The war with the Upper Green Forest came with startling suddenness. In the month when the green banyan put forth new growth, Javon was drilling his band of men when one of his father’s knights—Turner Shorien—rode up on a warhorse and shouted, “The Davis family has launched their attack! The lord commands you to proceed to the Nightwolf Wasteland at once!”

  “By your order!” Javon thumped his fist against his chest, then turned to his still-bewildered men and barked, “What are you standing around for? Gear yourselves up immediately—we’re going to war!”

  The moment those words left his mouth, every man’s expression soured. Yet the training of recent days took effect: they assembled quickly.

  “My lord!” Eight Fingers came to Javon’s side. He wore a battered iron helmet he had no idea where he’d scavenged; beyond that, he had no protection at all. Beneath the tangle of beard, his face carried a hint of bitterness. “We... can we win?”

  “We must win. Victory will belong to us alone,” Javon answered in a low voice.

  As a legitimate branch of House Sothos, Javon understood: if they lost, his only end would be death.

  These past days, Javon had poured all the dream’s power into strengthening himself. In the dream, he could move faster now, sense farther. Yet his self in the waking world had not changed in the slightest. With the battlefield looming and slaughter unavoidable, the sharp unease in him hardened into doubt—had he chosen the wrong path?

  Nightwolf Wasteland.

  The wasteland lay at the border between the Upper Green Forest and the Lower Green Forest. All around was land with no value whatsoever; precisely for that reason, it served as the main battlefield of this war.

  Still, the timing is strange. Walking toward the front, Javon watched the fields on either side of the road. A few peasants remained behind to tend the farms.

  Surely the Davis family isn’t foolish enough to start a war now? It gravely disrupts the farming season. Unless... they’ve stockpiled a great deal of grain, and they want to provoke House Sothos into war and sabotage sowing. If they can drag this out until next year, House Sothos will inevitably fall into famine and internal chaos?

  By now, Nightwolf Wasteland had been divided into two broad halves—north and south—where encampments had been raised. By Javon’s estimate, House Sothos had fielded around eighteen hundred men, while the Davis family was close to two thousand!

  Wearing finely made leather armor, Javon passed through layer upon layer of camps and entered the main tent. Theodore and Colin were both clad in excellent armor, several knights standing behind them. Seeing Javon enter, they each showed the faintest smile.

  “Father.” Javon stood perfectly straight, his face set with resolve, and struck his fist to his chest.

  “This is your first war. Stay with Knight Alfred—he will teach you well.” Theodore had not wholly abandoned his second son after all. He pointed to an older knight with slightly graying hair, holding an enormous flail-like meteor hammer.

  “As you command.” Javon knew the old knight was seasoned through countless battles. Though this was not as privileged as standing at Theodore’s side like Colin, it was still comparatively safe.

  Woooo—woooo—woooo! A desolate horn sounded as Javon followed Knight Alfred to a slightly higher rise of the wasteland.

  Nearly four thousand men formed two distinct battle lines, shaping the wasteland into a vast killing ground. Dark green and blue banners seemed to cleave the earth into two camps. House Sothos’s banner was dark green, marked with a forked banyan tree. As for the Davis family, their crest was a single vertical eye.

  “Remember,” Alfred said, glancing at Javon as he instructed him. “Your first time on the battlefield—do not panic. Hold fast to your house motto.”

  “Unwavering,” Javon said, voicing the family motto.

  “Good. It begins.” Alfred spoke with cool simplicity.

  From their rear position, Javon saw the enemy formation begin to move forward. At the very front were the same ragged, poorly armed militiamen—faces drawn with fear—driven onward by regular soldiers and knights behind them as they advanced on House Sothos.

  At first there was only the even rhythm of marching feet. Then it grew chaotic—armor clattering, weapons swaying. The movement of several thousand men made the earth tremble faintly. The archers halted first. A commander raised his arm high—then chopped it down.

  “On my command—archers, loose!” In the middle ranks, Mark, in charge of the bowmen, roared and swept one arm forward.

  Black arrows traced brief arcs through the air, then fell into the enemy ranks like a storm. Some men were struck in the shoulder or thigh and went down screaming; some were pierced clean through the faceplate and died on the spot. The wounded lay on the ground wailing, but the sounds of slaughter and the blare of horns swallowed their cries. And the comrades behind them did not slow—long strides trampled over bodies, and soon there was no sound at all.

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  Then came the charge of the regular troops!

  Spearmen quickened to a run, their shouts rising in waves. The two armies slammed together. Spearpoints bit into flesh; shields crashed in heavy impacts. The first rank fell almost instantly, trodden and shoved by those behind. Swords and axes came free. Chops, the crack of breaking bone, screams—everything became one.

  The battle no longer had clean lines, only a rolling mass of killing. Some were knocked into the mud and, before they could rise, were hacked to death under a rain of blades. Some, after losing their weapons, tore with fists and teeth. Blood soaked the ground, turning what had been firm earth slick and treacherous. A horse’s corpse lay sprawled to one side, its eyes still open, cloudy and dull.

  “It’s time!” Alfred bellowed, mounting his warhorse. In armor, he was like a moving metal fortress. Javon’s position was on House Sothos’s right rear wing. Alfred gave the order: “Keep the charge formation—forward! Forward!”

  Eight Fingers and the other squad leaders, fear in their eyes, still carried out the command well. The newly assembled band—dozens of men—drove into the chaos like the tip of a dagger.

