Rifi slept longer than usual that night.
It wasn't like him—ordinarily, just a few hours of sleep combined with meditation and cultivation were more than enough to recover. But this time, something in him resisted the discipline. A quiet heaviness had settled over his thoughts, and he let it be. He allowed his body to sink deeper into the mattress, muscles slowly unwinding for the first time in weeks. Perhaps it was fatigue. Perhaps something closer to sorrow. Either way, he didn't fight it.
Who knew when true rest would come again?
When he finally woke, the sun was already cresting high above the rooftops.
He dressed quickly, left the tavern with a nod to the sleepy-eyed innkeeper, and made his way to the Suburana clan headquarters. Selmak had arranged a private officer's chamber for him—temporary, but functional. More importantly, it was quiet.
The room was sparse, with walls of pale stone and a single high window that let in the morning light. A large wooden desk dominated the center, already laid out with a stack of folders, neatly arranged maps, sealed letters, and scout reports bound in leather twine.
Rifi rolled his shoulders once, then sat and got to work.
He started with the team files. While the initial selection hadn't been his to make—most of the recommendations had come from Selmak and the City Lord's command—final authority rested with him now. And that meant more than just a title. If someone didn't fit, if they posed a risk to the cohesion or survival of the unit, Rifi had both the right and the responsibility to remove them.
There wasn't much time left before deployment, but that didn't matter. He wouldn't gamble with lives just to avoid ruffling feathers. If he brought someone into the field, it meant he trusted them to stand their ground when it mattered most—and to watch the backs of the others. He wouldn't drag anyone into a fight they weren't ready for. And he refused to carry the weight of a needless death if it could be prevented now.
Mira's folder he passed over.
He already knew her well. Green-Core or not, she was stronger than her rank implied. Clever, aggressive, constantly evolving. Since Brimstone Mountain, she'd reshaped her entire fighting style—water pressure and steam bursts for close-range combat, precision over volume. She was just at the wall of Red-Core—close enough to taste it. All she needed was the right push to break through.
Kiva came next.
She was a recent Red-Core, broke through not long after Hepestus fell. According to the reports, she'd spent most of her service as a frontline scout under Suburana's banners—her family had no noble standing, just a long line of legionary service. Rifi appreciated that. He didn't trust the legacy-born legionaries as easily; they were strong, certainly, but often too sheltered from true blood-and-dirt battle.
Kiva's abilities, though, were something else entirely.
Shadow mana—rare, elusive, and devastating in the right hands. The file detailed her uncanny ability to blend misdirection with deadly precision, overwhelming enemies by confusing their senses and concealing her intent until it was too late. He'd seen it himself now. And he was impressed.
Then came Velen.
The oldest of the group, already into his late thirties, and far more experienced than anyone else on the team. Unlike Kiva, his path had taken him into the heart of the City Lord's household. He wasn't just a career legionary—he was married to the City Lord's niece and had served in his personal guard for over a decade.
Velen had once attempted to reach the Orange-Core. And failed.
That detail caught Rifi's eye. Most wouldn't dare the leap unless they were confident. Fewer still survived the setback.
Even if the wall proved too steep to climb, the fact that Velen had dared the attempt spoke volumes. The risk alone—of losing everything in the process—was enough to make most hesitate.
His abilities matched his reputation—an Earth and Water mana Spellbound. Not a healer, but a controller. Mudslides, shifting terrain, stone manipulation, and defensive barriers—Velen's control over the battlefield was precise, measured, and powerful. He didn't fight with flair, but with intention, and every movement of his mana could alter the rhythm of combat for dozens of soldiers. A high degree of concentration was required to support that many legionaries at once, and few had the discipline for it. But Velen had made a reputation out of doing exactly that. He was a cornerstone, a stabilizer—perfect for anchoring the team when things inevitably turned chaotic. Rifi didn't doubt his value for a moment.
Next was Brann.
A Red-Core battlemage from Clan Oufetine—one of the larger, well-established houses just beneath the four major clans in influence. The only one among the three big clans aligned with the City Lord. His uncle was an Orange-Core, and the clan boasted three Red-Cores in total, Brann among them. Legacy ran deep in Oufetine's blood, and no doubt their involvement in this conflict was calculated—a bid to climb even higher in the power hierarchy. But despite his pedigree, Brann wasn't just another pampered clan heir. According to his file, he had years of field experience and was no stranger to war.
Unlike the spellbound types, Brann operated on the frontlines—up close and personal. Heavy defenses, brutal pressure, and a relentless pace. Not subtle, but highly effective.
