Warrior Training System

"Master, are you sure that pig of a mage can drive those Magisterians toward us?" a purple-haired female asked, standing near the older mage, who was clearly the master of both her and Barok. Her mage robes marked her as a member of the cult's combatant arm.

Her master, the older mage, was third-in-command of the cult's mage combatant arm, the Abyssal Hands, and rumored to be the son of Charles Morvain, the Artistic Butcher, one of the cult's leaders. An astral-ranked mage, he specialized in blood and flesh magic, just like his own master. Though his true name was unknown, everyone called him the Flesh Mender. "Don't worry," he said with a sly grin, "I gave him some of my creations to make it happen. They might not defeat that monster of a Seventh Circle Warrior, but they'll sure as hell scare the weaker ones into runnin' back here. Even the stronger ones can't hold out against a swarm of 'em…"

The purple-haired mage's eyes widened in shock. "How many of those did you give him?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

The Flesh Mender smirked, glancing down at the cultists below, readying themselves for the Magisterian soldiers expected to come fleeing back. "About ten," he said, his tone casual. The revelation stunned his student even further. The creations he spoke of—flesh golems—weren't just powerful; they were crafted with rare resources, especially the flesh and organs of high-ranked Circle Warriors, which were near impossible to acquire. These grotesque constructs, melded from the flesh of high-star monsters and Circle Warriors, bore abilities inherited from the Flesh Mender's own master, honed through his blood and flesh magic.

The key difference was that while the Artistic Butcher stitched together disparate parts with magic to make them function, his student, the Flesh Mender, had refined his flesh-binding magic to meld them into a single, seamless new flesh. But the flesh of powerful monsters and Circle Warriors was hard-won—acquiring it cost many lives. Crafting just one flesh golem required the flesh of at least a dozen Circle Warriors and several high-star monsters, which only elite Circle Warriors or mages like the Artistic Butcher could hunt or create, making them extraordinarily precious. "But those were priceless, ordered to be saved for when the war truly begins…" the purple-haired mage muttered to herself, knowing her master wasn't one to disobey the high priests' commands.

Seeing him deploy these rare creations, fully aware they'd likely be destroyed by a Seventh Circle Warrior just to strike a heavy blow against the reinforcements headed to Karmen City, she flashed a wide, excited smile. "So, things are finally gettin' serious?"

The Flesh Mender nodded, his wide smile mirroring hers. "This'll be the first big blow we deal to those unenlightened, godless armies. Even bigger if we can take out a few high-ranked mages—especially those Aetherion or Sixth Circle Warriors. That'll crush their morale…" His grin widened as he closed his eyes, voice reverent. "All according to the Enlightened One's plans…"

The purple-haired mage echoed the chant, eyes closed, her own wide smile fervent. "All according to the Enlightened One's plans…"

Barok, meanwhile, relished his first real chance to confront his lord's enemies—ignorant humans, unenlightened to the power and brilliance of their lord. They didn't deserve such glory, only death, so their lord could save their mortal souls, free this mortal world, and grant them immense power.

On the other side, today marked Barok's first true contribution to the sacred work. His master, the Flesh Mender, had assigned him to lead a hundred followers of the Dark God in an assault on Magesteria's forces.

Though Barok, a mere Pyraxis, wouldn't stand a chance against a Seventh Circle Warrior—who could kill with a mere thought—his master's flesh golems gave him an edge. The few hundred soldiers under his command also played a key role in the plan: drive the enemy back into the narrow canyon where the Flesh Mender and his students, Barok's brothers and sisters, waited to slaughter them.

The canyon was rigged with deadly magical traps, with assassins and mages concealed, ready to strike on sight. All Barok had to do was get close to the enemy camp, just outside the Seventh Circle Warrior's detection zone—a daunting radius of a few hundred meters.

The flesh golems, summoned by the Flesh Mender, made this plan perilous. They couldn't move far without alerting the enemy, so they had to be positioned close to force the Magisterians to flee directly into the narrow canyon, with no other escape.

From his vantage point overlooking the camp, Barok halted and turned to his fellow cultists. "The moment I activate the summoning circle, order everyone into position," he commanded, his voice low and fierce. "Kill anyone who slips past these flesh golems. No one leaves alive."

"Should we use the mana bombs too?" a Hollow Fang asked, his tone eager but cautious. Barok hesitated, knowing those were costly—each bomb consumed an entire mana crystal. Still, they were devastating, capable of wounding even Fourth Circle Warriors and high-ranking mages if enough were unleashed.

"If it comes to that, then use 'em," Barok said, his voice firm. "Now go, let me summon them…" He pulled out a worn, brown parchment, crafted from some monster's hide, its surface etched with a glowing magic circle.

The cultists stepped back, giving Barok space as he placed the parchment on the ground and knelt, gazing skyward with a wide, fervent smile. Slicing his hand with a blade, he let his blood drip onto the circle, cackling wildly. "May our lord savor the sacrifices we offer tonight! All hail Silas…"

The cloaked figures chanted in unison, "All hail Silas…" their voices echoing as Barok squeezed more blood from his hand, letting it drip onto his face. He moved his bloodied hand toward the monster-hide parchment, but in that instant, a red flash streaked from the shadow of a nearby tree. It tore past Barok, whose menacing, blood-smeared smile froze. A thin line appeared, slicing from the top of one ear to the bottom of the other. The cultists watched in horror as the upper half of Barok's face, locked in its frozen expression, slid off and fell to the ground with a wet thud, like a dropped fruit, his body collapsing after.

All eyes turned to the red flash, now halted a short distance away, Cassian standing with the stolen parchment in hand before it vanished. "You dare to kill an Abyssal Priest?" one cultist roared, his eyes blazing with rage as he charged with a stone hammer. Others attacked as well, but Cassian, grinning, seemed unfazed. The sweet chime of a system notification rang in his ears, confirming his task was complete.