Chapter 16: How does a dog become a wolf?

Arthur lined up with the other members of Unit 7, his spear gripped tightly in both hands. This was the first time in three weeks he was joining them for battle, and yet, despite the weight of the weapon in his hands, his goal wasn't destruction—it was salvation. His crimson eyes scanned the horizon, reflexively looking for the MageKnight that had almost killed him twice now. The memory of the power haunted him now, that sadistic smile plaguing his dreams.

"MAAARRRCH!" the new commander bellowed, his voice slicing through the noise of restless soldiers.

 He had been promoted after Sera's arrow felled the last one in a battle. 'Sera.' That still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Arthur moved in formation with Unit 7, advancing in sync with his comrades toward the rebel forces.

Then, after a moment of tense silence, the command came like thunder: "CHAAARRRGE!!"

The battlefield erupted as the two armies surged into each other like opposing waves. Shouts and screams filled the air, accompanied by the harsh clash of metal against metal. Arthur's spear spun deftly in his hands as he fought with lethal precision.

 Around him, chaos reigned, but he moved with purpose. His instincts had been honed through countless skirmishes, and at his back, Noah stood like a silent sentinel, complementing Arthur's movements. Together, they formed an almost unbreakable machine of whirling death.

Arthur felt great. Powerful.

The spear moved in his hands like an extension of himself, cutting through enemy defenses with ease. Ever since his awakening, his strength had increased dramatically, better than most soldiers—but far from that of a MageKnight. He lacked any training or skill in his elemental affinities, having devoted all his time to healing and fighting with the spear. He planned to learn offensive magic when he had time, after the battle.

When three soldiers broke off from the enemy ranks and advanced on him, Arthur didn't flinch. Not long ago, this would have been a death sentence. But now?

"Mana Boost," he whispered, his voice almost swallowed by the din of battle.

The familiar rush of energy surged through him, fusing mana into his muscles and bones. He darted forward, refusing to let his opponents strike first. In an instant, his spear found its mark, plunging into the throat of the middle soldier before he could even raise his blade. The two remaining soldiers reacted with sharp precision, their spears thrusting toward him from either side. But Arthur was already moving, keeping his momentum as he rolled forward, pulling his weapon free as the corpse fell to the ground.

He pivoted sharply, launching into a barrage of precise thrusts and slashes. One soldier fell back under the relentless assault, his defenses crumbling. The other sought to attack from behind, but his spear was parried cleanly by Noah's sword.

They fought like this for hours until the horn sounded for them to retreat temporarily.

 Arthur and Noah trudged back together, battered but alive.

"Hahh, it doesn't get easier, man," Arthur panted, collapsing onto a patch of grass.

"Tell me about it," Noah replied, leaning back against his sword, equally exhausted. He had always been stronger than Arthur, but as the battles wore on, he wasn't so sure his endurance could keep up anymore.

"You gonna start healing now?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, but I'll need you covering my back. The fighting's been fiercer than usual today."

Noah grunted in agreement, but his tone softened. "Alright."

As they caught their breath, Arthur turned to Noah. "Hey, Noah?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's this 'Saint of War' everyone keeps talking about?"

Noah gave him a blank look before chuckling. "Why? Think we've got a saint on our side?"

Arthur shrugged. "I've heard the soldiers mention him. Thought maybe he's real."

Noah laughed harder this time. "Nah. He's no saint, just someone who knows healing magic."

Arthur sighed heavily. It would've been nice to have a true saint on their side, especially after hearing Marsh's ominous tales of the Dark Saint.

"Come on," he groaned, standing up. "Let's get back to it."

Back on the battlefield, Arthur moved like a ghost among the chaos, dragging wounded soldiers to safety on his Aresium plates while Noah stood guard. He'd noticed something strange, though—some rebel soldiers actively avoided him. When they spotted him, they turned away, finding a different enemy.

'Am I going crazy? Why would they avoid me?'

Shaking his head, Arthur focused on the task at hand. He delivered the injured to Marsh, feeding them his blood to stabilize their wounds.

"If only this damn blood worked on me," Arthur muttered bitterly, stepping back into the fray with Noah at his side.

