Stars lit the night sky, but even more shimmered above Cane's head—twin lights blooming as he worked.
Activating the red node in each sword was child's play, finished almost as fast as Fergis could hand them over. The real effort came with the uniforms. Interweaving adamantium and embedding mythic Glacial runes took time. One by one, the camp drifted to sleep.
Cane kept going.
It was well past midnight before the last uniform was folded and stacked.
But he didn't mind. They were on the edge of something big.
He slept hard until just before dawn, when the sound of Clara and Dhalia talking outside his tent pulled him awake.
The sergeants woke to Ignatius throwing open their tents, wordless, and dropping bundles of newly forged swords and folded uniforms onto the floor.
Sorting was easy—names had been etched into the fabric, and no one cared which sword they got. They'd all been issued the day before.
Davon tested his blade with a practice swipe. It felt solid—balanced—but there was something odd. Like an aftertaste he couldn't name.
The sergeants gathered in the mess tent, food in hand, quietly curious about the day ahead.
"You should've seen it," Teek said, describing how Fergis blasted a hole the length of her arm straight into solid granite.
Davon raised a brow. "That Ignatius guy is a fire mage too. Same as the ginger."
"Fergis," Teek supplied, smiling. "The other ginger is the chatty one—Clara, wood user. And the pretty one with brown hair is their healer—water-based."
Yavo nudged his brother.
Raymi cleared his throat. "I've been following Cane's career. He doesn't make a lot of noise… but every now and then, the world shifts around him. Quiet genius. Deeper than most guess."
Davon grunted. "Like Cane's Folly. That arrow shattered a battalion. These uniforms? Yesterday they were standard-issue. Now I'd wager they're tougher than scale. I'm selling my old armor."
They walked out together just in time to see four figures jogging along the perimeter.
Clara. Dhalia. Fergis.
And Cane.
Their black gear gleamed in the morning light. Sweat ran down their brows. They'd been at it for a while.
The four stopped near the mess tent and dropped their packs. Davon picked one up, raised a brow.
"Rocks."
"They're putting in the work," Teek said with approval.
By 0600, the company was formed—four neat platoons, each with their sergeant standing two meters out front.
Cane stood before them, the morning air crisp.
Behind him, twenty targeting dummies waited in a straight line.
"Sergeants, form single-file lines behind each target. Ten meters back."
The field shifted fast. Soldiers jogged to position, lines snapped into place, and within a minute, the field was ordered.
Cane stood between the troops and the dummies. Ignatius beside him.
"Welcome to day one," Cane said, voice carrying clear across the valley. "Hold out your left hand, palm up. You're about to receive a ring. Do not put it on."
Dhalia, Clara, and Fergis moved through the ranks, placing attuned fire rings into every open hand.
Cane turned to the front.
"Platoon sergeants, step forward."
Davon, Raymi, Yavo, and Teek obeyed, rings clutched loosely.
"Davon—put yours on. Then listen to Instructor Ignatius."
Cane stepped aside.
Ignatius—black hair, tailored red coat, a goatee as precise as a blade—looked every bit the noble, but there was fire behind his eyes. Real fire.
He studied Davon closely.
"Feel that?" he asked. "Something bubbling up inside?"
Davon frowned. "I… yes. In my gut, sort of."
Ignatius chuckled. "Well, that would be bad. But close. That's fire mana. Feel it—like unformed clay. I want you to shape it. A sword. Anything simple."
Davon nodded.
Flames burst from his hands.
He didn't panic.
He stared—eyes wide, hands alive with heat that didn't burn.
"I'm not a mage. I've never had a speck of magical talent."
"Now you do," Ignatius replied. "And you're part of the flame that'll sweep the Western Front."
A buzz rippled through the ranks.
Excited whispers. Unbelieving murmurs.
Ignatius raised a hand—silence returned.
"Ever held a snowball?"
"Course."
"Same concept. Shape the flame. Press it inward. Then…"
He gestured at a dummy.
"Throw."
Davon obeyed.