His mana? A strange fusion of Earth and Wind. Refined. Unique. He specialized in creating localized zones of pressure—pulling, slowing, even pinning enemies in place. With enough time and mana, he could collapse terrain, distort momentum, and manipulate the battlefield to grind his foes into submission. He could even augment his own armor's weight, making him near impossible to move when rooted.
The tradeoff? Mobility. Brann was a juggernaut, but not a fast one.
Still, the file was clear: with proper support, Brann could serve as the unyielding wall the team needed—an anchor to break enemy lines or hold a choke point against overwhelming odds.
Then came Alin.
A Green-Core mage hailing from the City Lord's eastern auxiliary forces, noted for both her battlefield poise and remarkable adaptability. Her background was unassuming—an orphan raised within the structure of the City Lord's military system—but she had made a name for herself nonetheless. Not through raw force, but through skill, consistency, and quiet determination.
She wielded Pure Water mana, known for its fluid precision and versatility. While her talents leaned heavily toward clean manipulation and long-range control, she also possessed commendable healing capabilities. Her healing abilities weren't extensive, but effective. Not a full medic, but more than a patch job. And in battle, that kind of support could mean the difference between life and death.
What stood out most, though, was the note appended to her file in deliberate ink: "Spellbound potential—recommended for advanced training."
Alin wasn't just here to provide support. She was being groomed for something greater. She wasn't flashy, but Rifi could already tell—she would be one of the more dependable ones when things got rough.
Last was Dereth.
Green-Core. Assigned from the City Lord's eastern auxiliary, same as Alin. Younger than most but already marked as a spellbound prospect.
His record was thinner, but what little there was stood out.
Reports highlighted his adaptability. Not brute strength, but tactical awareness. Quick reads of shifting battle patterns. Reflexes and control that let him manipulate large amounts of mana without slipping focus. He didn't win fights by overpowering his enemies. He outmaneuvered them.
There was one line underlined twice: "Sustains high-output manipulation and layered casting under duress—no degradation observed."
That was rare.
Very few mages could cast and maintain that kind of control at his level. It marked him as a future Spellbound, if he didn't burn out first.
Rifi leaned back slightly after reading the final evaluation line: "Instincts of a duelist. Timing of a seasoned mage. Lacks experience, not resolve."
He liked that. A lot.
No, Dereth hadn't fought as many battles as the others, but talent like that… it deserved a chance. Even if it meant taking a calculated risk.
Dereth was a bit of a wildcard—but Rifi had a soft spot for mages with quick instincts and sharp reflexes. Dereth had the makings of something dangerous. And when measured against the rest of the team's composition, Rifi considered the risk more than reasonable.
It was a good team. Well-rounded. Balanced.
Only seven of them—but that was enough. Rifi scanned the final page of the last file and then set the documents aside, exhaling quietly. Strength. Support. Speed. Misdirection. Healing. Every key element was present. Not just a group of competent fighters, but a unit with depth—interlocking talents that, if coordinated properly, could strike harder than many full companies.
They weren't perfect. Not yet. But the foundation was strong. Strong enough to build something deadly.
In most circumstances, Red-Cores were assigned command of entire squads or legions—given ranks, respect, and wide arcs of control. Even Green-Cores, once proven, found themselves leading detachments or special units. To gather seven combat-tested mages—three Red-Cores, three Green-Cores, and an Orange-Core at the head—and assign them to a single strike group was rare. Unorthodox, even.
But that was the point.
This wasn't a unit designed to hold a line or manage formations.
This was a weapon. And he was meant to wield it.
He allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
Then he pulled the next folder toward him—scout reports, terrain sketches, and mana readings from the region around Gorath's Hollow. The ink still smelled fresh in places. His eyes moved quickly but thoroughly, tracing elevation shifts, analyzing the topography of the canyon routes and ridge passes. Narrow choke points. High ground. Kill zones.
Every detail mattered when the fighting began.
By noon, he would sit down with Selmak one last time—iron out the final adjustments, double-check timing, fallback plans, and coordinated maneuvers.
And then… it would be time to meet them.
Later that day, in an officer room in the headquarters, six figures had gathered. They were waiting on their leader, Rifi who was running late.
A map of the western ridge lay there on the table, while some figures sat at the table and some not ( be creative I guess).
Later that day.
Mira and Kiva were the first to arrive at the designated meeting hall—a quiet, stone-walled chamber tucked behind the western barracks. It wasn't grand or overly furnished, but it was private. The kind of place where plans could be spoken freely without curious ears listening in from the next door. A single long table occupied the center, with empty chairs lined neatly around it.
Kiva leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, one boot lightly tapping against the stone floor. The odachi on her back rested like an extension of her posture—silent, steady, ready.
Mira stood beside the table, fingers drumming idly on the lip of a flask. She wasn't tense, but alert. Watchful.
