A bleak drizzle sifted down from a leaden sky. Passersby hurried along, their umbrellas offering little sanctuary against the fine mist that danced on the wind, drenching everything in a cold, grey shroud.
On the towering city walls, soldiers stood every five or six meters. Poor souls, they could only endure the rain. Most of the other soldiers huddled helplessly in the corners. Although a row of simple sheds had been built along the wall to provide some shelter, they were powerless against the damp, biting wind.
To ward off the chill, the soldiers kindled fires, feeding the flames with chopped-up furniture. Much of it was brand new, yet no one spared a thought for the waste. It was wartime, and survival trumped sentiment.
A sergeant, clad in a stiff straw raincoat, paced the battlements. Suddenly, he halted, barking at a cluster of men huddled for warmth: "Move those powder kegs! Are you trying to blow us all to hell? If a spark catches that lot, we’re finished!"
"Yes, sir!" "Understood, sir!"
The group of soldiers moved quickly.
The sergeant felt slightly better, but his face hardened again as he saw seven or eight muskets leaning against the city wall. Rainwater was streaming down the stones, soaking the firearms.
"Damn it! Those guns are your lives! Don't you care about living?"
The sergeant's furious shouting sounded exceptionally harsh through the misty drizzle.
This city was Glasslovar. As the third-largest city in the Lavor Province of the Monstoke Republic, it could be considered a major city, yet the area enclosed by the city walls was not very extensive.
After all, Glasslovar was merely a commercial city, neither a military stronghold nor a provincial capital. It didn't require heavy fortifications.
But now, even a commercial city like this was filled with panic.
Outside those towering walls, the once-bustling commercial streets were now deserted, and the once-crowded squares were left to stray dogs.
These walls had been built six centuries ago, at the very beginning of Glasslovar’s founding. Over the centuries, successive mayors had considered tearing them down. However, the intermittent wars had eventually allowed the walls to remain.
Through the passage of time, the area enclosed by these walls became Glasslovar’s Old District. The last renovation had taken place two centuries ago. The streets here were narrow, and the houses were built close together. Most of the residents possessed some property but were far from wealthy.
But now, the majority of Glasslovar’s 250,000 residents had moved here.
Only Garden Street, on the western side of the Old District, appeared somewhat tidy and beautiful. Currently, this block had been requisitioned by various departments of Glasslovar.
On the top floor of a four-story building, Colonel Marvin peered through a narrow skylight. The leaden sky was a perfect mirror to his own grim thoughts.
He glanced at the man standing behind him, then back at the slip of paper resting on the table.
Only hours ago, the High Command had dispatched this courier. Along with him came a wagon laden with injectable ampoules and a written directive that carried the weight of a death sentence.
"Captain Shurant, I want the unvarnished truth," the Colonel began. "Is this shipment really a vaccine to stem the plague?"
The Colonel asked. In principle, as a soldier, he shouldn't have asked such a question. He dared to ask only because he was certain the person behind him would never betray him.
"Since you've already guessed..." Captain Shurant let out a weary sigh. He could have remained silent or offered a convenient lie, but he couldn't bring himself to deceive his former superior. "The formal designation is X23—the standard-issue Muscle Enhancement Serum. It catalyzes rapid muscle growth and spikes the metabolic rate. Our field surgeons use it on the front lines to knit wounds together in record time."
He paused, a shadow crossing his face. Everyone knew the serum wasn't intended for the common man. While it bestowed extraordinary strength, it did so by voraciously overdrawing the user's lifespan.
Injecting a standard unit of X23 could increase a person's physical strength by two to four times in a short period. They wouldn't tire easily, could handle extreme workloads, and were less prone to injury. Their survival rate on the battlefield increased several times over.
However, in less than ten years, that person would suffer from vascular embolism, muscle atrophy, and rapid aging. Hardly anyone lived past twenty years.
After long contemplation, the Colonel seemed to have reached a decision. He turned, put away the order on the table, and wrote a new slip of paper.
