Souls.

Amara's body lay still, sweat glistening on her forehead, her hands twitching slightly as if grasping at something beyond reach. Her face was pale, eyes darting beneath her eyelids as if locked in a battle all her own. Vallen knew exactly what she felt and carried her to his room.

The Skills she had obtained was speaking to her in her dream or rather, showing her something much deeper, the past, the history behind the souls.

Amara was no longer in her own body. She stood on a vast battlefield, her senses overwhelmed by the chaos around her.The sound of clashing steel filled the air, the cries of men echoing as they fought for their lives. But it wasn't just a battle, it was a massacre.

Before her, standing like an immovable wall, was a figure in ancient armor, the leader of the king's guard, his presence a mountain amidst the storm. His name had been lost to history, but his legacy had become legend. His soul became a Divine book, and it was his essence, his strength, that Amara now bore witness to.

The man who had once commanded the king's guards was relentless in battle. His sword, massive and glowing faintly with a pale light, moved with inhuman speed and precision.

The battlefield stretched out endlessly, littered with bodies of the fallen. The guard captain moved with the precision of a machine, his sword carving through the air like a whirlwind. Enemy after enemy fell before him, their blood staining the ground. His troops, the king's finest soldiers, followed his lead with unyielding loyalty, their swords flashing in tandem as they executed the Ten Thousand Blades technique, a perfect harmony of death.

Amara could see it all clearly. The footwork, swift and deliberate. It was as if the guardsmen were not just wielding swords, but embodying the very concept of the blade itself. The technique wasn't just physical, it was spiritual, a bond between the warriors and their swords, something beyond the reach of ordinary soldiers. 

The guard captain, Amara could feel his emotions as if they were her own, fighting not for glory, but for something deeper. His king, a figure seated on a distant throne behind the frontlines, watched the battle unfold.

Amara's dream shifted, and suddenly, she was no longer an observer but seeing through the captain's eyes. She felt the weight of his sword in her hand or rather, his hand as he swung, cleaving through another wave of enemies. The strain of battle was creeping in, but he didn't falter. His men fought on, as unyielding as he was. They were bound by an oath, by a purpose stronger than death itself. They fought for their king, their last defense in this doomed battle.

The ground trembled under the sheer force of the clashing armies. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the darkened sky, as if the heavens themselves wept for what was to come. The captain raised his sword high, his voice bellowing above the roar of the battlefield. His men rallied to him, forming an unbreakable line. Their blades gleamed in the dim light, each one prepared to die for the king they served.

And then, it happened.

In the midst of the chaos, Amara watched as the captain's eyes, still burning with determination, found the king. He had fallen. His once proud figure lay slumped on the ground, blood pooling around him. The enemy had found a way past the defenses. The realization hit the captain like a hammer to the chest. The one man they had sworn their lives to protect was gone.

A crushing silence followed.

The battle raged on around them, but in that moment, everything stopped. The captain fell to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. His few men who were still alive, their faces pale and blank, as if the very spirit had been drained from them. They had failed. The king was dead, and with him, their purpose. They could not save their king.

 One by one, his guards looked to him, waiting for a command, but none came. Instead, in a move that struck Amara to her core, the captain raised his sword one final time not against an enemy, but against himself.

"We have failed!" His voice echoed across the battlefield, carried by the wind. "And so, we follow him."

Without hesitation he turned his blade inward. His men did the same, each one following their leader's example. One by one, they took their own lives, their bodies falling beside their fallen king, an eternal testament to their loyalty and failure. The blood of the king's finest mingled with the blood of their enemies, and the battlefield grew eerily silent.

And then the vision shifted, the weight of the battlefield dissolving into something new, something even more unsettling. She was pulled from the ancient past, from the tragic fate of the king's guard, into a different memory, one equally steeped in blood and sacrifice.

Snow swirled in the bitter wind, biting at her skin. This was a battlefield too, though not as distant as the one she had just witnessed. It wasn't just the freezing air that chilled her. It was the sight before her.

She could see Siro and Vallen on horseback fighting with the Republic in a valley.

Siro, the man whose skill Amara had absorbed. Siro wasn't like the other soldiers. He had a sharpness to him, a glint of calculated resolve in his eyes. Even in the midst of war, his focus was absolute. 