"They're late," Kiva muttered, breaking the quiet.
Mira glanced at her without lifting her head. "No, we're early."
Footsteps sounded outside. The door opened, and Velen stepped in—tall, composed, every movement deliberate. Behind him came two younger mages. One moved with quiet discipline, nodding politely—Alin. The other had a quickness in his eyes, a flicker of nervous energy well-contained—Dereth.
"I see we're not the last," Velen said, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the two women.
Mira gave him a nod. "Mira. And this is Kiva."
"Velen," he replied with the easy familiarity of a soldier long accustomed to brief introductions. "These are Alin and Dereth—we came in together."
Alin offered a polite smile. "Good to meet you."
Dereth's nod was quick. "Pleasure."
Velen's eyes lingered on Mira for a moment. "Mira… Aemiliana, if I'm not mistaken?"
Mira straightened slightly. "You're not wrong."
"I am sorry for what happened to your clan, it is a failure of us all for not realising what was about to happen"
"It is in the past." Her voice was flat. "We can only focus on what is to come."
Velen didn't press further. He merely nodded—respectfully.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, brief and formal. There was still distance between them. Politeness, not familiarity.
A few minutes later, heavier footsteps sounded from the corridor. The door swung open again.
Brann stepped in with the kind of presence that filled the space before he even spoke. He was broad, clad in half-armor as if the weight didn't bother him, and wearing the kind of self-assured grin that came naturally to people who knew their value.
"
"Look at this assembly," Brann announced as he stepped through the doorway, his voice warm and amused. "The City Lord's sharpest and Suburana's ghost, all under one roof. Must be a special day."
"Brann," Velen greeted, inclining his head with a faint smile. "Still breathing, I see."
"Much to the disappointment of a few noble houses," Brann replied with a grin that stretched wider. "Good to see you, old rock. What's it been—two months since you last had the pleasure of this handsome face?"
"Closer to three," Velen said dryly. "And if I remember right, your face was a bit less intact after that fall during the retreat."
Brann smirked. "I didn't fall—the mountain collapsed onto me. Took half the Esquiliana charge with it, too."
Velen grunted, "That's a generous way of describing tripping over a collapsing ridge."
Brann let out a rich laugh, clapped Velen on the shoulder with a thump, and turned to the rest of the room with an easy, confident nod.
"Brann of Oufetine," he said, giving a half-bow. "Battlemage, ground-smasher, and part-time philosopher."
He spread his hands theatrically. "Ah, the sweet philosophy of pressure. Apply it long enough, evenly enough… and anything breaks."
Mira arched an eyebrow. "You ever try reading a book?"
"Only if I can use it to press flowers," Brann replied smoothly. "Or flatten helmets."
A ripple of low chuckles went around the room. The mood eased slightly, barriers starting to lower. They were strangers still, but the kind of strangers war would make into something more soon enough.
Then, after a pause, Alin glanced around the room. "So… has anyone actually met him?"
She didn't need to say his name. Everyone knew who she meant.
"Not formally," Velen said, folding his arms. "But I've read the reports."
"I've heard more stories than facts," Brann added as he strolled toward the table. "Some of them sound like ghost tales."
Dereth leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "I heard he killed a Tier 4 beast with a single strike—straight through the mouth and into the brain. And back then, he was still just a Brown-Core."
Alin blinked. "That's real?"
Brann let out a short laugh. "You believe that one? Then you'll love this—just a few weeks later, they say he fought a Tier 6 and lived. Though I think 'lived' is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence."
Velen gave a slow nod. "That one's true, actually. He was stationed on the northern border during the beast horde campaign. Took a serious wound—near fatal. After that, he vanished. No reports. No return. Not a single trace for almost a year."
"And then he just came back?" Kiva asked.
Brann grinned. "Not just came back—he dropped into the western front like a lightning bolt. Some say he fought off five Red-Core mages on his own and walked away from it."
Dereth gave a low whistle. "Seriously?"
Brann chuckled again. "That one I believe even less than the Tier 6 story. Taking on five Red-Cores solo? No mage can do that. Not even an Orange-Core."
"It wasn't five," Mira said softly.
The room quieted.
Velen turned to her. "What do you mean?"
Mira's gaze didn't lift. "It was six Red-Cores. He fought them alone."
Silence settled over the chamber.
"I was there," she continued. "So was my brother. We lost a lot that day. My brother among them. And Rifi… he survived. But only just. Back then, I was angry. I blamed him before I understood what had really happened."
Brann's grin faded. "Kaelin was part of that squad, wasn't he?"
