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By Aric’s command, the Byzeth soldiers marched into the settlements, dragging families out of their homes before promptly setting the houses on fire. Men pleaded for their families, women pleaded for their children, and the little ones could only cry and scream, adding to the symphony of disaster as their homes crackled in the flames.

The dark winter night was painted orange by the flames, and as Aric gazed at the chaos he wrought, his dark mask glowed gold from the fire reflected upon it.

He could hear the screams of the community and their pleas, but he remained indifferent, his heart and mind as cold as the winter chill that bit through the steel of his armor.

At some point, one would consider that perhaps, in chasing his own goals, the prince had gone too far. Now, he had the blood of soldiers from a loyal empire’s kingdom on his hands. Was his conquest over Byzeth worth a war with other kingdoms?

Maybe not, but Aric’s conquest would not stop at Byzeth alone.

He looked down at his sword, a sturdy and swift blade. The blood of the men he had killed that night still stained its silver steel.

Aric had slaughtered many men in war, perhaps too many to count, and many of them were good men, many with families they did not return to. However, when standing on the battleground, there were no good or bad men, only enemies and allies.

And it was kill or be killed.

That, in itself, was the brutality of war.

Aric sighed, his breath cold as he began to move from where he stood, watching as almost the entirety of the settlement was now ablaze with flames, so much so that it lit up the night as though it was day.

Those within the settlement were gathered outside the town, crying and comforting themselves as they watched their homes burn to the ground in an unexpected raid from an army that flew the banner of a kingdom under their own empire.

Aric walked before the community of almost three hundred people. He climbed atop the platform his soldiers made from crates as all eyes turned to him.

They did not need another look to know that this was the man—the one who had ordered the destruction of their home and slaughtered their protectors. His face was masked; if not, they would have engraved it in their minds and sworn revenge. They did not know his name, or else they would have cursed it every second of their waking life.

And his armor… well, that only made them feel fear—an imposing figure that challenged their audacity.

Aric regarded them in silence, and no one could see it under his mask, but he felt pity.

Regardless, he did what he needed to. Perhaps, if the Northern Legionaries were not about to arrive, he would not have touched their homes, but Aric had said it to the king, and his words were truth—the Northrenders needed action, to see raids and communities burned.

How would it have looked if they were to meet them and the community they raided still lived happily and normally?

He was merciful, not a fool—and his mercy was the air they could still breathe.

"I can only imagine the dread you all must feel," Aric began, all of them turning to him with teary eyes as he addressed the community. "To watch your world crumble before your eyes, and be too powerless to oppose."

"It isn’t fair… but life has never been such a thing," Aric sighed. "None of you will die, not by my blade at least… or that of my men. By morning, you all shall leave for the Kirik Kingdom. By foot, the journey should not take more than a day, and there are several towns along your way. When you reach this town, you may rest, eat, and warn them of our arrival.

Let the civilians depart, and you all must head to the inner kingdom and relay what happened here."

The crowd’s laments and cries had slowly begun to die down. Yes, their homes were still in flames, but they were all alive and promised not to be killed. If they went inward into Kirik, as long as they still had their lives, there was hope.

And such a thing was a rarity in war.

"Rest, and let the flames of your burning home offer you warmth… you all embark on a long journey tomorrow."

Aric walked off the platform, his men beginning to set up base at the previous garrison outpost as the fire raged on.

———

The prince took the former chamber of the previous garrison leader. He zipped the large tent behind him, ordering not to be disturbed. He walked to the middle, drawing his sword from his back, glancing at it a while before laying it to the side of the small mattress.

He sat on it, his armor clanging as he did.

’Status window’

————-

Name: Aric Valerian

Title: Forgotten Prince, General

Race: Human

Level: Martial Knight (1) / Tier 1 Mage (Second Circle)

Martial Mage Level: 2

Health (HP): 90/90

Stamina: 90/90

Ki: 70/100 (Restricted)

Mana (MP): 20/20

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Attributes:

- Strength: 54

- Agility: 47

- Endurance: 45

- Intelligence: 6

—————

The difference was significant since he had last checked. It seemed after Serina had broken through to the next circle, in the last session alone, she was able to heal him quite significantly. His health was now only 10 points away from a hundred, and so was his stamina.

However, more importantly, his Ki was only thirty percent restricted, down from the original eighty percent restriction back at his estate. He had already noticed the difference—he was faster, stronger, and had dispatched enemy soldiers with an ease he had never experienced… so much so that no martial skill was necessary.

Finally, what intrigued him the most was the mage level. He had somehow advanced to the second circle without even doing anything, and as a result, his mana and martial mage level had increased.

For Serina, she explained her advancement was determined through a system of sacrifice and reward, which made sense as she was tethered to the Weaver of Balance.

So for him, who was of the Weaver of Fate… how did his advancement work?

’And the subspace Serina was in… how do I reach my own?’