Chapter 398: The Makings Of A Formidable Army
For next few days, from the first pale light of dawn until the sky turned dark with stars, General Joash Marcus, his son, and their men trained with relentless resolve. The fields outside the camp rang with the clash of steel, the sharp cries of instruction, and the steady thud of boots against hardened earth. They trained with men from the borderlands of Zura, Westalis and Estalis, each burdened by unjust verdicts and shattered reputations—wrongfully accused and banished. Now, with bloodied hands and unyielding hearts, they trained not only to fight but to reclaim their honor — to prove their innocence.
The thirty convicts who were banished with General Odin and subsequently rescued were also training hard. They were condemned, discarded, and almost forgotten—until fate intervened. Rescued from the brink of ruin, they now fought to forge new purpose in Odin’s ranks.
Nicolas stood out.
A quiet fury burned behind his eyes. Once a farmer from the village of Savadra, his world had ended the day the baron assaulted his wife. The vengeance he took was swift and brutal—he left the baron broken and incapable of harming another woman. For that, Nicolas had been branded a criminal.
I heard your story. You have to survive for your wife. For your children.
Lara’s voice echoed in his memory like a ghost’s whisper, as he wielded the sword under Commander Cobar’s instructions. His muscles ached, his palms blistered, but he pressed on. He had no lands, no allies, and no future—only this chance. If he could become a soldier, a true warrior, then perhaps he could go back. Not just to survive—but to protect his family, to take them out of that hellish place. But first, he needed to build his strength and then his ability.
Cut. Turn. Parry. Strike. Thrust.
The drills were endless. They trained with swords, then spears, then bows and arrows. Nicolas soon discovered his eye for distance, his stillness under pressure. He had the makings of an archer. From that day on, the bow and arrows became his weapon—and his lifeline.
During brief respites, the men gathered by fires or under the shade of oaks, sharing bread and bitter tales. One man’s story could chill the spine more than the last.
Netser Rimim, a young merchant from Westalis, spoke little—but when he did, his words cut deep. His entire family had been slaughtered on royal orders. The Prime Minister, driven by envy of the Rimim family’s wealth, whispered treasonous lies into the king’s ear: that they were hiding a gold mine from the monarchy. The king, hungry for power, believed him.
Netser had barely escaped, shielded by a dozen of his father’s guards. Half died buying him those precious moments. The rest now stood beside him in Odin’s camp, blades sharpened by grief and training hard as soldiers of Calma.
There were countless others. Each story was different. Each soaked in pain. But two things bound them all together: they were victims of injustice—and they wanted retribution.
Odin’s commanders and Prince Alaric’s elite guards oversaw their training with ruthless discipline. The days were long, the drills punishing, but the men began to change. Skills emerged. Bonds formed. Fear became focus.
Then, Kane Mendel made his appearance.
He arrived without fanfare, just before dawn one morning, his silhouette tall and silent against the misty horizon. A topknot crowned his head, fatigues clinging to a wiry frame that moved like a whip. At his sides trotted two wolves—one with fur the color of ash, the other as white as snowfall.
Speed was his domain. And he demanded it.
Every morning, before the first rays of the sun kissed the dew-drenched training fields, Kane and Prince Alaric led the recruits through brutal runs, circling the camp’s perimeter. Growling wolves herded those who lagged behind. Gray and Snow, their bared teeth flashing like ivory scythes, tongues lolling, jaws dripping with froth. Fear, it turned out, was a potent motivator.
The wolves’ fierce eyes seemed to mock the trainees.
And soon they understood. Fear turned to shame.
When word spread that Kane Mendel was, in fact, Lara Norse in disguise, the men—hardened fighters all—grew red-faced with embarrassment. Beaten by a woman? They trained harder, not to prove her wrong, but to prove themselves worthy.
Lara’s brothers, taught by her in secret, introduced exercises from her world—strange, modern drills that burned the core and sculpted balance and strength. It was unlike anything they’d known, but the results were undeniable.
And even General Odin stepped into the training, focusing on the defectors because they once fought against each other on the battlefield. True to his reputation, he spared no leniency. He drilled them with brutal efficiency: sword work, formation tactics, river maneuvers, mountain scouting, siege defense, city attacks. They were pushed to their limits and beyond.
"You want to fight for Calma?" Odin thundered one morning, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. Sweat poured from his brow, his sword gleaming beneath the sun. "Then earn it. Your name buys you nothing here."
"I’m not here because of my name," growled Joshua, a young lieutenant, eyes fierce as he parried a strike. "I’m here to fight."
The days bled into weeks. Slowly, something shifted.
Northem veterans, once cold and suspicious, began to watch the defectors with grudging respect. Joash’s youngest son—only nineteen—scaled walls with the agility of a seasoned scout. A boy who had once brooded in shadows now bested a veteran in a sparring match. An old general, white-bearded but unyielding, rallied two scattered units during a simulated retreat, his commands sharp and sure.
And every night, as they sat beside cooking fires in the barracks, Northem soldiers began to ask them questions—not accusations, but stories.
"What was it like when Zura came?"
"Did you really see the Crown Prince kneel before Turik and the Princess of Zura?"
"Is it true the former Estalis King died because he was poisoned?"
And so, distrust gave way to questions. Questions led to stories. Stories birthed understanding. And in time, understanding grew into something stronger.
Respect and trust.
And from respect and trust—at last—unity and brotherhood!
And thus, the birth of Alaric’s and Lara’s most formidable imperial army—The Phoenix Legion, —five thousand strong soldiers, once broken, once discarded, but have found hope and a strong resolve to rise above their adversaries.