The soft rustle of canvas and the dim gold of mid-day sun filtered through the field hospital's tent flaps. The distant murmurs of medics and shuffling boots were background to the slow beat of Koda's pulse in his ears.
He opened his eyes.
The scent of salves and blood filled his nose, the taste of iron still lingering on his tongue. His body ached—deep, bone-heavy aches that no healing magic could quite erase—but he was alive.
Warmth pressed against his leg. A subtle weight setting in.
He tilted his head.
Maia was there, curled in the chair beside his bed, her upper body slumped across his mattress. She'd used his leg as a pillow, her arms wrapped loosely around his knee, as if some part of her feared he might disappear if she let go.
Koda exhaled softly, hand drifting to her hair, brushing a few loose strands from her face.
Her eyes were puffy. Her cheeks blotched and stained with the tracks of dried tears.
Even in sleep, her brow was knit in quiet worry.
Then, gently, reverently even, he shifted his posture and leaned down placing a light kiss on her forehead.
She stirred slightly, shifting but not waking. He smiled— small, quiet, just for himself— then eased out of the hospital bed without noise, to avoid waking her too soon and stood.
His body protested. His muscles screamed. But the healers had done their job. Bones set. Flesh mended. Only the echo of pain remained.
He pulled on a spare tunic laid at the foot of the bed, tugged on his boots, and stepped out into the cool morning air.
The second wall stood tall in the distance.
And Oria still lived.
⸻
The command tent was already alive with conversation when he arrived, officers and aides moving between hastily drawn maps and casualty rosters. The atmosphere was taut but no longer panicked— just braced. Focused.
General Aeron looked up at Koda's approach, expression unreadable.
"You should be in bed."
"I slept enough," Koda said simply, then added, "How bad?"
A heavy breath. "Bad. But not lost."
The general stepped aside and let Koda take in the map now marked with red pins for the dead and black pins for fallen units.
"Their first wave was meant to break us. It nearly did. Their siege beasts couldn't breach the second wall— our engineers were ready. But the toll…"
He trailed off.
Another officer, a woman in her early thirties with a grim cast to her eyes, stepped forward.
"Initial estimates," she said, "We've dropped their force by seventy percent. Maybe more. But we lost forty percent of our own. Entire squads wiped out. Captains dead. If the second wave hits too soon…"
She didn't finish.
Koda nodded once. "Then we make sure it doesn't."
The room was silent for a beat.
Then, another voice entered— quiet, polite. A robed librarian approached with a scroll tucked to his chest, his eyes wide as they fell on Koda.
"We confirmed it," the man said.
"From the second wall. A watcher remained all night. He saw you hold the bridge."
Koda didn't respond.
The librarian unfurled the parchment and read aloud.
"Captain Koda, acting solo, confirmed kills: thirty-six Fallen, all verified by remains. None crossed the bridge. Not one."
Gasps and murmurs passed through the tent. Even the hardened veterans looked at him now with something new in their eyes—not just respect.
Hope.
The librarian bowed. "We've already shared the report. Morale is holding thanks in part to your actions. You gave the people something to believe in."
Koda said nothing for a moment.
Then he glanced toward the east-facing wall of the tent, where the sun had just begun to rise fully over Oria.
"They're still coming," he said.
"Sure as day," Aeron agreed. "But now they know we don't break easily."
Koda nodded turning to leave when the flap of the tent pulled back suddenly. A gust of air swept in as a tall figure stepped through—cloaked in deep gray, the hood shadowing his face. But the gleam of the silver coin he held up in two fingers caught the light immediately.
A black hand was etched into the surface. Every officer in the room stiffened.
The Order.
General Aeron straightened, his jaw tightening slightly—not with resistance, but recognition. Authority walked into the tent cloaked in mystery. This wasn't the same man who had once spoken to Koda beneath the orphanage so long ago. But the weight this one carried felt no less significant. Maybe more.