  Shouts, wails, horns—everything was confusion. Javon pushed through a stretch of ground, and his vision suddenly darkened as a smear of blue rose ahead.

  The enemy!

  “Kill!” He swung his cruciform sword without hesitation and hacked down. The opposing soldier had already been wounded in the melee, and his gear was broken. Javon lunged forward; the cruciform sword fell in a heavy arc. The enemy’s head was cut off at a slant, and the body toppled slowly to the ground.

  Javon drew the blade back and took a defensive stance, alert to enemies on all sides, his brow tightening slightly. I must conserve stamina, so I can retreat or pursue at any moment!

  The sunset was blood-red.

  The day’s fighting ended quickly. The dead were not many. To Javon, it felt more like a first probe from both sides. That only strengthened his suspicion: the Davis family was not planning to crush House Sothos in a single decisive battle—because the cost would be too high. What they wanted, perhaps, was only to pin House Sothos’s main force here.

  Tents were scattered in messy clusters; open campfires burned everywhere. Many militiamen roasted food, boasting and chatting. There was even drinking—and the summoning of whores. The discipline was so lax it made Javon shake his head. He understood that certain merchants and prostitutes following an army was a wartime norm, but this degree still left him deeply dissatisfied.

  He returned to his squad’s camp, summoned Eight Fingers and the others, and ordered, “I don’t care what the others do, but my unit—no drinking, no women. In exchange, meat and bread will be plentiful. Do you understand?!”

  “Understood!” Eight Fingers answered loudly.

  “The casualty report is out?” Javon asked at once.

  “Yes. Adam is dead—unlucky bastard, a flying stone cracked his skull. A few other unlucky fools fell on the battlefield and were trampled to death by our own... Other than that, Sanchez and Baker have minor wounds.” Eight Fingers replied in a low voice.

  “This is war.” Javon drew a deep breath. “Tonight we take turns on watch!”

  He returned to his tent and took off his leather armor. Only then did he feel the ache in his muscles—perhaps abrasions and bruising as well. The battle had not lasted long, but swinging such a heavy blade still placed a harsh burden on him. Beyond that was a mental exhaustion, a sickened revulsion. He forced himself to endure, made himself eat a little bread and drink some water, and then fell into sleep.

  The dream world.

  Javon had completely given up on moving. Now, he spent the single daily unit of mysterious energy entirely on strengthening himself. Though this strengthening did not carry over into that other world, he believed it might be the same as before—something that required accumulation until a threshold was reached. The dangers of the waking world drove him to seize every possible chance to grow stronger!

  In the boundless Red Sea, most fish had mutated into species Javon could no longer recognize at all. Now and then, enormous shadows swept beneath the surface, exuding an aura that was terrifying and powerful.

  Today, as usual, he used the mysterious unit to strengthen himself—still with no change. Thinking of the war in the waking world, Javon could not stop a rising anxiety. Especially today: on the battlefield, the Davis family’s performance had clearly been a stalemate—perhaps even a slight advantage—yet they had announced a retreat first, adopting an entirely defensive posture. What should have been a straightforward danger now gained another layer of uncertainty. The Davis family was certainly planning something!

  The waking world.

  Over the next few days, the war unfolded exactly as Javon had expected. The Davis family’s intensity in battle clearly diminished, yet it gave House Sothos an illusion: push a little harder, and they could crush the enemy completely. The entire Sothos host was dragged into Nightwolf Wasteland.

  Javon felt he had to do something. He drew a deep breath and entered the tent where his father was stationed.

  “Father—today I took three heads again.” The moment he stepped inside, he heard Colin’s proud voice.

  “Well done, my son. It seems the unification of the Green Forest will be achieved in my generation.” Theodore laughed loudly.

  “Father.” Javon stepped forward to salute.

  “My good brother,” Colin said at once, feigning curiosity when he saw Javon. “How much loot have you gained?”

  These days, Javon had been learning tactics and command from Alfred. He had little pursuit of loot or heads. He glanced at Colin, then spoke directly to Theodore. “Father, I believe the Davis family is deliberately showing weakness and preparing to employ a plot. We must raise our vigilance!”

  “Pfft!” Colin laughed, contempt undisguised. “A plot? On the battlefield, there’s only strength and weakness. Plots are tools for cowards!”

  “Colin!” Theodore barked, stopping him, though his expression hardly changed—plainly unconvinced. “Colin is not entirely wrong. War is decided by hard strength. We know the Davis territory’s situation in broad strokes; mobilizing two thousand men is nearly their limit. They do not have the power to attempt some other scheme! And besides—you have no evidence!”

  “What we must do now is press forward in one breath—break them, destroy their main force, and deny them the chance to retreat to their castle and dig in!” Theodore’s face was flushed.

  On the battlefield, House Sothos now held a clear advantage. Theodore would never let go of such a once-in-a-thousand-years opportunity!

  Seeing this, Javon let out a long sigh. As the second son, there was nothing he could do.

  “Then... at least allow me to patrol the surroundings. Perhaps I can find some evidence,” Javon said.

  “Oh?” Colin’s eyes lit up as he immediately mocked him. “My good brother—are you trying to be a deserter?” The knights beside him also cast disdainful looks. Javon did not so much as blink.

  Theodore stared at Javon. He was silent for a long time. At last he spoke: “Get out—take your squad with you!”

  “Thank you!” Javon straightened his back, saluted, and left the tent. Behind him came Colin’s unrestrained laughter.