The Sovereign System.

Luke hastily adjusted his robe and turned, sprinting back toward the camp. His heart pounded against his ribs as his eyes darted through the darkness, searching for the attackers he had glimpsed slipping into the area.

'I need a weapon.'

Before he could reach his tent, a figure in a black robe lunged from the shadows. Instinct took over—Luke snatched at the outstretched arm, but not before feeling the sharp sting of a blade slicing into his forearm. He gritted his teeth and held tight, refusing to let the weapon drive into his stomach.

Pain flared, igniting his anger. A surge of strength coursed through him. Closing the distance, he wrenched the attacker's arm aside, keeping the blade away from his body. With a swift pivot, he executed a hip throw, slamming the assailant onto his back in one fluid motion.

The man clutched the dagger stubbornly, unwilling to release it, but he had lost all leverage. With his life at stake, Luke did not hesitate. He twisted the weapon and drove it down with all his weight, plunging the blade deep into the attacker's chest.

The man convulsed briefly before going still. But Luke didn't pause. The danger hadn't passed, and he had no idea how many more were lurking in the shadows.

Screams erupted from the far end of the camp.

Luke snatched the dagger from the fallen attacker and rushed back to his tent. He needed his spear—and he needed to check on Kayson.

A figure hurtled past him into the forest, letting out a bloodcurdling scream. Luke barely had time to register it before spotting Kayson, his leg still raised from delivering a kick. Relief flooded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

"How many?" Luke demanded, urgency lacing his words.

"I don't know. When I woke up to your yelling, there was only one outside the tent," Kayson replied, irritation creeping into his tone.

"Check the east side—I'll take the other." Grabbing his spear, Luke didn't wait for a response before taking off. There was no time to waste.

The clash of steel echoed nearby. A soldier lay facedown in the dirt, unmoving. Another struggled against a hooded assailant, locked in desperate combat.

Without hesitation, Luke lunged forward. His spear shot out in a precise thrust, catching the enemy off guard. The tip punched cleanly through their skull, and the body crumpled in a lifeless heap.

"T-Thank you, Commander," the surviving guard stammered, his voice trembling with relief.

Luke opened his mouth to tell him to stay vigilant, but a searing pain exploded in his thigh. A dagger had buried itself deep into his flesh.

"You motherfucker," Luke growled through clenched teeth, swinging his spear at the attacker. His strike barely missed.

He glanced down at the hilt protruding from his leg, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The pain was dull for now, dulled by adrenaline, but he knew agony would come soon enough.

A dark haze of fury clouded his mind as he locked eyes with the hooded figure.

"You shouldn't have let your guard down, Commander," the man sneered, his voice muffled by the cloth covering his face—but Luke caught the mocking edge in his tone.

Luke didn't respond. Instead, he shifted into a defensive stance, careful to keep weight off his injured leg. His mobility was compromised—he had no choice but to wait for the enemy to come to him.

The assassin wordlessly drew another dagger from within his robe, adjusting into a ready position. Luke gritted his teeth and remained still. If the man dodged his counterattack and got in close, Luke had no doubt—he would be dead within seconds.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, locked in an unspoken standoff. But Luke knew this was just the calm before the storm. Any second now, his enemy would lunge.

Then, before the assassin could make his move, a spear pierced straight through his stomach.

A pained growl escaped the man's lips as he looked down at the spearhead protruding from his abdomen, his body trembling in disbelief.

"Should've taken your own advice, you piece of shit," Kayson spat from behind. He gripped the spear and, with a swift kick to the man's back, yanked the weapon free. Blood sprayed into the air as the attacker collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The eerie finality of the scene sent a chill through Luke. Relief washed over him, but so did a deep, bone-weary fatigue. A fresh wave of pain pulsed through his wounded leg, nearly making him stumble.

"Kayson… did you get them all?" Luke asked, his voice tight.

"I killed five, including this one," Kayson said, his tone devoid of pride—only grim resignation. "But we lost too many before I could finish them off."

Luke felt a shiver crawl up his spine. "How many?" He almost didn't want to know.

"I don't have an exact count yet," Kayson admitted. "But if you hadn't warned us, it would've been worse."

Luke let out a sharp curse, feeling his strength wane. Using his spear as a crutch, he lowered himself onto the cold ground, needing a moment to rest. "Go check on the others. Report back when you're done."

Kayson hesitated, his gaze lingering on Luke's wound. But he nodded and left without argument.

Luke exhaled heavily, shifting his focus to his injured leg. The dagger was lodged in the outer thigh—a small mercy. The major arteries were on the inner side, meaning he had avoided a fatal wound. Still, he knew better than to pull the blade out prematurely.

"Commander, you're wounded," a familiar voice said. The soldier he had saved earlier crouched beside him, concern etched across his face.

"No shit, Sherlock," Luke muttered.

"...Sherlock?"

Luke grunted in irritation, deciding he was too exhausted to respond.

Minutes later, Kayson returned, leading the survivors of the attack. Luke scanned their faces, counting—twelve.

Among them was Brian, the towering man carrying a body in his arms. Even in the dim light, Luke could see the grief etched on his face.

