The Scorched Plains stretched endlessly, a jagged mosaic of cracked earth, scattered ruins, and windswept ridges. By the time dawn broke, Alaric's band of mercenaries had already assembled, moving with precision that had been honed over weeks of rigorous training. Every man knew his position, his role, and the subtle signals that directed their coordinated movements.
Alaric stood apart, observing, silent and calculating. His eyes scanned the terrain: the placement of hills, the lines of sight, and the subtle traces of distant movement. There were others here — a band of rogue cultivators, at least a dozen strong, known for preying on travelers and minor settlements. This would be their first real test of combined tactics beyond controlled sparring.
"Remember," Alaric murmured, his voice carrying to only those closest. "Speed, coordination, and anticipation. We strike as one. Hesitation will cost you your life."
The rogue cultivators emerged from the shadows, unaware that their quarry was watching, calculating, and ready. Alaric raised a hand, a faint glimmer of spatial energy forming around his palm. With a subtle flick, he signaled the start.
The attack was swift. The mercenaries fanned out, flanking from both sides. One rogue cultivator lunged at Alaric directly, sensing his aura as a threat. Alaric's wind blade flashed, slashing across the dirt and sending the attacker sprawling. Simultaneously, two mercenaries pressed forward from the flanks, cutting off escape routes.
Alaric's mind moved faster than the eye could follow. He anticipated every move, every dodge, and every strike. One rogue tried to retreat uphill, but Alaric manipulated a spatial rift, bending the ground beneath him and sending him tumbling. Others were forced into kill zones created by his men, where the combination of their strength and his subtle magical manipulations became lethal.
By noon, the rogue group was either captured or incapacitated. No mercenary had been seriously harmed, a testament to Alaric's strategic brilliance. He surveyed the aftermath, noting weaknesses and strengths in his men. Some moved predictably, relying too much on brute strength. Others adapted, using the environment and following commands with precision.
"That is how battles are won," Alaric said quietly, addressing his band after the fight. "Not through sheer power alone, but through intelligence, coordination, and timing. Remember these lessons. One day, they will be the difference between life and death — not just for you, but for everyone who follows us."
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the mercenaries began to understand the man who had silently taken control of their lives. He was not merely strong; he was a teacher, a commander, and a force that shaped the battlefield itself.
Alaric stayed awake that night, scanning the horizon. Rumors had reached him of minor warlords closer to Ashenfall — men with small forces, greedy and ambitious. These would be the first dominoes in his gradual path toward the city. He traced the terrain with his mind, envisioning the future, the steps he would take, the contingencies he would prepare for.
> Patience. Preparation. Precision.
He repeated the mantra silently. The Scorched Plains had already taught him much, but Ashenfall would demand centuries of calculation, power, and unrelenting will. Tonight was just the beginning of the strategies, the sieges, and the battles to come.