The early morning mist lingered like breath over the forest floor. Above, the trees stood like silent watchmen—broad, ancient things with gnarled limbs and bark thicker than city walls. The light of dawn filtered in through breaks in the canopy, painting the hidden clearing in dull gold and shadow. Insects murmured from the underbrush. Distant birds screamed like broken flutes.
Fornos Dag stood shirtless in the stillness, his coat folded neatly over a moss-covered stump. The chill of the air kissed his skin, but he didn't flinch. The cold was a tool—like pain, like pressure. Useful. Sharpening.
Before him, the Kindling worked tirelessly. The golem moved with purpose and machine-like precision, carrying entire trunks of stripped lumber—pillars the width of wagons—and stacking them one atop another. Each beam it lifted with ease, its creaking limbs groaning slightly with every shift but never faltering.
"Konos wasn't lying when he said this thing can lift," Fornos muttered to himself, watching the construct balance a full support beam across a half-built wall frame.
The structure was primitive but strong: wooden posts reinforced with iron brackets and angled stone supports. Nothing flashy. It wasn't meant to impress—it was meant to function. The beginnings of a forward base: a planning ground, a holding cell, and eventually, a spawning point for future units. Soldiers would be born here, tested here, and sent from here to die elsewhere.
Kindling carefully set another massive log down and moved to the next. Fornos turned away, satisfied.
He washed his face in a cold stream nearby, then dressed again—dark, simple travelwear reinforced at the joints. His black mask slipped over the lower half of his face. He strapped a short codex knife to his hip and palmed a compass stone etched with faint glyphs.
Today wasn't for building. Today was for observing.
The warzone was three valleys to the east.
The Fifth Continent was a patchwork of half-dead fiefdoms and starving militias. This particular conflict involved two factions too stubborn to retreat, too proud to negotiate. Neither side had air support. Most of their golems were secondhand wreckage patched together with rope and prayer.
Perfect conditions for analysis.
Fornos arrived just before midday. He lay flat on a rocky hilltop, overlooking a shattered grove that once might've been farmland. Now it was nothing but churned soil and splintered bone. Below, two armies clashed with the energy of desperation.
One side—bearing yellow capes—used melee-dominant golems with bulky torsos and oversized arms. Their formations were loose, relying on intimidation and size. The other side—red markings painted across rusted armor—fielded smaller, faster units. These used primitive ranged weapons and relied heavily on terrain.
Fornos narrowed his eyes behind a pair of tinted lenses, a makeshift lorgnette built for long-distance analysis. He marked the failures immediately.
Yellow Side:
Poor synchronization between handlers and golems.
No rear relay or codex boost towers.
Wasting energy on unnecessary blows.
Golems moving too close to each other—collision risks.
Red Side:
Better spacing, more efficient ammo use.
Cover tactics effective, but codex reloads were too slow.
One handler was exposed on a ridge—no protection.
He watched for an hour.
Fornos wasn't here for the outcome. He didn't care who won. He was watching for ideas. For habits. For tactical errors to exploit later. His mind turned over each movement like a puzzle cube—analyzing the cadence of each attack, the time between handler commands, the moment a golem hesitated before receiving new orders.
"Too long," he muttered. "Too much distance between thought and action. That can't happen with mine."
His golems would be leaner. Smarter. He'd already started codex experiments to minimize command lag. What these forces relied on—relay shouting, signal flags, basic enchantment triggers—it was outdated. Inflexible.
He lowered the lorgnette. The field was a mess now. One of the yellow melee units had been overloaded and exploded, taking five of its own soldiers with it. The red side pushed forward, but sluggishly. Their momentum was waning. Even the golems were starting to stumble—probably from overheating or cracked cores.
In the far distance, another unit of fresh reinforcements was arriving—on foot, no armor.
Fornos slipped backward into the underbrush and disappeared.
He returned to his base at dusk. The forest had gone silent again, shadows lengthening as Kindling worked by faint lantern light. The walls were nearly complete—simple wooden barricades reinforced by stone and iron loops, enough to deter scouts or wandering beasts.
The crate had been moved into the shelter, along with several boxes of tools and codex scrap.
Fornos approached the golem and placed a hand on its outer plating.
"You'll be replaced eventually," he said softly. "But until then, you'll help build your successors."
The golem didn't react. It simply stood there, chest humming faintly with low magical current.
Fornos walked to the far side of the camp and sat down at a makeshift workbench—wood planks nailed across two boulders. He unrolled a codex scroll and laid several etched pieces of brass across its surface.
He began crafting the first prototype of the Soldier Frame. Lightweight, uniform, with enough codex intelligence to follow basic squad-based commands.
No facial features. No emblems. No voice.
He'd already decided: every Soldier unit would be indistinguishable from the next.
They wouldn't be Knights. They wouldn't carry names or pride or ceremony.
They would move, fight, and fall. And then the next would take its place.
Fornos dipped his quill in black ink and began writing across the brass in controlled, blocky runes.
A mantra whispered beneath his breath as he worked:
"No loyalty but mine.
No mercy.
No grave."
Tomorrow, he'd begin building the frame. Testing movement systems. Then ranged modules. Then destruction trials.
It was still early. But the plan was no longer theory.
It had begun.