He lifted his arm, his voice barely audible over the wind as he invoked the skill that had come to define him. The Shield of Armies.

The Skill erupted from him, expanding outward in a protective dome that stretched over the entire battlefield. The enemy's arrows, spears, and Skills crashed against it, shattering like waves against a rocky shore.

Amara saw it. Siro's hand trembled, his body collapsing under the strain. The shield flickered, just for a moment, but in that brief instant, it was clear to her, Siro couldn't hold on much longer. His heart was pounding, erratic, and she could feel the toll the skill was taking on his body. The strain was killing him, draining him of life with every passing second.

Siro's face twisted in agony and the shield shattered.

And minutes later Vallen ordered the other Skill users, his order was executed with terrifying destruction.

The avalanche swallowed the battlefield.

Amara's heart raced as she watched Siro and Vallen disappear beneath the snow, buried alive. The weight of the snow crushed them, suffocating them in an instant. Amara could feel Siro's panic, his body freezing, his lungs screaming for air. The shield had failed. There was nothing left but the cold and darkness.

But before the darkness could fully claim him, the dream shifted again.

Amara was pulled back, time rewinding itself like the turning of an ancient clock. The battlefield faded, and she was no longer trapped beneath the snow. Instead, she found herself standing in a quiet, sunlit courtyard. It was peaceful here, far from the horrors of war. She could hear the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze, the faint sound of a blacksmith's hammer ringing in the distance.

Siro was there, younger now, his body strong and unscarred. This was long before the avalanche, before the war had claimed so much of him. He stood in the center of the courtyard, practicing his swordsmanship. His movements were precise, fluid, honed through years of training. But it wasn't the sword in his hand that made him a legend, it was the shield.

Amara watched as Siro invoked the skill for the first time. The Shield of the Armies wasn't something he had mastered instantly. It had taken years of practice, years of battles fought and lost. She could see the frustration in his eyes as he struggled to control it at first, the shield flickering and faltering with each attempt. But he didn't give up. He couldn't. He had a purpose, a goal that drove him forward.

Through battle after battle, Siro's skill grew. He learned to control the shield, to expand its reach, to strengthen its power. It became more than just a Skill it became an extension of himself, a weapon as much as a defense. He used it to protect those who couldn't protect themselves, to hold the line when all seemed lost. It was through this unrelenting determination that Siro had become a hero of the Imperium.

The visions of the past, of Siro and Vallen, were unlike anything she had ever experienced. 

It was Vallen's command that grabbed at her soul the order that led to not only the death of the enemy, but the death of his own troops, including Siro.

Vallen's presence on the battlefield had been undeniable, a force of command and strategy that shaped the course of war. Yet, what troubled her most was the moment she had seen him make the decision, that split second where he chose victory over everything else, even the lives of those who had followed him without question.

He hadn't hesitated. His voice had been calm, firm, as he gave the order that sent Siro to his death. He had known what the shield would cost Siro, that using it for as long as they needed would drain him, and eventually kill him. And still, he had given the command. To save the Imperium, he had sacrificed not just Siro but countless soldiers, those who had sworn their loyalty to him, who had trusted him to lead them to victory, not death.

Amara's heart felt heavy, her chest tight with an unfamiliar tension. Could she do that? Could she ever become the kind of leader who had to make such impossible choices? She wanted to be strong like Vallen, to lead with authority and wisdom, but the image of his face as he gave the order haunted her. There had been no fear, no regret.

She wanted to be a leader, wanted to stand at the helm of something greater than herself. But now she understood the burden that came with it. Vallen's strength wasn't just in his ability to command, it was in his willingness to bear the weight of his decisions, no matter how painful they were. He had lived with the knowledge that he had sent men to their deaths, that he had sacrificed some to save many, and it hadn't broken him. But could she carry that kind of weight? Could she give orders that might kill those who followed her?

For the first time, Amara truly understood that becoming a leader wasn't about glory or recognition. It was about shouldering the unbearable, the cries of the fallen, the terror in the eyes of those you ordered into battle, and the knowledge that some of them wouldn't return.