After finishing, he put down the pen and sprinkled some sawdust on the paper to blot the ink before calling his adjutant in.
"This is the order from High Command. To prevent an outbreak of plague, every severely wounded patient in the medical clinic must be injected with the vaccine."
Watching the adjutant leave, the Colonel turned back to the Captain and said, "This is my decision. You may report it truthfully to High Command."
"My apologies, sir. I was only responsible for bringing you the agents and the order. My time is tight, and I have much to do. I can only stay here for an hour. In this hour, I have seen nothing and heard nothing."
With that, the Captain saluted and retreated from the room.
The central square of the Old District had long since been repurposed into a sprawling, makeshift infirmary. Despite the nearest front lines being hundreds of kilometers away, the place was choked with the wounded.
Glasslovar had always been a secondary city, its location far from any strategic flashpoint. For six centuries, it had remained a sanctuary, untouched by the wars that had ravaged the rest of the Lavor Province. Because of this perceived safety, it had become the destination for those broken on the front lines.
A sea of tents now flooded the square—massive tarps stretched over wooden poles, under which rows of cots were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The incessant rain dripped through the seams, forcing the staff to place buckets and kettles everywhere to catch the leaks. The ground was a treacherous slurry of mud and standing water.
Hundreds of sixteen and seventeen-year-old nurses walked back and forth under the tents. Glasslovar didn't actually have that many nurses; these were all students from the schools.
Since the war began, all schools had only half-day classes. The other half was spent being drafted for various tasks.
Most of those working in the medical clinic were girls, though the occasional boy could be seen.
In one corner of the square, a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy was laboring to move boxes from a wagon. These boxes were heavy, but what frustrated him more was the "Handle with Care" label written on them. The boy was quite handsome, with slightly curly brown hair, a straight nose, and well-defined facial contours. Unfortunately, this handsome face bore many scars; his left cheek was even bruised, and the corner of his mouth was cut.
The boy's name was Richie. He was fifteen this year, and his home was in the Old District. In the past, this was proof of a lower-middle-class family, but the war had made the Old District the only sanctuary.
Richie’s parents owned an entire building. At this moment, that meant a vast sum of money. The building had four floors. By selling the bottom three, Richie’s family had made a small fortune.
Richie’s family had known poverty for a long time, and once wealth was within their grasp, they had been eager to embrace it. He deeply regretted not tempering his parents' irrational behavior. Lately, his life had become a gauntlet of conflict; fighting was a daily ritual, fueled by the bitter envy of those around him.
Previously, he hadn't worked here. Most of the boys in school were either helping to forge military equipment in blacksmith shops, assisting in horse and carriage shops to repair wagons, or following combat engineers to build fortifications on the city outskirts.
Richie had worked everywhere, but he never lasted long in any position. At most, a week would pass before someone came looking for trouble.
At first, he had been submissive, thinking that if he just backed down, everything would be fine. However, he soon realized that the people bothering him actually wanted to get favors from his parents.
The reason they targeted him was that his father had been drafted into the reserve corps. Who would dare cause trouble in the army? His mother rarely left the house, usually spending her time cutting gauze at home—a job she had taken from the military to supplement their income. No matter how bold the envious people were, they didn't dare break into a house. During wartime, trespassing into a private residence was a capital offense.
Since he knew being submissive was useless, Richie stopped backing down. Normally, he had a good temperament, but once provoked, he would never retreat. The scars on his face were from a fight with six guys who were older than him.
He had been beaten badly, but those six didn't fare much better.
He rarely fought as a child, so Richie had never known he could fight so well.
It was precisely after this fight that he was transferred to the medical clinic. Most of the people working here were girls, and the few boys were physically weak. These people, whom no one else wanted, would never pose any threat to him.
Everything had two sides. The fact that no one could threaten him was a good thing, but it also meant that all the heavy labor fell on his shoulders.