Then he heard it.

A rumble.

In the distance, a storm of dust and noise approached faster than any army had a right to move. Reinforcements.

The soldiers around him noticed too, their spirits lifting with renewed vigor. Arthur felt his heart race, both with hope and apprehension. General Thanason's forces had finally arrived, elite soldiers, trained and disciplined.

"About fucking time," Noah spat. Arthur understood his frustration. How many comrades had they lost waiting for reinforcements that should've come weeks ago? The arrival of General Thanason meant the King's council had finally accepted the rebellion as a real problem. If only they had done that earlier.

Arthur jogged forward, searching for survivors. He knelt beside a groaning soldier, a rebel.

"Arthur, wait!" Noah's voice was sharp, but Arthur ignored him.

Kneeling, he reopened the cut on his palm and held it to the man's mouth. Before the soldier could drink,

Noah grabbed Arthur's hand.

"What are you doing?" Noah hissed. "He's a rebel!"

Arthur's scarlet eyes burned as he met Noah's gaze. "You of all people want me to give preferential treatment?"

Noah hesitated but scowled. "If you save him, more of our soldiers will die! Don't you get that?"

Arthur sighed. "Most of these people don't want to be here, Noah. They're just pawns, same as us. I make them all promise the same thing—that they'll stop fighting."

"And you believe them?" Noah's voice was incredulous.

Arthur shrugged. "If they don't keep their promise, that's on them. I'll still do my part. Do you think I should just let people die?"

Noah said nothing, his hand falling away.

Arthur turned back to the soldier. "If I save you, will you stop fighting?"

The man's eyes widened, his voice trembling. "I… I promise."

"Then drink," Arthur said, pressing his palm to the soldier's mouth.

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Arthur didn't see the comet coming.

By the time he felt the heat, it was too late. He turned to see the flaming projectile ripping toward him, and his body froze.

'Not again,' he thought, a strange calm washing over him. He closed his eyes. 'I won't die scared.'

A sudden force tackled him to the ground. Arthur's head struck a rock, and the world went black.

When he woke, hours had passed. Groaning, Arthur pushed himself upright, dislodging a heavy weight from his chest. The ground around him was obliterated. He turned to see what—or who—had saved him.

His stomach dropped.

"Skelter…" Arthur whispered, staring at the broken body of the man who had shielded him.

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James Skelter had carried out orders that most soldiers wouldn't dare to stomach.

It was why they called him 'The Dog of the Army'. He wasn't ashamed of that title. That's who he was. The kind of man no one liked, but everyone needed. Loyal, unflinching and brutally efficient. That loyalty had served him well. It had won him battles, promotion, and the support of powerful men.

But it had also cost him countless nights of sleep. He had killed those who begged for mercy. Set fire to enemy villages, their screams forever disturbing his pace. He'd led his own men into ambushes knowing that most of them wouldn't make it back. Each time he had buried his doubts within his conscience, under layers of propaganda and justification.

'For the Empire. For my family. For the Greater good. For survival.' How many times had he said that to himself now? And now he had been ordered, indirectly true, to batter a noble brat. Where was the greater good in this? How would the Empire benefit? There was nothing strategic, or necessary. It was just cruelty, for cruelty's sake. And that…that stuck in Skelter's throat like a shard of glass.

When Arthur Gravewalker had first arrived, Skelter hated him. He convinced himself that he hated him. The boy's very demeanour marked him as noble, and he used his hatred of them to quiet his conscience. Spoilt. Entitled. Cowardly. He had whispered those words to himself like a mantra, as he beat Arthur unflinchingly.

He needed Arthur to fit his description. He needed it.

So he made a habit of watching Arthur, taking pleasure in his every shortcoming. The boy had little talent for the sword, it was pathetic really. But to Skelter's dismay, Arthur pushed through. Training further when he thought no one was noticing. Always fighting for survival. He silently withstood the hatred of the army, of his peers. Even his bunk mate had tried to beat him in his sleep.

