Leveling From Hell

Morning light spilled faintly through the cracks of carriage No. 75, its golden rays cutting across velvet seats and glinting against the polished wood interior. Outside, the camp was alive with noise and motion. Soldiers shouted orders as they pulled down tents, the snap of ropes echoing through the morning air.

The thud of boots against packed earth mingled with the neighs of restless horses, while carriage wheels groaned as they were tested for the long journey ahead. The smell of hay, sweat, and faint embers from dying campfires clung to the air.

Arzael stirred first. His movements were deliberate, controlled, like a blade unsheathing. He sat upright, ran a hand briefly through his hair, then reached out and tapped Seraphina's shoulder with surprising gentleness. Her eyes fluttered open, pupils still hazy from sleep, but she offered a small nod. Puff shifted in her arms, yawning widely before her tiny voice broke the drowsy silence.

"Boss… where are you going?" Puff's tone was still muffled with sleep, yet laced with curiosity. Her ears twitched lazily.

Arzael's reply was flat, stripped of emotion. "…Just something to take care of."

He pushed the carriage door open. Cool morning air swept inside, carrying the crisp bite of dew along with the metallic tang of sharpened steel. Though the weather was refreshing, the air outside was heavy, charged with the weight of looming responsibility.

Rows of Valiant soldiers filled his vision as he stepped down. Their armor gleamed blue and gold beneath the sun, a dazzling display of unity and discipline. Some adjusted saddle straps with precise movements, others drew blades halfway from their scabbards to test their edges, the sound of steel ringing sharp and cold. A group carried spears, their polished tips flashing like starlight even in daylight.

As Arzael approached, murmurs stirred. A mercenary striding so confidently among their ranks drew wary glances. To the soldiers, he was an outsider, a piece of grit among polished gems.

"What is it, boy?" barked an older soldier, his tone curt but not hostile. A strip of decorated cloth on his shoulders marked him as a field officer. His weathered face, lined by years of service, studied Arzael with a mix of caution and curiosity.

Arzael met his eyes. No hesitation, no stutter. "Tonight, there will be an attack. No one sleeps. Every soldier and every examinee must be warned."

The words fell like cold iron.

The officer stiffened, eyes widening. "Are you certain? You're not jok—"

He stopped mid-sentence. Crimson irises locked onto his own, unflinching and merciless. There was no jest, no chance of exaggeration in that gaze, only certainty sharp enough to cut. The older soldier felt his throat tighten as though invisible fingers gripped it.

"…Understood," he managed at last, voice clipped, shoulders rigid.

Arzael gave a single, brief nod before turning on his heel and striding back to carriage No. 75.

The officer wasted no time. He beckoned nearby men, words urgent but controlled. Soon whispers slithered through the convoy like wildfire, leaping from soldier to soldier, carriage to carriage. By the time the rumor reached the rear guard, it had sharpened into a single, chilling line:

"An attack will come tonight."

The reactions varied. Some examinees laughed nervously, waving it off as paranoia or rumor-mongering. Others gripped their weapons tighter, unease stirring in their chests. The soldiers of Valiant, however, did not dismiss it. They were trained to prepare, to act, not to gamble lives on doubt. Better to stay vigilant and find nothing than to be slaughtered in sleep.

Back inside the carriage, the atmosphere shifted as Arzael lowered himself into his seat. Puff bounded onto his lap, round eyes wide, her tail stiff with anxiety.

"Boss, what did you say to that soldier?"

"I warned him," Arzael answered simply. "Tonight, we'll be attacked."

Puff froze, fur bristling. "Eh?! Attacked?!" Her squeak filled the cabin, ears twitching upright in alarm.

The quiet figure across from them stirred. Lena, arms folded, her back pressed against the cushioned wall, fixed Arzael with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "An attack? And how could you possibly know that?"

Arzael didn't flinch. "A feeling." His tone was calm, detached, as though speaking of the weather.

"That's ridiculous!" Lena's voice snapped like a whip. "Do you realize what kind of chaos you could cause with a claim like that? A careless word could throw this entire convoy into panic!"

Arzael raised an eyebrow, lips tilting in the faintest suggestion of disdain. "Relax. My instincts don't lie."

The words landed heavy, silencing the space. Lena opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, Chitara's voice slipped softly into the tension.

"Lena… let it go."

The princess's eyes, calm yet probing, flicked toward Arzael. For a fleeting moment, curiosity flickered in her regal composure.

Lena exhaled sharply through her nose, but closed her mouth. The air remained taut with unspoken thoughts.

...

By midday, the convoy halted in an open field, the sun blazing overhead. Soldiers spread into a perimeter, their disciplined formation keeping the gathering safe. The clatter of pots and the smell of warm broth drifted through the camp. Examinees gathered beneath canvas tents, seated cross-legged as rations were passed around.