Just like now, he had to finish moving all the boxes and stack them neatly. Furthermore, because of the rain, the boxes couldn't touch the ground; he had to carry them all the way into the warehouse. Only Richie knew the full extent of this hardship.
The clinic’s warehouse was actually just a small room, three meters long and wide, built of wooden boards. Upon entering, one could smell a heavy scent of iodine.
A group of men, dressed in the tattered uniforms of wounded soldiers, burst into the small room. One of them slammed the door shut, cutting off the noise from the square.
Their leader had his head swathed in gauze. Once they were alone, he ripped the bandages away and hurled them to the floor. Beneath was a face mapped with scars, his right eye a bruised, bloodshot mess of ruptured vessels.
Richie recognized him instantly. They were classmates—the same boy who had led the pack that had jumped him only days before. Looking around, he saw the others were also from his class.
Richie reacted instantly, but it was already a bit too late. They swarmed him, grabbing his arms and legs, pinning him to the ground.
The leader balled up the gauze in his hand and stuffed it into Richie’s mouth. Then he sneered, "Did you think you could hide in a place like this and I wouldn't find a way? Originally, we weren't going to do much to you, just give you a beating because someone told us to. Someone paid us to hit you. But now..."
This guy grinned cruelly as he took a crowbar from one of the people behind him.
Richie’s pupils contracted sharply. He stared in terror at the crowbar. It was just an iron bar, slightly curved at one end and very sharp at the tip.
If that crowbar swung down, it would surely break his bones. If it were thrust into him, it could similarly pin his body. Either way, it would cause him to die in agonizing pain.
He wanted to dodge, but his body was pinned down so tightly by so many people that he couldn't move an inch.
Watching the crowbar as the guy sneered and thrust it toward his head, Richie gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for death.
With a soft "crack," the expected pain didn't come. Richie opened one eye slightly and saw the crowbar lodged into the box behind him, right next to his cheek.
With another "creak," the lid of the box was pried open.
The guy tossed the crowbar aside and took a syringe and several bottles from the pried-open box.
"Do you know what this is?"
The guy said with a sneer. "Actually, I don't know what it is either. But the person who paid me to hit you told me that after one injection, an ordinary person definitely won't live past twenty."
However, he clearly didn't intend to wait twenty years to watch Richie slowly die. So, he didn't take out just one bottle of the drug.
The milky white powder dissolved rapidly in distilled water and was drawn into the syringe. This wasn't a standard dose; the guy put several bottles' worth of the drug into the syringe.
A sharp sting followed. Richie watched as the medicine was pushed into his body. At that moment, he felt an endless sense of sorrow.
X23 took effect with terrifying speed. Within seconds, Richie’s heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to burst from his chest. A searing heat surged through him, his muscles twitching and roiling with bursts of agonizing pain.
Richie’s skin flushed a violent scarlet, beads of blood seeping through his pores as his body temperature soared. Thick, blue veins bulged across his limbs like gnarled tree roots, pulsating with a raw, unnatural power.
This appearance made those pinning him down feel their hearts skip a beat. Even the leader felt a sense of dread and couldn't help but want to pick up the crowbar he had thrown on the ground.
Chaos erupted. Nurses screamed and scattered like startled birds. The wounded soldiers, however, were made of sterner stuff; they held their ground, eyes searching for anything that could serve as a weapon.
After an eternity, a blood-spattered Richie stumbled from the warehouse. He moved with the jerky, uncertain gait of a marionette whose strings were being pulled by an amateur—stiff, unsteady, and wrong.
One particularly bold veteran grabbed a crutch and approached, prodding Richie as if to rouse him from a trance.
Richie’s reaction was a blur of violent motion. Before the crutch even landed, his hand lashed out. There was a sickening *crack*, and the heavy wood snapped like a dry twig.
The soldier stared at the splintered remains in his hand, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. Richie looked like a boy, but the energy radiating from him was unmistakable. It was the same overwhelming pressure felt in the presence of the knights who dominated the battlefield.
Being poked by that crutch, Richie regained some clarity. He stared blankly at his hands.
