Ambrose had agreed without hesitation. The intelligence had been correct: so long as the price was right, this lich would do anything, even cooperate with the Lyon Empire.

No wonder the empire treated him differently. If properly handled, he might even become an informant within the ranks of the undead.

But such political maneuvering was not the Silvermoon Knight's concern. He was a general, a warrior who led charges on the battlefield, not a dabbler in court politics.

What he cared about was solely that the empire's new generation grow strong enough to face the crises ahead.

And yet these young paladins were profoundly disappointing. They had become intoxicated with triumph despite the hollow victory. Throughout Sandshadow, the Lyon forces exuded an unsettling restlessness.

It showed in the minutiae of their daily training. Their grips upon their swords were no longer as steady. Smirks often lingered on their faces. They fussed over their appearance, adorning themselves with useless decorative trinkets.

The Silvermoon Knight had long intended to discipline them, but hadn't been able to find the right timing to do so.

After a victory, they expected rewards rather than reprimands. To rebuke them now would only breed resentment.

Ambrose's sudden appearance provided the opportunity he had been waiting for.

How the lich would attack the city, he had no idea. Nor would he offer the slightest warning to anyone within its walls. These young men needed to understand the cruelty of war. Without the shelter of a legendary champion, could they still stand firm before an overwhelming foe? Would they uphold the teachings of the Lord of Dawn even in the face of certain death?

Soldiers untested by fire remained recruits, no matter their rank.

The thousand-casualty threshold had not been an idle boast. It was Lyon's standard. One thousand men was half the garrison of Sandshadow.

When Allen Watson had once led a coalition of petty lords against Ambrose's castle, he had been shocked that a mere twenty percent casualty rate had shattered the troops' morale. But Lyon's doctrine was uncompromising: a regular army had to retain combat effectiveness even after losing more than half its numbers. Fail that, and one was forever relegated to auxiliary status, fit only for logistics.

If the garrison here failed to meet that standard, the Silvermoon Knight would send them all back for retraining, and even their former instructors would be punished.

Walking the path of the Light was arduous. If they could not meet even this basic demand, better that they remain civilians than march to pointless deaths.

At that thought, the Silvermoon Knight could not help but sigh. "Those dwarves... were far too weak."

The grand field exercise he had planned had been rendered meaningless by an enemy too fragile to test them. He had been forced to enlist a lich—and even to pay for the privilege.

Still, he had calculated the cost. Even if Ambrose captured every last one of the paladins, regular troops, and militia combined, the total would not exceed three million gold. That sum lay within his authority. There would be no issue.

With heavy steps, he returned to the camp. Inside his tent, a golden-haired paladin was already waiting for him.

The young man hurried forward to support the Silvermoon Knight upon seeing his return.

"General, you've returned at last. Please, sit and rest."

The empire's strongest paladin now seemed a frail old man convalescing after an illness. He allowed himself to be helped into a chair.

After coughing twice, the Silvermoon Knight said, "Allen, don't fuss over me."

Had Ambrose been present, he would have recognized the young paladin at once: his very first paladin captive, Allen Watson.

The son of the High Inquisitor and once a celebrated scion of the empire, Allen had lived up to expectations. At a young age, he had become a paladin and earned significant praise from the upper echelon of Lyon.

But the past was the past.

Ever since his capture by Ambrose, it was as if a shadow had been draped over his life.

The disgrace would follow him forever unless he personally slew Ambrose to wipe away his shame.

After returning to the empire, Allen volunteered for the desert expeditionary force, both as an escape and a crucible.

Though the High Inquisitor appeared indifferent, he had privately asked the Silvermoon Knight to look after his son. The old knight, who admired Allen's devout faith and remarkable talent, kept him close as an aide.

To serve under a living legend filled Allen with pride. He attended the Silvermoon Knight with unwavering diligence.

And in doing so, he discovered the knight's secret, perhaps one that was secret no longer.

The Silvermoon Knight was dying.

Lyon forbade its high officials from prolonging their lives through magic, and even the emperor was bound by this law. The Silvermoon Knight, now over one hundred and fifty years old, adhered strictly to it. Even with the most powerful of holy light sustaining him, he had reached the human limit.

His life was nearly spent. He might collapse without warning on any given day. Sheer willpower kept him standing.

He was the empire's strongest paladin, its general and the spiritual pillar of the army.

He needed a worthy successor to ensure a steady transition of command. But the disciples he had once personally trained... were almost all dead.

Each had been exceptional, devout, courageous. One by one, they had fallen in campaigns of undead extermination. The youngest had died at seventeen, deep within the Umbral Depths.

