouth, managed a slow, humbled nod—words clearly beyond his reach as he fought desperately to catch his breath.
"Then fall back in line," Rashan commanded firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And from now on, keep your fucking mouth shut."
The Nord obediently staggered back into formation, wiping blood from his lip, eyes cast downward in newfound respect and silence.
Rashan slowly swept his gaze across the gathered volunteers, his voice carrying clearly to every ear present. "Let me make something perfectly clear. I do not need any one of you individually. There are always other methods—other paths—to achieve one's goals. This," he gestured around them, "is simply the easiest and most efficient means available to me."
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in, noticing how many eyes lowered instinctively. Good. He needed them humbled, focused, and disciplined.
"First," Rashan continued, "we'll test your endurance. There's an oasis exactly twenty miles into the desert from here. You will follow me there. If you fall over, if you stop for rest, if your pace falters—turn around immediately. You're not suitable for what I need."
He turned toward the desert without another word and began to jog at a steady, carefully moderated pace. Inwardly, Rashan deliberately held back his full potential; Indomitable Stamina made him nearly unstoppable in endurance—he was, frankly, a freak among even elite long-distance runners. But this wasn't a test of his own stamina; it was theirs. He set a pace challenging enough to quickly separate the strong from the weak, but achievable enough for those with true grit to manage.
He needed people who could fight behind enemy lines for days or weeks at a time—warriors who wouldn't tire easily, who wouldn't falter when exhaustion gnawed at their bones. Missions would require travel across harsh terrain, fighting without rest, and retreating swiftly over vast distances when pursued. Endurance wasn't just useful; it was absolutely vital. Without it, they'd fail and die. Rashan would accept nothing less than the strongest.
With that in mind, Rashan pushed forward, sand crunching rhythmically beneath his boots, his breath calm and steady, leading by example as his volunteers fell in line behind him.