His hands were covered in blood, with bits of flesh even stuck between his fingers. Richie retched and vomited. The scene inside the warehouse moments ago instantly flashed before his eyes.
Just a moment ago, he had been like a man possessed by a demon, killing everyone. Just the thought of how he had killed them made him shudder.
With a single, primal lunge, he tore through a chest as if it were parchment. With a savage swing, a head was shattered to pulp. In the blink of an eye, the monsters who had tormented him were nothing more than broken remains.
Having taken his revenge, he felt no joy, but only overwhelming fear.
Suddenly, Richie remembered something. He had killed people.
In ordinary times, he could have defended himself by saying it was justifiable self-defense, or at most, excessive force. He wouldn't necessarily be sentenced to death. But now it was wartime; there was no room for defense. Once caught for murder, he would surely be taken out and shot.
Holding his head and letting out a miserable cry, Richie felt like the unluckiest person in the world. Knowing his situation, he immediately fled.
As he ran, Richie suddenly saw a figure standing in his path—a tall woman draped in a striking red uniform. He intended to leap past her, but his heart gave an inexplicable, violent jolt.
Richie skidded to a halt, a purely subconscious reaction. Something about the woman radiated an aura of lethal calm.
The surrounding houses blocked most of the rain, but a fine mist still swirled through the alley. Yet, not a single drop touched her. The drizzle seemed to shatter against an invisible barrier a foot from her body, as if she were shielded by a wall of air.
The woman watched him, her gaze cool and appraising. "I received a report of an infiltrator," she said leisurely. "But it seems I’ve stumbled upon a bloodline awakening instead. Whether that’s a blessing or a curse for you remains to be seen. In times of peace, your future would be radiant. But it is wartime..."
"I want to go home."
Richie couldn't understand what this woman was saying. His mind was a total blank.
"What you need is to calm down."
After saying this, the woman moved. The two were originally about ten meters apart, but in a flash, she was in front of Richie.
Richie didn't even have time to react before he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He had been punched, right in the solar plexus. He wanted to vomit but couldn't. His head felt heavy and dizzy, an indescribable discomfort.
Richie lay naked on a cold medical table, his body scrubbed clean of the blood. A single white towel was draped over his waist. Above him, a lens mounted on a sliding rack moved back and forth, emitting a sterile white glow.
A doctor in a stained lab coat adjusted the lens, peering at the images of Richie’s muscle and bone that flickered on a nearby screen. Assistants hovered nearby, scratching data onto clipboards with mechanical precision.
In the shadows of the room stood four men. They wore white coats, but their posture and the hard edges of their faces betrayed them as soldiers.
The man in the lead was gaunt, with deep-set eyes that held a predator's focus. He had a prominent hawk nose that added to his sinister air.
"Have you vetted the boy's parents?" the man asked, his voice a low rasp.
The person beside him quickly replied, "Sir, we've investigated thoroughly. The boy's father is a reservist, serving in the 75th Reserve Regiment. The mother is an ordinary woman. We drew blood from both of them under the guise of a quarantine check, and no Knightly Bloodline reaction was detected in either. We also checked the boy's birth certificate. On the day he was born, none of the registered female knights in the country gave birth. Even within the allied nations, there are no similar records."
The middle-aged man frowned. This was undoubtedly the most bizarre thing he had ever encountered.
"What are your thoughts?"
The middle-aged man asked, wanting to hear what his subordinates had to say.
The three people beside him hesitated. Finally, the one who had just reported summoned some courage: "We've studied it and believe there are several possibilities. The most likely is..."
The man paused. What he was about to say was a bit unpleasant, and he didn't know how to start. After thinking, he gritted his teeth and said, "The most likely possibility is that the boy's father is someone else, probably someone with a dormant Knightly Bloodline. Sir, you surely know that full records of Knightly Bloodlines only began after 1665. Before then, only awakened Knightly Bloodline owners were recorded."
Although this was only the most likely conjecture, in the eyes of the speaker, it was almost the only possibility.
