Fog settled low over the battlefield like the lid of a coffin. Only fifteen Caerenhold soldiers remained—bloodied, breathless—backed by the towering figure of Commander Aerron Vale.
Across from them, shrouded in mist, stood Renard Valtierre—hood off, blood-streaked, coat torn. A simple training blade hung from his belt, but in his hand was a plain dagger, recently handed to him by Elric.
A symbol.
A choice.
Renard looked across the battlefield—Omega and Alpha barely holding. Nearly a third were unconscious or wounded. Of the thirty-seven soldiers that remained after the moles and the retreat, barely fifteen could lift a weapon. He felt a strange kind of pride. They had killed nearly 200 elite Caerenhold troops.
Now it was his turn.
Then to Elric: "Give me a dagger."
Elric's eyes widened. Then slowly, silently, he drew the one he'd kept hidden in his coat—a curved fang blade, balanced for one hand.
Renard took it without ceremony. He slid it into his belt. Then walked forward.
Vale stepped forward slowly. His crimson lamellar armor clinked with precision. He carried no shield—just a long sabre with a curved spine and a blade darkened from long campaigns.
"You've used outlawed combat styles," Vale said evenly. "That's treason… in your kingdom."
Renard didn't flinch. His voice came low and steady, a thread of amusement in the calm. "Where's the proof? I haven't claimed anything. Haven't declared any class. No emblem. No title. Just results. And corpses."
Vale's expression darkened. "Intent defines guilt. What you've done here—no trained swordsman fights like that. It's Assassin Doctrine, buried for a reason."
Renard tilted his head. "You'd have to survive long enough to report it."
A beat.
Then Vale raised his blade and pointed it forward. "You've killed enough of my men to earn the right. Let's end it. One on one."
Behind Renard, Maera stirred. Elric stepped forward.
"Stay back," Renard said without looking. "This one is mine."
He turned to Elric. "Give me the sword."
Elric hesitated. Then handed it over.
Renard accepted it with care. "Stay in my shadows," he whispered to Phantom Squad. "If I fall, finish it. But until then—no one interferes."
He stepped into the mist.
They met in the center—no drawn circle, no judge, just mud and blood underfoot. A battlefield duel. Not to prove honor. But to end command.
Vale struck first—clean, fast, and low. His footwork was perfect, the blade coming in at a vicious angle meant to disarm. Renard barely slipped it. He staggered sideways like he'd lost his footing.
A feint.
Vale adjusted instantly.
The second strike came vertical, with follow-up pressure designed to drive Renard back. Renard didn't block. He twisted—shoulder lowering, footing collapsing, almost falling—then snapped forward with a backhand that would've taken the head off a lesser fighter.
Vale ducked. His blade came across Renard's thigh. Blood sprayed.
Renard hissed but didn't fall.
He rolled back, one knee in the dirt, calculating.
[HUD Active – Tactical Sync: Fog]
[Enemy Status: Fresh, Tactical Specialist, Predictive Pattern Recognition Active]
[Player Buff: +42% Evasion in Partial Mist / +17% Feint Deception Bonus]
[Doctrine Style: Ghost Edge – Phantom Variant]
He blinked the blood away from his eye.
Then he stood.
Commander Vale's Memory – Fifteen Years Ago
The border wars. Night raids in the Blackpine Hills. The kind of warfare that didn't make it into noble records. The kind whispered about in unfinished stories, in the silences between songs.
He remembered the fog.
Not natural. Crafted. Poured like ink across battlefields by illusionists trained in the old schools. Channeled by shadows. Enforced by blades.
But it wasn't the assassins he feared.
It was the men behind them.
Commanders who never stood in the open. Who didn't yell orders—they made them unnecessary. Who turned soldiers into phantoms.
They called it Phantom Doctrine.
He had fought them.
And barely survived.
He remembered the way his company vanished. No sounds. Just gaps in the line. Just cold. Just silence. He'd seen a full regiment collapse like a bad dream.
And after the treaty, the nobles buried it all. Called it dishonor. Too dangerous. Too uncontrollable. No medals. No names.
But Vale never forgot.
Now—on this battlefield—he saw it again. Not in a man.
In a style. In a rhythm. In a commander's stance that shouldn't exist anymore.
The Phantom had returned.
And this time, it wasn't from the archives.
It walked in blood and fog with the face of a forgotten baron's son.
Renard moved differently now. Not like a duelist.
He moved like smoke.
But not silent. His blade scraped mud. His footing seemed wrong. His arms hung loose—too loose—like he'd forgotten how to fight.
He stumbled.
Then struck.
He slashed at odd angles—missing, cutting air—then catching skin. His movements were messy, inefficient. But they baited Vale into rhythm.
And that's when Renard shattered it.
Vale swung hard—expecting a counter—and Renard dropped entirely, kicked up mud, blinded him, and slid beneath the arc to rake the dagger across his knee.
Vale staggered.
Renard surged up and pressed, forcing him to fall back for the first time.
Around them, Phantom Squad watched in silence. Tarn whispered, "He's not fighting to kill."
"He's fighting to lead," Maera said.
Kael's knuckles whitened. "No. He's fighting to survive."
Vale recovered. But his breathing had changed. Renard could hear the shift.
So could his system.
[Fatigue Level: Moderate / Right Shoulder Damage 23% / Balance Penalty Detected]
Renard rotated wide. His steps scattered. Vale tried to correct.
He couldn't.
The next strike landed hard. Renard disarmed him—not by force, but by tempo. He let Vale swing first, then slammed the hilt of the dagger into his gauntlet wrist.
The sabre clattered to the ground.
Renard stopped.
Blood soaked his leg. He was breathing hard now. Not from fatigue. From holding back.
Vale looked at him from his knees.
He hadn't knelt in thirty years. Not to kings. Not to command. But this wasn't submission. It was recognition. The Phantom had returned.
He remembered fog like this once. Years ago. When he watched a camp fall without hearing a sound.
"This is your doctrine," Vale said softly. "You fight like a ghost."
Renard said nothing.
Vale grinned through blood. "But lead like a warlord."
He looked up. "They won't let you live. Not if you keep winning."
Renard turned away.
"Then I'll stop hiding."
Vale dropped to one knee, driving his fist into the mud.
Behind Renard, silence reigned.
Until Phantom Squad stepped forward.
They knelt.
Then Omega.
Then Alpha.
All of them, bruised and bloodied, dropped to one knee.
Kael said nothing.
He just bowed.
And for the first time in the story of Forward Command Ysera…
Renard Valtierre stood not as a mistake.
Not as a fluke.
But as Commander.
Of them all.