The banner rose with the morning sun—black cloth streaked with silver thread, a cracked crown flanked by the curved fang of a wolf. It snapped against the wind above Northreach's outer courtyard, the chill air slicing through the breath of over a hundred soldiers.
Renard stood below it.
He didn't speak.
Not at first.
Across the training field, 146 soldiers of the Northreach Bastion stood in half-formed formations. Some stiff. Some yawning. Some scowling, already defensive.
They were bastards, outcasts, veterans, and mistakes—sent to a place no one had expected to survive.
Until now.
Behind Renard, the Black Sigil knights stood like statues. Their arrival hadn't been announced. They hadn't marched in. They had been there. No crests, no speech—just silent loyalty to one banner now: his.
Renard's voice cut across the wind.
"I'm not here to win your loyalty. I don't need you to follow. I need you to function."
He tapped a finger to the air, and his interface flared to life—visible only to him.
[S-Class Commander Skill: Unit Profile Mapping – Active]
Soldiers blurred. Numbers, stats, instinct readings, past injuries, combat markers—everything hovered before his eyes.
He walked forward.
"You. Center shield wall. Alpha."
The soldier blinked. "I—"
"You hold the line. You always did. That's Alpha. No debate."
He moved on.
"Those hands were made for blade feints, not formations. Omega."
"What? I—"
"Wrist torque. Muscle memory. You slice from the inside, not the front. Chaos fits you better."
He passed another.
"That posture? You're a medic who won't admit it. C-Team. Field triage. Center sector."
The man stared.
Renard stopped before one more.
"You," he said quietly. "You walk like you've killed from shadow."
A pause.
"With me."
POV: Reassigned Soldier – Dain Marrow
He blinked. He had expected to be ignored, another unwanted body in the back row. But the man had picked him out like a hawk picking out a limping mouse.
"I'm not a killer," he thought.
But his fingers twitched. They remembered the dagger buried in his coat hem. The way his body moved in alleys, not marches.
"He sees it."
By midday, the field had become a crucible.
Squads reformed. Omega practiced improvised feint-breaks. Alpha repeated a shield rotation drill. C-Team adjusted glyph patterns.
Then tension snapped.
A soldier named Garren, previously Alpha, now reassigned to Omega, threw his blade.
"I trained for discipline, not chaos!"
Kael grinned. "You trained to follow. Maybe it's time you tried fighting."
The two clashed—bare fists at first, then steel.
Renard didn't stop them.
Veyran, captain of the Black Sigil, stood with arms folded.
"He lets them fail," he murmured.
Kael cracked a knuckle. "Failure burns the lies off faster."
When Garren stumbled, nearly falling under a pivot trip, Renard finally moved.
He didn't yell. He stepped forward and corrected.
"Your right foot telegraphs intent. That's why Kael beat you. Adjust your stance by one inch. You'll reverse the tempo."
He turned to Kael. "You lean too early. If he were faster, your spine would be open."
They blinked.
Not insulted. Just… corrected.
Precision.
Cold. Brilliant.
Discipline returned.
By end of the week, assignments were nearly done. But resistance still lingered.
A few recruits glared. Some shuffled. Some whispered behind backs.
Then came the test.
Renard set a drill—mixed unit formations. Alpha shielding for Omega strikes. C-Team illusion masking the movement.
He observed in silence. Shadowed by Elric and Maera.
At first, it was chaos. But then… it clicked.
A pivot. A feint. A shared rhythm.
Sorell barked orders that Thorn finished. Silva timed a flame burst to Nyra's fade.
It worked.
And the soldiers noticed.
One by one, they began adjusting without command.
By the end of the drill, even the cynical ones were nodding.
POV: Veyran
He watched the last squad finish a perfect rotation.
Ghosts, indeed.
Renard was building something more than doctrine. He was building a culture.
And it scared him.
Before the sun dipped fully, Renard summoned his core team: Kael. Elric. Maera. Sorell. Nyra. Veyran. Nareth. Darius.
They stood around a map lit by flickering lamplight. The room smelled of sweat, steel, and fresh ink.
Renard didn't draw arrows. He didn't point.
He simply gestured to the side table, where ledgers lay open. Logistics patterns, outdated requisitions, and troop realignment notes. His finger traced them like a hunter following blood.
"To troop movement. To ration surges. To withdrawal patterns. They're not preparing a siege. They're preparing a push."
A beat of silence.
Veyran's gaze sharpened. "You read the patterns... like a spymaster."
"No," Renard said. "Like a commander."
Kael gave a short nod, as if that answered everything.
"What's your plan?" Veyran asked.
Renard looked through the cracked window, down to the courtyard—where 146 Bastion recruits pushed through their second formation cycle, sweat steaming from their backs under torchlight.
"To make them ready."
He turned to the gathered officers.
"We assign every Bastion recruit. Alpha: shield core. Omega: strike disruptors. C-Team: support, medics, illusions. Phantom remains with me."
He paused, then locked eyes with Veyran.
"And the Black Sigil?"
"You stay separate. Unblended. A ghost blade at my word."
Veyran tilted his head, still scrutinizing. "You're certain? No integration?"
"No," Renard said. "You answer to the crown. But if you're under my roof, you follow my tempo. You move when I strike."
A silence settled between them.
Then Veyran broke it, his voice low. "You see more than you should. You command like you've done it for decades. What are you, really?"
Renard didn't blink. "The result of everyone else's failure."
Veyran let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Then count me among the converted, Warden. What's my role in your war?"
Renard stepped forward, eyes sharp. "You'll be the edge of the blade. The part that cuts when the rest distracts."
Veyran gave a shallow bow.
"Aye, Commander."