Aside from that, there were only two other possibilities. They had first suspected the child was switched at birth, but a check revealed that was impossible. Furthermore, every country’s records of Knightly Bloodlines are extremely strict; these individuals with extraordinary abilities are incredibly destructive if left uncontrolled. Therefore, as soon as a female knight showed signs of pregnancy, she would be placed under close observation. Even if one wanted to hide it intentionally, it would be difficult, let alone switching the child with someone else's.
The other possibility was that the father was a knight, but that possibility was also very low. Ordinary women simply could not withstand the power of a knight’s bloodline. During pregnancy, a hemolytic reaction would occur. The probability of successfuThe doctor stepped forward, clutching a stack of reports. "Colonel, the examination is complete. The boy’s Knightly Bloodline has indeed begun to stir. However, the data suggests he is an *Aberrant*—his primary stats are significantly below the curve."
It was a common enough disappointment. Awakening late in life rarely produced anything of value.
"Can we trace the source?" the Colonel asked.
The doctor hesitated, clearly out of his depth. One of the soldiers stepped in to save him. "Sir, Aberrant bloodlines are almost always the result of spontaneous mutation. Tracing them is a fool's errand."
The Colonel nodded slowly, taking the report and skimming the numbers.
Richie floated in a hazy daze, but he wasn't unconscious. His new senses had sharpened his hearing to a terrifying degree; every whisper in the room carried to him clearly.
The speculation about his lineage hit him like a physical blow. To hear, at fifteen, that the father you loved might not be your own was a shattering revelation. He couldn't believe his mother would have betrayed his father; their home had always been a bastion of warmth and harmony.
His mind was in such a state of upheaval that the memory of the killings was temporarily pushed aside. He didn't even realize he had drifted off until a sharp beam of morning sunlight pierced his eyelids.n up until a piercing beam of sunlight hit his face.
Richie raised a hand to shield his eyes. An officer stood by the bedside—a bald man with a thin mustache, wearing a crisp, blue-gray wool overcoat. He looked to be in his late twenties.
"You're finally among the living. Up you get," the officer said, pulling over a chair and crossing his legs.
Richie sat up, acutely aware of the thin hospital gown and the lack of shoes. He perched on the edge of the cot.
The officer didn't seem to care. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and blew a plume of smoke into the air. "You killed several people. Our investigation confirms they were the ones who sought you out. Under normal circumstances, we’d call it excessive force."
He leaned in, his expression hardening. "But these aren't normal circumstances. Under wartime law, you have two options: the gallows, or the front lines."
"I don't suppose I have a choice," Richie said, his voice flat.
"Don't play the martyr with me, kid." The officer jabbed his cigarette toward Richie’s nose, the heat stinging his cheek. "You're the luckiest bastard in this city. Those thugs wanted you dead, but they didn't realize you carried the blood. Instead of killing you, the serum triggered an awakening."
He slapped a document onto the bedside table. "This is a conscription order. Sign it."
Richie had no choice. It was better than a rope around his neck. As he scrawled his name, he asked, "Do my parents know?"
"Do you want them to?" the officer countered.
Richie shook his head.
"Then I’ll mark you down as a general laborer for the Knight Corps. It'll keep the prying eyes away."
Richie remained silent. It was for the best. If the truth of his bloodline came out, it would shatter his family and turn his neighbors into vultures.
"I’ll have someone bring your gear. Be ready to move in ten minutes."
The officer marched out. Soon, a nurse arrived with a bundle of clothes. It wasn't the standard blue-gray uniform; it was a vibrant, striking red—and it fit him perfectly. Every button and seam seemed tailored to his new physique.
Richie realized then that the military’s reputation for inefficiency was a lie—at least when it came to things that mattered. He pulled on the tight-fitting tunic and buckled the belt, the tall leather boots feeling heavy and foreign on his feet.
Stepping out of the room, Richie found that the rain had stopped and the ground was already dry. It seemed he had been unconscious for quite some time.
