“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” Rathos roars, sound and aura overlapping.

Instantly, everybody freezes. The centaurs stop whipping, the [Soldiers] stop sparring, and the gejan cease smiling.

The entire training field is silent except for the passing of wind and the groans of the injured [Soldier].

The [General] keeps staring, his aura churns as he glowers at everyone until he stops on Darrow.

“Darrow!” Rathos points in front of himself. “Over here, NOW!”

The gejan swallows his spit and quickly rushes to the [General]. He stands in front of Rathos with a poorly executed salute, unsure why his superior is angry. He glances at Abdel’s nervous expression and realizes that maybe it was not the best idea to put the human in charge.

“Rathos, um, sir, I know it seems bad, but Abdel is doi-”

Darrow cuts off as Rathos points towards the injured [Soldier] and the centaurs milling around him with whips raised.

“Why are you whipping an injured [Soldier]!?”

Rathos's aura enhanced voice drives Darrow back a step. Darrow's poorly controlled aura shreds before the more experienced warrior.

The [Bulwark Heavy Defender] is scared and very confused.

“They’re healing him?”

Rathos’s eyebrows furrow deeper. His stern and grave demeanor mellows with curiosity as he observes the [Soldier] moving his injured arm.

Rathos folds his arms, his countenance neutral.

“Explain,” he orders.

“Err, well, it's about a skill,” Darrow begins and Rathos shakes his head. He looks to Abdel, who straightens up under the stern gaze.

“Abdel, explain.”

Abdel sticks his feet together and salutes. “Sir, the [Priests] and [Priestesses] of the red cross have been getting a skill called [Restorative Agony], sir! It allows them to strengthen their curative spells, like [Heal], so long as they inflict pain as they cast.”

Rathos stays silent, his mind attempting to wrap around the situation.

“So they are using whips?” he asks and Abdel nods.

“Yes, the whips allow them to cast [Heal] from a distance without a risk of accidentally killing the [Soldier].”

“And the gejan, why are they here?”

Abdel takes a breath as he seems to relax just a bit. “Sir, some of the [Soldiers] don’t spar seriously to avoid getting injured. We pit those [Soldiers] against the gejan elites.”

Rathos nods slightly as he digests the information.

Impressive. They’ve developed a training regime that forces [Soldiers] to improve or risk being punished by healing. It is even helping the red cross level its members every time the [Soldiers] fail to stop an injury.

“How much have the [Solders] leveled? What skills have they gained?”

“The average level increase has been five; a few have gained more than ten. Most of the skills learned are defensive, and most [Soldiers] have obtained [Minor Pain Resistance].” Abdel explains succinctly.

“How long have they been since training?” Rathos asks.

“About three days.”

Rathos raises his hand to his chin as he begins to silently think.

Five levels in only three days. That is an unheard of rate of advancement from merely training. Even the eastern [Slave-lords] can’t level their [Slave-Soldiers] in so little time.

“What's the average level of the [Soldiers] at this camp?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Rathos scratches his chin.

Very low for a competent army, but if the training continues, they could hit the mid forties by the time he needs to ride out. If that happens, then he will have a competent army, especially if he can get some of the higher levels to class change into [Captains]. The only problem is that the majority of the infantry will be defensive in nature, so he will need to avoid using them aggressively.

“Good,” he states and returns his gaze towards Darrow. The gejan looks at him, still somewhat confused. But now, Rathos can see through the facade; Darrow is not nearly as stupid as he pretends. Rathos has fought [Generals] who do the same, making what felt like mistakes to lead him into a trap. Granted, why Darrow does this is not transparent, but so long as the gejan’s methods work to strengthen his army, he will not interfere with how the man runs the camp.

“You may continue your training,” Rathos says, face now a mask. He turns around and starts walking away, Abdel following right on his heels.

After a moment, he hears the slapping of flesh and the clinking of wooden weapons.

_________________________________________________________

With the sun still high in the sky, Rathos decides he has time to visit someone whom he has been avoiding for a while.

Mounting the chariot, he gives a destination and the two centaurs canter out of the camp and past the wall. They run south, travelling a good hour to reach a bothersome destination.

He traverses a hill to arrive at the largest wyvern nest he has ever seen. Thousands of the monsters congregate around a terraformed stone mountain, flying in and out of perfectly circular holes. He stops to watch the various colored wyverns shimmering in the sunlight, creating a dancing aurora in the sky.

The beasts have already noticed him. They watch him pass by, until he arrives at the largest hole in the mountain. He senses something powerful within, strong enough to break him like a twig. Rathos suppresses the fear trying to wriggle its way to his heart. He commands the centaurs to stop. The centaurs are on edge, almost skittish, and they halt so abruptly that would have thrown Rathos off if he had not braced in time.

When Rathos lectured Doreson about the foibles of air support, he was not completely truthful. It is true that close air support can be countered with long range missile or magical fire, and that they are generally costly to maintain and produce, but there are two sides to every coin. Aerial units are great scouts and even greater [Scout] killers. Denying an enemy information is one of the best ways to secure an advantage.

Leaving the chariot behind, Rathos walks into the den, towards the danger that he senses deep inside.

____________________________________________________________

Alba perks up, her eyes opening as she senses someone entering the nest. Yawning, she pushes the swarm of baby wyverns away from her. They mew in annoyance at her sudden movement, but she ignores them. She wipes her eyes as she gets out of the swarm. With another yawn, she walks outside of the room, quickly arriving towards the center of the nest where Zenmya is sleeping soundly. In front of the wyvern stands a shell-shocked human, his mouth agape at her massive form.

