Days melted into a blur of strategic reports and secret magic practice for Lysander. By day, he was the High Commander's unusual asset, bent over maps, his sharp eyes breaking down troop movements and enemy messages with uncanny accuracy. He found subtle tricks, predicted flanking moves before they happened, and even pinpointed possible enemy supply stashes with unsettling precision. The intelligence officers, who first doubted him, now treated his statements with a mix of awe and unease. Their grudging respect grew with each prediction that came true. He was becoming vital, weaving himself deeper into the fortress's essential workings.
His analysis, fueled by his knowledge from the novel, was sharper than any spy network. He could see the bigger, overall patterns that guided the enemy's actions, knowing their typical commanders, their strengths, and most importantly, their ingrained habits from the book. He was playing a game of chess, not just against the Orcish hordes, but against the very story that tried to control him. This was the quiet, careful work of Lysander, forging his path, laying the groundwork for his rise.
By night, in the quiet of his small, stone-walled chamber, the Resonance Crystal was his only companion. Its faint hum was a soothing contrast to the constant grind of his strategic mind. His practice with the Earth's Whisper had solidified. He could now consistently tap into that grounded energy, feeling the subtle vibrations of the fortress, the very pulse of the earth beneath it. His senses were sharper, his movements more balanced, a quiet layer of resilience cushioning his every step. This was a basic power, not showy, but very useful for a man who needed to perceive more than others.
But the active elemental magic remained stubbornly out of reach. He continued his agonizing attempts to conjure even the simplest flame. Sometimes, a weak, flickering light, no brighter than a firefly, would appear above his palm, only to wink out seconds later. Other times, a tiny, almost invisible warmth would ignite on his fingertip, smelling faintly of sulfur, before disappearing. It was frustrating, humiliatingly slow compared to the hero Kaelen's seemingly effortless mastery of martial arts. Lysander cursed his lack of natural talent, but then the cold resolve of Alex Chen would reassert itself. I wasn't born with this; I will forge it.
He remembered a fleeting line from the novel about "Arcane Resonance," a principle that stated magic wasn't just about channeling; it was about understanding the energy. Kaelen had understood it by instinct. Lysander had to force it with his intellect. He continued to draw diagrams in the dust of his floor, scribbling equations he barely understood, trying to map the flow of energy, to break down magic into a logical system. It was slow, tedious work, but he was a data analyst. He understood patterns. He would find the pattern in magic.
One afternoon, as Lysander was carefully detailing a projected enemy attack on the South Gate, a sudden, urgent summons arrived. High Commander Valerius himself requested his immediate presence. Lysander found him in the war room, surrounded by his senior officers, his face etched with grim concern. Kaelen was also there, standing a little apart, his expression unusually tense.
"Thorne," Valerius greeted, his voice tight. "A new development. We've just received a distress signal from the village of Thornwood. A significant portion of the main enemy force, which we believed to be contained to the eastern plains, has made a rapid, undetected detour." He gestured to a point on the map, far to the south-east, beyond their established lines. "They are pillaging Thornwood, and seem to be moving towards the Ironfist Pass—a critical choke point into the Heartlands. If they take it, our supply lines are cut, and the capital itself is vulnerable."
Lysander's mind raced. Thornwood. Ironfist Pass. This wasn't in the novel. The main force was supposed to remain focused on Oakhaven for much longer, allowing Kaelen to conduct his solo heroic ventures and gain power. This was a significant deviation, a direct result of Lysander's own earlier actions at the West Gate. By crippling Vilefang's probing unit, he had perhaps forced the main enemy command to shift tactics, to find an alternative route. His ripples were becoming waves.
"Undetected?" Lysander asked, a frown creasing his brow. "How could such a large force bypass our patrols and advanced scouts?"
A tired intelligence officer stepped forward. "We… we don't know, Private. It's as if they simply appeared. No warnings, no prior sightings from any watchtowers."
Lysander's eyes narrowed. He remembered another obscure detail from The Crimson Blade: a forgotten sect of dark mages, known as the Veil Weavers, who specialized in illusion and mass concealment, but were supposed to be extinct or too weak to influence major battles. Could his alterations to the timeline have stirred them prematurely? Or had the enemy found a way to use their long-lost magic?
"Veil Weavers," Lysander murmured, almost to himself. "A rare, ancient magic. Capable of mass illusion and concealment. They operated through specific arcane focal points, often hidden deep in the wilderness, drawing energy from… ley lines."
Silence fell over the room. Valerius stared at him, his sharp eyes intense. "Veil Weavers, Private? You speak of legends. Are you suggesting an entire legion of goblins, orcs, and trolls simply vanished into thin air?"
Lysander met his gaze steadily. "Commander, the enemy adapts. My 'studies' indicated that while rare, some archaic magical disciplines were capable of such feats, especially when coordinated with their strategic movements. If they used Veil Weavers, their path to Thornwood would have been cloaked, unseen by normal means." He didn't have solid proof, but the suddenness of the attack, combined with his knowledge from the novel, made it the most logical explanation.
Kaelen, who had been listening closely, finally spoke, his voice serious. "If what Thorne says is true, Commander, this is graver than we thought. Illusions of that scale would require immense power, and a direct threat to our very understanding of the battlefield."
Valerius slammed a fist on the table, a rare show of frustration. "Then we cannot let them hold Ironfist Pass! Kaelen, gather your most skilled knights. You will lead a vanguard. Push them back from Thornwood, secure the Pass at all costs."
Kaelen nodded, a grim determination hardening his face. This was his element—direct action, heroic confrontation. He glanced at Lysander, a flicker of something in his eyes—a mixture of the lingering suspicion from their last encounter, but now, perhaps, a hint of grudging respect for Lysander's strange insights.
"And Private Thorne," Valerius continued, turning back to him, his voice firm, "You will go with Lord Alden. Your 'unusual thinking' could be crucial. This isn't about the front lines; it's about understanding what we face, and how to counter it. Find out how they moved so swiftly, and how they managed this concealment."
Lysander's heart gave a jolt. This was it. Direct involvement. He would be moving with the hero, into the heart of a major, altered conflict. This was his chance to observe Kaelen's methods up close, to learn more about the world's power systems, and, perhaps, to find another source of power. He was Lysander the plotter, not just scheming from the shadows, but now stepping onto the stage, directly influencing the unfolding drama. This was the precise trigger he needed. He would find the Veil Weavers' secrets, and he would make them his own. The next phase of his ascent to Ash-Forged Sovereign had begun.