A carriage was parked at the door—two-wheeled, two-seated, and drawn by a single horse. The officer from before was sitting in it. Richie obediently climbed in and took the seat beside him.
The carriage headed straight out of the Old District. Housing over a hundred thousand civilians there made it extremely crowded. Naturally, the army was stationed in other areas. Besides the Old District, empty houses were everywhere.
The carriage passed through Gemstone Street, Grandon Square, and crossed Siste Street. These streets used to be the most bustling commercial areas, always crowded with people. But now, only soldiers in uniform could be seen.
After about fifteen minutes, the carriage stopped at Star Square. This used to be a commercial district. Richie didn't come here often because the goods were mostly expensive—the kind one could look at but not afford. Furthermore, the security guards here were fierce and would drive people away.
Now, it was unrecognizable. The glass windows of all the shops had been removed and walled up with bricks. Those beautiful iron railings had all been torn down and thrown into furnaces to be melted into bronze and iron.
Star Square was an enclosed square surrounded by shops, which also served as entrances and exits. Previously, it had been accessible from all directions, but now the roads were blocked, leaving only one gate. This gate was obstructed by wooden chevaux-de-frise that had to be moved aside to enter.
Like all military outposts, a sentry stood guard at the gate. To Richie’s surprise, the guard was a woman.
She possessed a lean, athletic figure, her uniform pulled taut across her curves. Her oval face was framed by a wild, tangled mane of crimson hair that seemed to smolder in the gray light. Her eyes were large but heavy-lidded, giving her the look of someone who had only just been roused from a deep sleep.
She was a striking beauty, though there was an edge of unruliness to her that made Richie hesitate. He watched, stunned, as this seemingly delicate woman moved a massive wooden *chevaux-de-frise*—a barrier that would have taken half a dozen grown men to budge—with a casual, one-handed shove.
"Is this the new recruit?" the woman asked, her gaze sweeping over Richie.
The officer didn't dare be disrespectful. He quickly took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over—the transfer order.
Richie was hurried off the carriage. Once the officer dropped him off, he left immediately. Although he worked in the staff department, he was not qualified to enter such a place.
Richie entered the legendary Knight Corps for the first time. The air here felt different—thick with a tension that made the hair on his arms stand up. It was a physical instinct; a latent knight could always feel the crushing weight of those who had truly awakened.
The woman at the gate exuded an immense, stifling pressure. Richie realized she must have been suppressing her aura earlier just to speak with him.
"So, you really are a late-bloomer," the knight said, shaking her head with a weary sigh. "What is the High Command thinking? Do they take us for a nursery?"
"Follow me. And learn fast. On the battlefield, hesitation is a death sentence."
She reset the heavy barrier and led him into the heart of the camp. The air was charged with auras so intense they made Richie’s skin itch.
Suddenly, he felt a surge of power that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He looked up to see a blonde woman leaning against a longsword ten meters away. She was tall—towering over most men—and her uniform was so tightly fitted to her muscular, voluptuous frame that it looked like it might split at the seams.
Richie recognized her instantly. She was the one who had put him on that medical table.
Before he could find his voice, a new presence approached—one that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.
This woman exuded a bone-chilling cold. She possessed an angular, lethal beauty, her silver hair shimmering with a faint metallic luster. Her gray eyes were as frigid as a winter dawn.
Richie felt the temperature in the alley drop. He was face-to-face with a predator.
The cold female knight glanced at Richie, then turned to the one who had knocked him out. "Dana, you were the first to meet this boy. You’ll be responsible for training him."
"Why not give him to me? I’ve always wanted a disciple."
The red-haired beauty who had brought Richie in asked with some dissatisfaction.
The cold female knight didn't even look at her as she turned and walked away. "Save your energy. He's just a child."
"I'll show you around so you can get to know the people here."
said the female knight who had been assigned as Richie’s master.
The camp was large, but conversely, there were very few people in it.