Now, as he neared the nadir of his life, the Silvermoon Knight found that he had no qualified heir left.

The remaining youths had yet to mature. They were but impulsive boys unfit for great responsibility.

Allen was among the few he valued. Had he been twenty years younger, he might have trained him properly. But he no longer had the time to take on disciples.

Unaware of these thoughts, Allen recited prayers earnestly. Holy light gathered, flowing into the Silvermoon Knight and easing his accumulated fatigue.

The old man exhaled softly. After recovering somewhat, he asked, "The war is nearly over. What are your plans? Will you return to the capital and join the Knights Penitent?"

The Knights Penitent differed from conventional forces. It was the cream of the crop, elite even among elites, and created specifically to confront legendary foes. Though it had suffered losses, it remained the finest path for a paladin.

Allen considered the question for a moment before answering. "I wish to remain in the army a while longer. I had hoped to redeem myself on the battlefield, but the dwarves collapsed too quickly. There was scarcely any resistance. I came to temper myself, yet all I gained was merit and decorations. I am ashamed."

"Rare words," the Silvermoon Knight said. "The others are already preparing to return to the capital for flowers and applause."

Allen wasn't arrogant nor blind to circumstance. Such qualities were rare indeed.

After a pause, the old knight offered him a hint. "It is well that you are aware of the situation. But Sandshadow is not as secure as it appears. Danger may be lurking nearby. Be ready."

Allen snapped to attention and saluted. "Yes, sir!"

That was as much as he could say. To keep going would be unfair to the others.

The Silvermoon Knight sighed inwardly. "I will soon return to the capital to report in. Until then, Sandshadow's forces are in your hands."

Allen froze. "Sir? I'm not qualified to assume command. Others may object."

He was merely a paladin seeking redemption. Even receiving the Silvermoon Knight's favor felt like fortune enough.

"Worry not," the old knight replied. "They are all eager to return to the capital and bask in a hero's glory. No one wishes to remain here eating sand. Allen, do your duty well. You are guarding Lyon's soil."

Allen nodded fervently. He would shoulder the responsibility with all his strength.

After a brief rest, the Silvermoon Knight entered the continental teleportation array. Before the remaining officers, he formally transferred command of Sandshadow to Allen.

As expected, none of the eligible paladins objected. Some even wore expressions suggesting that this was only fitting. Allen's earlier disgrace was widely known; to some, the appointment looked more like punishment than honor.

Allen ignored their gazes. He immersed himself in duty.

He began a meticulous inspection of the entire city, visiting every defensive post, speaking earnestly with the soldiers under his command, striving to remember each face.

But before he could finish, a shrill horn sounded from the walls.

Enemy sighted!

Startled, Allen rushed to the battlements.

Through a spyglass, he saw a pack of gnoll-like marauders advancing at speed, drool glistening on their jaws. Gnolls were creatures of pure savagery. Slaughter and destruction were their only pleasures. They delighted in massacring the weak and fashioning ornaments and armor from their victims' bones.

They were chaos and evil incarnate, without morality or conscience.

"Sir," a soldier on the wall said, "they're just some gnolls. We'll handle it outside."

Allen lowered the spyglass, frowning.

Gnolls preyed upon the weak. Sandshadow was a fortified city. Why would they attack it? Something was wrong.

"What's your name?" Allen asked a dark-skinned soldier beside him. "Are you local?"

"I'm Omos, sir. Born and raised here."

"Do desert gnolls ever attack the city in numbers like this?"

Allen was no expert on monsters. Perhaps desert gnolls behaved differently from the ones he was used to.

Omos thought carefully before replying. "They have never attacked Sandshadow in my memory."

That settled it. "Something is off," Allen ordered. "Seal the gates. Observe the situation."

"Sir... These are merely gnolls. And not many of them, at that."

Omos felt unease, but not fear. He was aware of Lyon's military strength. A few paladins could carve through these gnolls as if they were slicing up dates.

Wasn't this new commander being overly cautious?

"It's an order. Execute it immediately!" Allen insisted stubbornly.

Omos obeyed, though he did think Allen was making a mountain out of a molehill.

And he was not alone. As the gates slowly closed, a squad of paladins suddenly charged out.

Allen's face flushed with alarm. "What's going on? Who authorized them to leave the city?!"

No one could answer.

The paladins were not part of Sandshadow's garrison. They were the "heroes" awaiting transfer back to the capital to receive their honors.

And they had no intention of obeying Allen's command.