“You’re that [General] guy, right?” Alba asks, ruining the man's stumped expression as he quickly looks over at the centauress. Abla leans on the railing, staring lazily at the man.

“You must be Alba,” he says and she nods. Her ears flicker at the well controlled panic in his voice. She understands. Few can be in Zenmyna’s presence and keep a cool head.

“I am. Have you come for an army?” she asks eagerly, but pouts as the man shakes his head.

“No. I need approximately a hundred wyverns for training [Wyvern Scouts] and [Wyvern Riders],” he explains, eyeing the increasing number of wyverns emerging to the center of the chamber to see what is happening.

“Are you sure? We have a lot of wyverns at various levels. How about I send you a couple thousand?”

“No, I only need a hundred.”

“But a hundred is so few,” she whines. ”I think a couple thousand would be far better. You can't have enough [Wyvern Riders], right?”

“No, I don-”

Alba pounds the stone rail, the stone cracking slightly from her [Wyvern Strength].

“Look, we have too many fucking wyverns! They breed like crazy! Either you take five thousand or I’m sending ten thousand to your stupid city!”

Rathos steps back as all the wyverns perk up. They stare at the [General] expectantly, longingly even.

They’ve been very, very bored.

______________________________________________________________

In the sky, a blue Wyvern cavorts with two giggling girls on its back. Frosty does a backflip, easily twisting through the air. He lets himself stall and fall free, wings tucked back. Izabelle and Aisha hold on to the wyvern and shriek with excitement. The wyvern inverts, the human and gejan clinging to his back, and powers into the dive. A scant five hundred meters from the ground, Frosty pulls out of the dive and cruises along the undulating terrain as he flies off the edge of an escarpment and soars up again on an updraft.

The two girls have been traversing the land, looking for interesting landmarks and locations. They visited nearby villages, sprawling forests, clear rivers, and even passed over a distant kingdom.

Now, the two girls are returning home, but as they near Sanavil, they spot a swirling lounge of wyverns traveling towards the city following a comparatively tiny chariot.

_______________________________________________________________

Franky slides his leg back, points forward his shining sword, and raises his free hand. “[Lightform: Sword], [Lux Manifold], [Construct Onslaught].”

From above and around, glowing swords of light materialize in the air before raining down on his target.

The [Warfare General] rushes into the attack. With swift and precise movements, he leaps forward, steps on one of the fast-moving blades, and propels himself towards the [Hero]. Weaving through the swords, he raises his sword up as he flies towards Franky.

“[Lightform: Tower Shield].”

Franky’s sword morphs into a shield covering his entire profile, perfectly placed to intercept the incoming strike from the greatsword. However, Donovan swings his sword early, spins forward, and plants his feet on the shield.

“[Vaulting Leap],” he says cheerfully.

In one moment, the two are hovering in the air; the next, Franky crashes to the ground and Donovan flies even higher. The wards of the training arena break under the impact. Franky picks himself out of a shallow crater which, even now, begins to mend itself.

“I told you, kid! Levels alone aren't enough to win a fight, especially not against another person! We’re tricky like that.” Donovan calls as he lands. He takes a moment to crack his neck left and then right. “In a fight, you have to think ahead. Reacting to a threat is good, but you’ve gotta think how I’ll react to that. You need to think a few more moves ahead throughout the engagement. If things don’t go according to plan, improvise.” he twirls his greatsword in his hand before taking a stance, “Now get up. It's time for round seven.”

Franky groans. His body hurts all over. He was not expecting to be trounced so easily by the guild leader. He has more total levels, even more physical stats than the man, but so far he has lost every engagement. The only close one was the first, which he now believes to be a testing of the waters, so to speak.

Stretching quickly, he raises his hands, “[Lightform: Greatsword]”

A zweihander matching Donovan’s materializes. The [Warfare General] smiles, knowing full well that Franky has little experience with greatswords.

But this time, Franky has a different plan.

“[Flash Step].”

His body disappears and reappears behind Donovan. The [Warfare General] is already swinging to intercept the blade. The moment before their swords touch, “[Mirage Double],” Franky announces.

Donovan's sword cuts through the illusion. Franky reappears behind Donovan, still mid-swing.

Franky’s attack never lands. Donovan’s foot slams directly into his gut, sending the [Hero] reeling back, coughing.

“Better,” he hears Donovan's voice, “but still predictable. You should avoid using blind spots against experienced opponents. More often than not, they will expect an attack from them.”

Franky groans. Of all the teachers, why does it have to be the damn guildmaster?

Though irritated and in pain, he forces himself to stand. Fighting monsters and fighting humans are two very different things. He knew that before when he sparred with Hawk, but it seems like the elf was going easy on him.

Donovan takes a stance, smiling. “Round eight!” he exclaims, keeping track of Franky’s failures.

Thankfully, his eventual defeat is postponed when an Australian barges into the room.

“Franky!” Aodean calls out, his expression somewhat rueful.

Donovan tisks in annoyance and straightens himself. “Ten minutes, then back to training.”

Sighing in relief, Franky rushes across the vast expanse to Aodean.

“What’s up?”

Aodean opens up his larger binder and pulls out a paper next to a wine bottle.

“So, remember that guy that gave you that bag of crystals to start up the guild?”

Frank nods. “Yeah, his name was Bone.”

“Well, I did some snooping and found out that the Bone guy is a new admission to the mercenary guild. He also has only one completed mission to his name.”

“Ok…”

Aodean shakes the paper in his hand. “I sent someone to look into the mission, to see if they can find something interesting about the guy. Well, they did.” he hands the paper to Franky.

“Now, is your friend someone that would do something like this?”

Franky blinks. He looks at the sketch of a giant undead… dabbing.

Franky sighs.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”