Without a word, Brian approached and carefully laid the wounded man down beside Luke.

"I brought you to him, Arthur," Brian said, his deep voice shaking.

Arthur stirred weakly at the sound of his name. His robe was soaked in blood from a stomach wound, his breathing shallow. Yet, even in his state, he fought to raise a trembling hand.

Luke felt a deep sorrow settle in his chest, but he grasped the outstretched hand without hesitation. "I'm here, Arthur," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Arthur's fingers were sticky with drying blood, but Luke held on, refusing to let go.

"I—I'm sorry, Luke… I never meant—" Arthur's voice wavered before his body suddenly convulsed. Then, just as quickly, he went still.

Luke remained silent for a long moment before giving his friend's hand one final squeeze.

"It's okay, Arthur. I forgave you a long time ago." His words were barely above a whisper. His throat felt tight, his eyes misting over. Just as they had begun to grow close, he was taken abruptly. Arthur hadn't even managed to finish his last words—but Luke already knew what he had wanted to say.

Beside him, Brian dropped to his knees, his large frame trembling as he let out a guttural, anguished cry. It was a sound that dug deep into the soul. The kind of grief that could break a person. He and Arthur had been close—losing him was a devastating blow.

A heavy silence followed. No one spoke. No one tried to offer hollow words of comfort. There was nothing to be said that could ease the pain. All they could do was mourn and carry on.

After a while, Luke exhaled sharply, forcing himself back to the present. The pain in his leg had become unbearable. "I need someone to stitch me up," he said, voice tight.

It was only then that the others seemed to register the dagger still jutting from his thigh.

"I will do it," Brian said, hastily wiping away his tears.

Luke shook his head. "No. You go gather firewood for our fallen." He turned to Kayson. "Check the bodies. See if you can recognize anything about our attackers."

Both men hesitated but ultimately nodded and left to carry out their orders.

Now, only Luke and the soldier he had saved earlier remained.

Luke turned his gaze to him. "I hope you know how to stitch a wound."

The man straightened. "I will do my best, Commander."

"Show me your hands."

The soldier held them out. Luke studied them, watching for any tremors. They were steady. He let out a small sigh of relief. "Good. Wash them. Then get clean water to flush the wound before stitching."

The medical practices in this world were primitive compared to back on Earth, but he wasn't about to let a simple stab wound get infected. The extra steps would be painful, but necessary.

Time passed, and soon Kayson returned. His expression was grim.

"Anything?" Luke asked.

Kayson exhaled. "Nothing definitive, but their gear resembles the assassins back at the academy."

Luke's brows furrowed. That was troubling.

A sharp sting shot through his leg, dragging his attention back to the soldier carefully stitching the wound. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still and suppress his nausea.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kayson kick the last remaining corpse onto its back before kneeling to remove the hood.

Then Kayson inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid.

Luke opened his mouth to ask, but before he could speak, Kayson turned to him and silently mouthed something.

Luke raised an eyebrow, then gave a small nod. It was clear that whatever Kayson had discovered, he didn't want the entire camp to know.

From his position, Luke couldn't see the corpse's face. But as Kayson hefted the body onto his shoulder, a glimpse caught his eye—just enough to send ice through his veins.

'Pierce?!'

His mind stuttered. Hadn't Kayson reported that Pierce had been killed in the first clash of battle days ago? What the hell was he doing here?

The revelation sent his thoughts spiraling, but his body had no strength to process it. His leg throbbed violently, clouding his mind in pain.

"That's done, Commander." The soldier's voice cut through the haze, finishing the last stitch with a careful snip.

Luke exhaled and gave a stiff nod. "Thank you."

He gripped his spear, attempting to push himself up, but as soon as he got halfway, a wave of nausea slammed into him. His vision swayed, and he stumbled back onto his rear.

"Let me help you, sir."

The soldier quickly stepped forward, looping an arm under his and helping him back onto his feet. Luke clenched his jaw as the fresh stitches pulled at his skin, a sharp discomfort accompanying every movement.

With his spear acting as a cane, he hobbled toward the outskirts of the camp, where Brian and the others had constructed a funeral pyre.

Around three hundred feet from the treeline, a mound of branches, sticks, and fallen logs had been stacked high. The dead soldiers were already being placed atop the structure, their lifeless forms handled with care.

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing. The moon faded, swallowed by the coming sun, as if marking the end of a terrible night.

Luke came to a stop, feeling the weight of every remaining soldier's gaze settle on him. They stood in silence, waiting—not for orders, but for something else.

A farewell.

He inhaled deeply, gathering the last reserves of his strength, and spoke.

"Today, we lay to rest our brothers—not fallen in battle, but struck down by cowards in the dark. Let them rest well, for we will find those responsible… and we will have our revenge, in this life—or the next."

He gave Brian a nod.

Without hesitation, Brian stepped forward and set the pyre alight.

Flames roared to life, consuming the wood and the fallen alike. Smoke curled into the dawning sky, thick and heavy with the scent of burning flesh. The stench was suffocating, but Luke did not turn away.

He stood firm.

'I will get to the bottom of this…'