Liam's eyes fluttered open, the world swimming in a haze of red and gold. The air was thick with the scent of hot iron, sweat, and pine—a sharp, primal difference from the cold, sterile light of the Library of Axioms.
He was on the ground. The earth was hard-packed, bruised by thousands of pounding feet. The pain in his head—a dull, systemic ache—was the first thing he registered. It was a sensation he had not felt since his CIP installation. He instinctively lifted a hand, finding no gauntlet, only scarred, calloused skin.
A shadow fell over him.
A bulky man, built like a granite column, stood over him. His chest was corded muscle, marked by battle scars, and his eyes were the color of sun-baked earth. He offered a massive, calloused hand.
"You got hit there in the head real good, Recruit."
Liam stared at the hand, then at the man's face. He didn't recognize the man, but the title—Recruit—felt right.
He took the hand. The grip was crushing, reassuring. He was yanked to his feet with effortless strength.
The world stabilized. Liam looked around.
He stood in the center of the Spartan Training Grounds. Hundreds of figures—all men and women forged into weapons, clad in simple leather and bronze—moved with synchronized, brutal efficiency. They ran obstacle courses, hammered steel, and clashed wooden shields, their shouts echoing off the surrounding hills. This was not a place of thought or logic; it was a place of will.
Memory Query: He searched his mind for "Elara," "Chronos Shard," "Zephyr," or "Axioms." Nothing. He felt the absence of those words like an empty shelf.
Identity Core: There was only one truth: He was a Spartan. He was trained for war, designed for duty, and his purpose was absolute.
"Status report," the bulky man commanded.
"Motor function green. Recall: sub-optimal," Liam replied, his voice gravelly, but firm.
The man chuckled, clapping him hard on the shoulder—a blow that would have crippled an ordinary man. "That's a concussion, not a philosophical quandary. You're fine, K-7. Ready yourself. The Iron Vow is tonight."
The Iron Vow
Liam stood in the barracks, donning the standard light armor: cured leather, a bronze breastplate, and a simple helmet.
The bulky man, whose name was Milo, approached. Milo fastened a blade to Liam's hip—a short, heavy bronze sword designed for close-quarters fighting.
"Look at me, K-7," Milo ordered.
Liam met his gaze.
"You remember the Vow?"
"The Iron Vow is absolute," Liam recited, the words burned into his core identity. "I am the shield against the dark, the spear that finds the heart of the foe. I live for the Legion. I die for the Realm."
"Good. Now focus on the mission."
Milo pointed through the open entrance of the barracks, toward a towering bonfire that crackled in the training yard. Around it, the entire legion—five hundred Spartans—were gathered, their faces grim in the flickering light.
"The Knights' Kingdom has crossed the border one too many times. They stole the Harvest. They desecrated the Eastern Shrine," Milo hissed, his voice low with tribal hatred. "The Elder Council has delivered the decree. Tonight, we move. We end the threat where it sleeps."
The March to War
The map lay spread across a rough-hewn table: a parchment showing the rough frontier and the sprawling stone walls of the Knights' capital—Castellum Ferri (The Iron Castle).
"Intelligence is solid," Milo explained, tracing a line with a scarred finger. "The Knights expect us on the mountain passes. They've fortified the walls with their arcane Sentinels—those magic-infused constructs."
Liam's eyes narrowed, searching the map not for obstacles, but for weaknesses.
"They rely on the Sentinels to negate force," Liam stated, his tactical mind overriding his amnesia. "They will position the bulk of their garrison against the mountain passes, leaving the less defensible approaches exposed."
Milo grinned, clearly pleased. "Exactly. We're not going through the mountains."
He slammed his fist onto the table, marking a spot far to the west, where the map showed only a vast, fetid swampland—the Mire of False Dawn.
"We take the Mire. It's too unstable for their heavy cavalry, and the Sentinels cannot track through the bog-mist. We approach the castle from the south, through the abandoned Catacombs of the Old Gods."
The Spartan Infiltration
Liam felt a cold surge of focus. This was what he was built for: infiltration and precision strike.
"The Knights' weakness," Liam summarized, "is their arrogance. They assume our tactics are as rigid as their own."
"We move in small, silent wedges," Milo instructed, indicating the final plan. "Your squad, K-7, is the Vanguard. You'll take the western sewer grate beneath the Catacombs. Your objective is not to fight the main force. Your objective is to reach the Royal Keep, find the Knights' War Horn of the Sentinel, and silence it."
"Silencing the Horn will deactivate the Sentinels?"
"No," Milo corrected, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It will make them turn on their masters. It's an ancient flaw in their arcane coding—a failsafe."
The stakes were clear: success meant chaos in the Knights' ranks and victory for the Spartans. Failure meant the annihilation of the entire Legion.
Milo looked at Liam, his expression suddenly serious. "You're the best the Legion has ever forged, K-7. Your focus is absolute. Do not hesitate. Do not falter. The fate of the Realm rests on your iron will."
Liam reached into his chest, where his heart beat with the disciplined, steady rhythm of a trained warrior.
"Mission accepted," he stated, the words an oath.
He strapped the bronze helmet over his head, the world shrinking down to the narrow view of the path ahead, the silent command of his mission, and the absolute need for vengeance against the Knights' Kingdom.
The Legion moved out under the cover of the new moon, slipping into the Mire of False Dawn, beginning their silent, deadly advance toward Castellum Ferri.