Richie was stunned to find that there were only eight people in the entire camp. More surprisingly, all eight were women. This was an elite knight squad composed entirely of female knights.
The cold female knight was the captain of the squad. His master, Miss Dana, was one of the two vice-captains. The other vice-captain, Merlin, was a very gentle female knight.
Miss Merlin was the only one in the camp who didn't make him feel pressure. Her aura was gentle, making one feel as if they were basking in a spring breeze. Miss Merlin was also beautiful, possessing a maternal and classical grace. Her soft, expressive eyes were framed by elegant, finely arched brows. Her chestnut hair was neatly bobbed, brushing against her shoulders.
Lina was the name of the female knight who had brought him in. Although his master didn't say much, she hinted that Richie shouldn't get too close to her. Richie also learned from others that Miss Lina was famous in the knight circles. She changed boyfriends as often as she changed clothes. At least twenty duels had been fought over her. She used to be in a first-line knight regiment but was kicked out to this place because she caused too much trouble. This squad had only women and no men for the same reason.
Richie soon discovered that Lina wasn't the only outlier in the squad.
One knight wore a male version of the uniform. She was the youngest among them, only nineteen, with blonde hair cut even shorter than Richie’s. Her chest was bound so tightly she appeared as flat as a boy. She watched Richie with a clear, simmering hostility.
It was a look Richie knew well. In his school days, whenever he’d gotten too close to the popular girls, the other boys would radiate that same jealous heat.
"Her name is Nice, but she insists on Robin," Dana warned. "Stay clear of her. I can't guarantee she won't try to take a piece out of you."
But Robin was at least predictable. Another knight, Rosa, made Richie’s life a living hell through sheer, childish exuberance. She was in her twenties but possessed the mind of a teenager, constantly pinching his cheeks or squeezing his muscles to "test his potential." Despite the irritation, Richie soon realized her aura lacked the lethal edge of the others. In her own strange way, she was the only one who seemed genuinely glad he was there. She was a blonde with a messy bob and emerald eyes that were the most vibrant in the entire squad.
Then there was Nora—a silent, sorrowful woman who seemed to exist in the shadows. When they were introduced, she didn't even look up, offering only a faint grunt. She didn't release an aura, giving the impression that she had simply vanished into the background. She had long black hair and deep, mourning eyes.
Finally, they reached the logistics office, run by a woman in her mid-twenties named Randy. She wore spectacles that gave her an air of intellectual cool. She wasn't a knight, but Dana warned Richie not to underestimate her. Randy was a powerful Psion—the squad’s medic and quartermaster.
"Since you're technically a laborer, you'll report to Miss Randy," Dana said, her voice softening slightly. "Do exactly what she tells you."
Richie’s heart sank. He hadn't survived a bloodline awakening just to move crates. "Aren't you going to teach me... you know, knight stuff?"
"First, you learn to breathe the air here," Dana replied. She released a sudden, sharp burst of her aura, and Richie’s chest tightened as if a heavy weight had been dropped on it. "Get used to the pressure. Then we talk about training."
After dropping Richie off, Dana headed toward the captain's office. As soon as she entered, she immediately complained, "You've given me quite a job."
The cold woman was writing. Seeing Dana enter, she had to put down her pen.
"How am I supposed to teach him? The strength of a late-awakening knight is naturally poor, especially at a time like this. No one knows when a transfer order will send us to the front. With his strength, going to the battlefield is just seeking death."
Dana said angrily.
"It's not as if there's no way at all."
Calli looked at her vice-captain. Although she was cold, she wouldn't let any of her subordinates sacrifice themselves needlessly. "Our squad is strong in offense but weak in defense. Only Merlin is good at defending. So, I've always wanted to find a defender who uses a heavy shield."
"A heavy shield?"
Dana found this a bit hard to understand.
"A heavy shield defender needs strength and endurance. They don't need to worry about speed and technique. They can be put to use in a short time, and their survival rate on the battlefield is much higher than other choices."