The fireball flared—arced—landed five meters short and sputtered harmlessly in the grass.
Laughter erupted.
The good kind. Soldiers chuckling, teasing. Even Davon cracked a smile.
"You might think that was failure," Ignatius said, voice cutting through the mirth. "But it wasn't. In fact—"
He glanced around, letting the moment breathe.
"It was spectacular success."
By midday, the ground in front of the dummies was scorched black.
None had been hit—yet.
All twenty lines moved fast and steady. Each soldier wore their fire-attuned ring, building flames in their palms as they stepped forward to cast. Fireballs bloomed and flew—but always landed short or wide.
Until—
Teek.
Her fireball struck a dummy low on the leg. Weak, but clean.
"YES!" she shouted, fist raised.
A cheer rolled through the valley like thunder.
Minutes later, Davon stepped up and landed his shot center-mass.
A perfect strike.
Ignatius smiled. "Nice job."
From there, morale soared.
Hits remained rare, but now they believed. They could feel it. Like flint striking steel.
By late afternoon, Ignatius raised a hand and called the halt. Disappointment rippled through the lines—groans, mutters.
Cane stepped forward.
"What you learned today is beginner stuff. Like the wooden practice swords you started with as kids."
The fire rings were collected, sparking a chorus of sighs and pouting faces. Especially from the sergeants.
"It's for your own good," Cane said, smirking. "You know half these tents would be ash by morning."
Teek crossed her arms. "Will we get another chance tomorrow?"
"Every day," Cane nodded. "That's why we're here. For now—put them through an hour of light drills and an hour of sword work. Let them rest. Dhalia's on standby in case anyone burns their eyebrows off."
Dhalia gave a cheerful wave.
That evening, Cane worked at his bench again.
Forging more fire rings. Reviewing process. Testing durability. The two-week training cycle was still experimental—but if it succeeded, the entire Legion on the Western Front would follow.
He pulled out his Salt armor and examined it—flawless. Its layers pulsed softly with elemental balance.
"Unless I incite a debond using Shatter, Magneto, and Heavy," he muttered, "there's nothing left to improve."
He set it aside and worked until dusk.
When the camp finally quieted, he stepped into Ignatius's tent.
The fire mage sat surrounded by scrolls and notes, eyes bright.
"You've done something different," Ignatius said without looking up. "When heroes get stronger, people cheer. But this? This is for the heartblood of the war. The common soldier. And when the front opens—this wave will burn across the Zuni lines."
Three Days Later
Time blurred.
Cane and his team rose early, training before sunrise, then assisted Fury Company. The dummies were now streaked with soot, blackened cloth, and the occasional scorched limb.
By the fourth day, misses had become the exception.
The fire was growing. Not just the element—but the soldiers' belief in themselves.
That morning, at 0600 sharp, Cane stood before his company while Ignatius and the others moved the dummies back—thirty meters now.
"Break into ten lines. One per target."
The soldiers moved with practiced ease. Formation snapped into place.
"Fergis," Cane called. "Demonstration, please."
Fergis faced the lines, his voice calm.
"You've practiced cycling fire mana through your hands. That was only the beginning. Today—we evolve."
The fire rings had already been distributed.
Soldiers expected more target drills.
Instead, Fergis stood still, drawing Azar.
"Platoon sergeants—step forward. Draw your swords."
The rasp of steel filled the air.
Fergis raised his blade.
"Remember how it felt—gathering fire in your hands. This time, focus on the hand holding your sword."
Azar burst into flame.
Raymi's hands glowed—fire sliding down to the hilt, then crawling up the blade. The others followed, energy crackling to life.
Fergis swept his sword in a lazy arc.
"Your blades aren't just blades anymore. They were modified when you arrived. Each one is now a fire focal."
He turned, pointing toward the granite wall of the canyon.
WHOOSH.
A thin jet of fire burst from Azar's tip, slicing across the air and slamming into stone.
The flames danced across the cliff face. Gasps filled the silence.
And behind Cane, three hundred soldiers stood completely still—on the brink of a revelation.