The man lowered the coin and nodded toward Aeron, then glanced to Koda with eyes sharp as razors beneath the hood's shadow. There was no judgment in them—only calculation, quiet approval laced with caution.
"Koda," the general said, slowly, his voice shifting into something more formal. "Given your role in last night's defense, and your history of service… we'd like to formally verify your capabilities."
He motioned toward the glowing crystal set atop the central war table. A tool meant for public status projections—usually reserved for promotions or high-level postings.
"We've heard rumors of your error. And we've seen your growth. But we've never officially seen your status."
The room grew quiet.
Officers shifted subtly. Not out of disrespect, but curiosity. No one doubted Koda's valor—not anymore. But what kind of monster did it take to hold a bridge alone all night?
Koda glanced to the Order's envoy.
The hooded man gave him a slow nod.
Not permission. Endorsement.
Koda stepped forward.
He reached for the crystal, placed his palm flat across its cool surface.
The projection bloomed to life in a pane of white light above the war table. And the tent, packed with commanders, aides, and advisors, fell to utter silence.
⸻
Koda of the Eternal Guide
Level: 20
HP: 240 / 240
Mana: 240 / 240
Stamina: 240 / 240
Stats:
Strength: 24
Vitality: 24
Agility: 24
Intelligence: 24
Wisdom: 24
Endurance: 24
Traits:
Balance (Divine) – All stat increases apply equally to all attributes. Harmony is growth.
Skills:
Blade of Conviction – Active
Summon a weapon forged of pure will. The more clarity and purpose you hold, the stronger the blade. Willpower and Wisdom affect damage.
Mantle of Echoes – Passive
Passive aura forged from experience. Strength scales with Wisdom.
+Minor Fear (enemies), +Minor Focus (allies)
⸻
"…All twenty-four?" one of the captains whispered under his breath. "Every single one?"
Koda stood silently as eyes passed from the glowing display back to him.
One of the level 24 captains— scarred and broad, his own build favoring Strength like a battering ram— shook his head slowly.
"I had to sacrifice most of my stats to push one past twenty," he muttered. "He didn't sacrifice a damn thing."
The envoy of the Order stepped forward now, voice like smooth-cut stone.
"There are always outliers in a generation," he said. "But rarely does one rise into the light with such… balance." His eyes flicked back to Koda. "And rarely so young."
General Aeron didn't speak for a long moment. Then he straightened, nodded once, and dismissed the projection.
"You'll be given full strategic discretion over your section of the wall moving forward, Captain," he said at last. "And you'll report directly to me."
Koda inclined his head. "Yes, sir."
And from the shadows, the Order's envoy gave one final look. Not of command.
Of quiet acknowledgment.
Then he turned and walked out, the coin vanishing back beneath his cloak.
The display had done more than confirm his strength—it had upended every expectation. Every whispered doubt that had clung to him, even after the bridge. Gone.
He left the command tent not with a fanfare or a salute, but in silence. The kind of silence that fills in after a storm, when even the wind forgets to move.
As he crossed back toward the field hospital, the air in the city felt different.
The wounded still lay scattered on cots and stretchers. The healers still hurried, still murmured blessings and triaged burns and deep gashes. But beneath the fatigue, something else had bloomed.
Hope.
Whispers spread like leaves caught in a breeze.
"Did you hear?"
"They say he held the bridge alone. For hours."
"The Eternal Guide blessed him."
"His stats were all twenty-four… every single one."
"He didn't even look winded. Not until the end."
A hero had emerged—not one from noble blood, not a chosen of the crown, but a boy from the orphanage. A quiet figure who had never declared himself… only acted, when it mattered most.
And in a city gripped by siege, trembling under the weight of monsters too big to name, that kind of figure could become more than just a captain.
He could become a symbol.
A gust of wind stirred loose dust across the cobbled streets of Oria. The banners above the second wall snapped to attention.
And far below, people straightened. Just slightly. A new light smoldered in their eyes.
Not because the war had been won.
But because now… maybe it could be.