Even worse, Arthur didn't react the way he was supposed to. There was no begging, no entitlement, no spoiled demands for better treatment. When Arthur had dragged himself out of the mud on that third day of battle, after being thought dead the entire night, Skelter felt his heart sink. The boy's eyes were firm, and strong. Unbroken by war.

It wasn't defiance exactly. It wasn't pride either. It was the kind of resolve that came from someone who had already survived worse than Skelter's fists could ever have done. And something about that look unsettled him in a way he couldn't explain.

Skelter tried to convince himself it was a fluke. Arthur was still a lordling, after all, and it was only a matter of time before the boy's true colors showed. So he started watching him, waiting for that moment when Arthur would fail.

At first, Skelter focused on Arthur's weaknesses: the boy was soft. He could see the hesitation in his blows, the way he flinched each time he killed. Even after the first couple of days of war, Arthur struggled. He wasn't a natural killer. His spear strikes were hesitant, his movements too defensive. Skelter thought this might finally be the boy's downfall. But no. Instead Arthur had done something even worse.

He started saving people.

At first, it seemed like madness. Skelter heard whispers of a soldier dragging the wounded from the battlefield during the chaos of battle. A soldier with hair like pure snow, and eyes like crystal blood. 'It couldn't have been' he had thought to himself. So he ignored the stories, believing it to be just rumour.

 But as the weeks passed, the stories became impossible to ignore.

So Skelter then decided to check himself. He saw Arthur saving his comrades, the very same people who had spat at his feet days before. And now, Arthur would drag them back with an almost terrifying will. He would help them with that strange blood of his, and drag them to safety.

Then Skelter had noticed Arthur had been disappearing into the night. 'Finally!' He had thought. 'This was something abnormal. Perhaps he was secretly selling army secrets, or informing them of their base layout.'

But again, Skelter had been proved wrong. Because Arthur's deeds wouldn't stay quiet. His own soldiers in his unit had told him how Arthur had appeared out of the night, like a mythical saint and had hid and healed them. Then when morning came, he had dragged them to safety. His own men now praised Arthur in his building.

So to his surprise, he had found himself avoiding Arthur. Finding any reason to be busy when the boy was near, any reason not to face the scarlet eyes again. He had even stayed away form his building, not wanting to hear his soldiers speak about the boy.

But even Officer Mara, his once ally in the hate against the nobility, now spoke of Arthur with a tone of respect. Almost reverence. Reverence!

As the days passed, the more impossible it became for Skelter to reconcile with his conscience. Because Arthur wasn't anything like what he was supposed to be like. What he needed him to be like.

But the truth was unavoidable. Arthur Gravewalker wasn't weak. He wasn't a coward. And he was far better a man than most soldiers Skelter had fought beside. Definitely a far better man than him.

That was why, when Skelter saw the burning comet hurtling toward Arthur, he didn't think. He didn't weigh his options or consider the consequences. He just moved.

His legs burned with the effort as he sprinted across the battlefield, dodging through chaos . He saw Arthur turn toward the blazing fireball, the boy's scarlet eyes wide with shock. There was no time to yell, no time to warn him.

Skelter slammed into Arthur, knocking him to the ground just before the comet struck. Pain exploded through his body as the blast tore through him, ripping apart flesh and bone. The agony was unbearable, but it didn't matter.

As darkness crept into the edges of his vision, Skelter looked down at the unconscious boy beneath him.

"We're even now, Lordling," he whispered, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

And for the first time in years, when James Skelter closed his eyes. His conscience was clear.

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Arthur stared down at Skelter's lifeless body, confusion and guilt churning in his gut.

'Why? Why would he save me?No! Think about this later, there's a war.'

Burying his thoughts and troubled emotions, Arthur turned to assess the war.

Unseen by him, a thread of black mana slithered from Skelter's corpse, binding itself to him.

The rebel's were wilting under the added power of the reinforcements, the stalemate was finally over. The rebel's forces were under a…slow retreat?

Arthur's gaze turned toward the commanders' tent, where General Thanason overlooked the battlefield. The rebels' retreat felt… deliberate.

'Why?'

Then it hit him—the fireball. The reinforcements.

"Shit."