Calli hesitated for a moment before revealing the true reason. "Heavy shield defenders are mostly strong men. With that kid’s build, even with further growth, it's impossible for him to reach the standard. If he chooses to be a heavy shield defender, he's effectively useless. In wartime, a useless person actually lives longer. Without excessive speed, he won't be sent out on reconnaissance, nor will he be stuffed into a commando unit as cannon fodder."
Dana went silent. She knew the captain was right. On the battlefield, to survive, one had to either become an ace or a completely useless person who couldn't get anything done. Those with middle-of-the-road strength were the most likely to become cannon fodder.
Though cruel, it was an indisputable fact.
While the two were deciding Richie’s future, Richie was chatting with the adjutant, Miss Randy, in the equipment room.
"Why did my master only mention names when she introduced the people here to me?"
Richie asked. This was what he found most strange.
"It's a habit. The world of knights is actually very small. Many surnames are very famous. If you know the other person's surname, you know the family they belong to. This would unconsciously put a lot of pressure on the leader. So, we call each other by name or nickname."
The adjutant said as she repaired a set of armor.
Richie sat by, watching with immense envy. He was self-aware; he wouldn't be able to have such a thing anytime soon. Only official knights were qualified to wear armor.
He had seen knights in armor before, but he had never seen a set of armor stripped down.
He hadn't expected it to be so complex inside.
"What are these?"
Richie pointed at a large pile of things that looked like hemp rope. They were the most common thing inside the armor.
"Synthetic Sinews."
Miss Randy stopped her work and pulled one out from the mess.
It was essentially a spring, but the metal wires forming it were very fine and wound very tightly.
Suddenly, the sinew snapped open, becoming three times its original length.
"They are the muscles of the armor," Randy explained. "A set of Magitech Armor isn't just a suit of mail. It's built entirely to mimic the human body's structure, with its own muscular system and a powerful, synthetic heart."
Randy stood and unlatched the heavy casing on the armor's torso. Beneath the cover lay a complex apparatus the size of a shield, pulsing with a kaleidoscopic, shifting glow.
Richie’s head spun just looking at the labyrinthine web of cables and conduits that crisscrossed the outer layer.
"What exactly does it do?" Richie asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"It’s the heart. It provides the energy that powers the entire suit. More importantly, the combat Disciplines knights use on the field are channeled and focused through this core."
Randy slammed the cover shut and went back to repairing the armor.
"Aren't those attack techniques the knight's own skills?"
Randy couldn't help but find it a bit of a headache. For a knight, these should all be common knowledge learned in childhood.
She didn't mind teaching others, but it depended on the subject. This kind of kindergarten knowledge was very boring for her.
"The suit is essentially an amplifier. Encased in it, a knight's strength and speed are magnified tenfold. But the true miracle is what it does for their combat Disciplines. Take a basic shockwave—something that might crack a stone slab bare-handed. Channel it through the armor, and it becomes a force that can punch through a foot of hardened steel plate."
Richie touched the armor with longing, but his expression grew darker as he remembered the words he had heard while unconscious.
"What is an Anomalous Knight?"
Richie had been wanting to know. He had wanted to ask his master earlier but hadn't found the chance.
Randy was slightly taken aback, but she immediately realized why the little guy would know such a professional term. The only reason was that he had heard others mention it, and the most likely reason was that he himself was an Anomalous Knight.
"An Anomalous Knight..."
Randy thought for a moment and decided to speak the truth. "It refers to a knight who has undergone a mutation during the awakening process. Most are due to an incomplete awakening, while some have lost certain abilities."
Seeing Richie looking downcast, Randy offered a few words of comfort. "Actually, it's not that bad. What you lose in one area, you gain in another. Incomplete knights often have outstanding performance in certain aspects."
Richie smiled bitterly. "Just like a blind person might not be able to see, but their hearing and sense of touch are much sharper than a normal person's."
The analogy was very accurate, but Randy couldn't bring herself to agree, so she could only pretend to be fully focused on repairing the armor.