Mira's eyes hardened. "Yeah. At the time, we trusted him. Thought he showed up late because of the fighting. But now… I think he arrived late on purpose. I think he knew exactly what he was doing."
Alin shifted slightly. "Is it true, then? That Kaelin was his friend? I've heard things… Do we know for sure that Commander Rifi's loyalty isn't compromised?"
Velen nodded. "The City Lord has no doubts about Commander Rifi's loyalty. The injury was confirmed—through the heart, dealt by Kaelin himself. And personally, I trust the City Lord's judgment."
A heavy silence followed, settling like dust in the still air.
Brann crossed his arms, the last traces of humor fading from his face.
"If even half of that's true… then we're not following a man."
He let the silence stretch before finishing, voice low:
"We're following a revenant. Thing dies, comes back tougher every time—like it's angry death didn't stick."
Kiva shifted her weight slightly, her voice softer but steady.
"There's a story going around the refugee camps. A week ago, he led a group of survivors through enemy lines. The Esquiliana sent a full vanguard after them—tracked him."
Her gaze lowered briefly.
"He didn't run. Didn't call for backup. He stood his ground… and killed every last one of them. When the survivors reached our lines, they said he was soaked in blood. Not a wound on him."
She hesitated, then added, more to herself than the others,
"On top of that I fought him yesterday. Went all in. Tried every trick I had. He didn't flinch—not once. It wasn't just like he was holding back... it felt like he didn't need to try at all."
She met the others' eyes.
"That's what scared me most."
A moment of silence followed. Heavy. Thoughtful.
Then Velen's eyes shifted toward the door as a new set of footsteps approached.
"Whatever he is now," he murmured, "we'll see it soon enough."
The talking stopped.
Bootsteps approached from the corridor—steady, unhurried. Then the door opened.
Rifi stepped inside.
He wasn't wearing his gear—no armor, no weapons at his side. Just a dark officer's coat over simple, functional attire: black trousers, a fitted tunic, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Nothing fancy.
He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.
"Good. You're all here."
He walked past them toward the center table, eyes briefly flicking over each face. Kiva nodded first. Mira held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. The others followed, silent, watching as he stepped into position by the map spread across the table.
"I've just come from final briefing with leadership. The operation's greenlit."
No wasted words. He pointed to a marked ridge on the parchment map—steep terrain, a natural bottleneck.
"We move out in two hours. Our objective is here—ridgeline northeast of Gorath's Hollow. The bait is being set as we speak. If Esquiliana takes it—in a day or two, or even sooner—it opens the backline. That's when we strike."
He turned slightly, meeting each of their gazes in turn.
"Seven of us. That's all. No support lines. No fallback units. This is a precision strike. We punch through their rear and eliminate the high-core mages. After, we collapse into their fforces that entered Gorath's Hollow. No exposed backs. No half-measures."
A pause—measured, deliberate.
"If any of you have questions, now's the time."
Silence.
"Good." Rifi nodded once. "You've got two hours. Get your gear. Prep your stones. Whatever rituals or habits keep you alive—do them. Meet at the main gate before sundown. Fully armed. Fully ready."
He stepped back from the table, then paused.
"And one more thing," he said, voice lowering but not losing an ounce of weight. "Once we leave this stronghold—titles, rank, background? Doesn't matter. Out there, we're all just legionaries."
His gaze swept the room. Not angry. Not cold. Just firm.
"If someone falls behind, you drag them forward. If someone stumbles, you don't leave them. No one gets left behind. No one dies alone."
He let the silence settle.
"If that's too much to ask, walk away now. But if you stay—understand this: if any of you dies, I'll make sure your afterlife is a living hell."
The air thickened, no one daring to smile or speak.
"So stay sharp. Watch each other's backs. Keep each other breathing."
Another beat.
"Two hours. Main gate. Don't be late."
The door closed behind him with a muted thud.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Brann let out a low whistle. "Well. That was… something."
Mira gave him a side glance. "You expected less?"
"I expected someone cold. All lightning, no soul." He scratched the back of his neck. "Didn't think I'd get hit with the full 'don't you dare die on me' speech."
Kiva's arms were still crossed, but her posture had shifted—more thoughtful than tense. "He means it, though. Every word."
Dereth exhaled softly. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone threaten to haunt the dead before."
Alin glanced toward the door. "Well… after hearing all your stories, I actually believe he could haunt us in death."
Velen gave a quiet snort. "Wouldn't surprise me."
Brann shrugged, mostly to himself. "Revenant, then. Like we said. Came back from the grave—with orders."
No one laughed. But no one disagreed either.
"Two hours," Mira said, standing straighter. "Best not keep him waiting."
One by one, they turned and headed out—some silent, some thoughtful, all moving with a little more weight in their steps.