Within carriage No. 75, their meal was modest yet comforting: freshly baked bread, a pot of steaming chicken broth, and a pouch of dried fruit. The warmth filled the confined space, though it did little to ease the tension lingering in the air.

Lena broke the silence, her tone clipped but resolute. "If what you say is true, and an attack really comes tonight, you will remain here to protect Princess Chitara."

But the princess immediately shook her head, her voice cutting like a blade. "No Lena. If an attack comes, I will fight."

"That's absurd princess!" Lena shot back, leaning forward. "You'd be the first target. The safest place for you is here, hidden, guarded."

Chitara's gaze narrowed, silver-blue eyes hard as steel. "Do I look like a helpless woman to you, Lena?"

The air between them crackled, ready to ignite, until Puff broke in with her shrill cheer.

"Don't worry, don't worry! If they come, Seraphina will blow them to pieces!"

Her tiny paws flailed dramatically for effect, breaking the tension in the strangest way.

Seraphina, pale and silent, didn't respond. Her crimson eyes shimmered faintly, catching the light, betraying the faintest ripple of intent behind her calm exterior.

The conversation died down, leaving behind a silence both awkward and heavy, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

...

As the sun sank beyond the horizon, night claimed the sky. The convoy halted once more upon a broad, empty plain. Torches and campfires flared alive, their flames painting the dark with harsh light and stretching shadows.

But unlike the previous night, the camp did not rest.

Valiant soldiers stood rigid in their ranks, torches planted firmly into the earth. Their armor shimmered with firelight, each polished plate reflecting the glow like liquid gold.

Swords rested unsheathed, spears braced, eyes scanning the treeline without pause. The campfires, arranged in calculated circles, were not for warmth but for sight lines, every shadow scrutinized, every patch of darkness a potential threat.

The examinees stayed in their carriages, though many could be seen through narrow windows gripping weapons, muttering spells, or silently praying. The air was thick, suffocating, pressed down by the anticipation of unseen danger.

Inside carriage No. 75, silence ruled. Arzael sat with eyes closed, posture like a statue carved from stone. Seraphina sat beside him, her hand idly resting on her thighs, Puff curled alertly in her lap. Across from them, Chitara's fingers tightened around her silver-forged rapier, the blade gleaming faintly even in dim firelight. Lena stood near the door, shoulders squared, her stance taut and ready.

They waited.

...

Minutes stretched long. The forest whispered with the sound of crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl. Firewood crackled. Soldiers shifted occasionally, boots scraping against packed dirt.

Then—

Ssshhh.

Shadows stirred at the treeline. One figure. Then another. Then dozens, sliding forward like phantoms.

A sentry's eyes widened. His whistle pierced the night with a shriek.

Piiiiitttt!

The alarm spread like wildfire. Whistles blared in succession down the length of the convoy, soldiers shouting as steel scraped free of scabbards.

"ENEMIES! TO ARMS! FORM THE LINE!"

The forest erupted.

Bandits, hundreds of them, burst forth from the darkness. Filthy bodies, snarling mouths, eyes glowing with bloodlust. Some wore crude masks, others let their scarred faces show. Their weapons were a mismatched collection of rusted blades, jagged axes, chipped spears, and crude bows.

They poured across the field, encircling all 150 carriages like wolves closing in on trapped prey.

A flaming arrow hissed into the sky, bursting in sparks. The bandits roared as one, voices raw and savage.

"CHARGEEEE!!!"

The battle exploded into chaos.

Because they had been warned, the convoy was not caught off guard. Examinees hurled open carriage doors, blades flashing, spells forming at their fingertips. Soldiers braced in shield walls, spears jutting outward, torches casting the enemy into relief.

The first collision came with a thunderous crash. Steel slammed against steel, screams split the night, and blasts of magic scorched the air. Firelight twisted, painting the battlefield in wild, shifting shadows.

The door of carriage No. 75 swung open with a slam.

Arzael stepped into the storm, Seraphina at his side, Puff clinging to her shoulder. Chitara followed, her rapier glinting like moonlight, with Lena close behind, jaw set, eyes sharp.

The moment soldiers spotted the princess, they surged forward, forming a protective wall of shields and steel around her.

But even shielded, danger came. A soldier faltered as a bandit lunged, blade raised high to cleave him down.

Arzael vanished.

Thud!

He reappeared in a blink, standing before the bandit. His fist snapped forward, fast as lightning.

CRACK!

The bandit's skull shattered like brittle glass, gore spraying as the body collapsed bonelessly to the dirt.

The soldier he saved stood frozen, face pale, chest heaving from the brush with death.

Arzael turned his head slightly, crimson eyes flicking toward the man. His voice was low, cold, final.

"Don't drop your guard."

Around them, the world was fire and chaos. Steel clashed, magic burst in blinding arcs, and the screams of the dying carried through the night. The battlefield burned beneath the stars.