Author Pre-Notes: I'M BACKKKK!
Please excuse my absence, but after reading through my own chapters a few times, I started to notice the pacing was all over the place. So I made the decision to slow things down a bit and really polish the upcoming chapters while adjusting the overall tempo of the story.
Over the past three weeks, I've been talking with other authors and studying how to write more engaging, immersive content. So bear with me as I work on tightening the pacing and delivering deeper character development and richer world-building for The Guardian of Lukeauh.
P.S. — I seriously considered deleting the chapters and starting over… but then I got a $100 donation with the message:
"I love your work, man, but slow down. I feel like I'm moving at light speed reading your novel. With that being said, much love, and don't let the hate comments get to you."
Shoutout to EzdeathsFootStool for that support—it meant more than you know.
Donations can be made at patreon.com/Caleman!
After a lot of thought, I've decided not to start from scratch. Instead, I'll go back and fix only the grammar and layout of previous chapters while putting all my focus on refining the writing style, pacing, and world-building going forward.
Let's keep building this world together.
Much love,
— Caleman
Chapter 23
Title: The Final Trial
"Burdens are the foundation of strength. The heavier the load, the stronger you become." — Unknown
– Basil's POV –
After instructing the soldiers to regroup and promising to return within the hour, I walked over to Lace.
"I told them not to use any skills. Don't let me forget to punish the healer girl later," I said. "Yes, she survived the trial and might be an asset to the Legion, but direct disobedience will not be tolerated."
I watched as Lace squared his shoulders, the silence stretching while he searched for the right words. After a moment, he finally spoke.
"Yes, Commander. I'll make a mental note," he replied.
I walked off, lost in thought. three months- that was all I had to ready these men for a battle the likes of which hadn't been seen in centuries. How to train them, how to select certain ones for specific roles… Many thoughts crossed my mind and weighed heavily on my shoulders.
But that wasn't the only thing bothering me.
The Empress's tears haunted me. Watching her cry like that stirred something deep inside—pain, regret, weakness. A reminder of who I used to be… and maybe still was. I'd been so drunk on the rush of breaking free from the Cube that I'd started to lose sight of my goal. My purpose.
Revenge. For the death of my family.
I walked through the encampment, observing faces, reading their emotions in every glance and gesture. The only real difference between the army I'd led six hundred years ago and now was the tech—better gear, better tactics, better ways to fight Hell's Legion.
And yet, that was also our greatest weakness.
After observing the last trial, one thing remained clear—besides the few remaining active Guardians who had maybe gone through a couple of gates in their lifetime, the regular soldiers and civilians who joined up had never seen a demon before.
To most of them, demons were bedtime stories. Fables told to scare children into behaving.
I couldn't blame them. Back then, we fought for peace across the continent. Now that it's been mostly achieved, people had grown soft, complacent. The gates had been quiet for over a hundred years, save for a few scattered incursions.
But Lace and I both knew better.
The creation of the abominations. The sudden movement of enemy forces near the northern border. These weren't coincidences. They were signs.
Something was coming.
I sat beneath a tree some distance from the camp and opened my status window. What I saw made me want to punch myself in the face.
I'd spent so much time thinking about how to make everyone else stronger, I'd completely neglected myself. How could I lead them if I couldn't protect them? Protect the empire?
I felt like a fool.
I felt so stupid. Although we Lukeaiens got stronger over time, I could tell Hell's Legion did as well—judging by the slight struggle I had at Hell's Gate 47, a mere (B) rank gate. I'll have to find time to grow while I train the troops and teach the Empress.
I waved away the window as I noticed Thomas approaching. He'd done a good job whipping the other captains into shape overnight. Granted, they were all prior enlisted, but the way they moved today—cohesive, responsive—said someone had asserted complete control.
That someone was Thomas.
He approached and dropped to one knee.
"Commander, sir. Everyone who failed has been successfully extracted from the forest, and as you requested, each has been treated and cared for by the healers the Empress lent us."
I stared at Thomas for a second before responding.
"Good. Not everything turned out exactly as planned, but the number of those who passed still ended up around the same. Great job pushing the Rock Lions toward the center as well. I hope it wasn't too hard."
Thomas twitched as he recalled how much he and his team had struggled trying to force them toward the center of the forest without damaging them.
"No, Commander. It was a breeze."
"Okay."
My gaze drifted to a shallow cut on his arm. He'd clearly tried to heal it with a low-grade potion, but it hadn't done the job. He might be a capable leader, but he wasn't strong enough—not for what we were about to face.
None of them were.
I had read about Rock Lions in the library back in Homedge.
A (C-) rank mana beast—physically strong and with armor-like defense, but incredibly stupid.
Although mana beasts are a new thing to me—because they didn't exist back then—even I could tell that it should've been easy to take down a few, much less just one.
I pinched my nose in frustration.
"Rise, Sentinel."
Thomas stood, back straight, his eyes searching my face, unsure if he'd done something wrong.
"What is your job, name, rank, and level?" I asked, looking up at him.
"My job is Swordmarshal, (B) rank, and currently I am level 71, sir."
I knew this already since I could check his stats, but something kept bugging me, which is why I made him say it out loud.
"Sentinel, how many of your skills are locked at (B) rank right now?"
"Two out of my ten, sir, but all of the others are not far behind—most being at the rank of (C+), and my lowest being (D) rank."
"Are you a natural Guardian or born as one?"
"Um, conceived, sir?" Thomas responded with a confused look on his face.
"That's it!"
Thomas flinched as I slapped my forehead.
That's what's been bothering me.
That's not even half his skillset. That's the problem with most of these born Guardians. They inherited their class, their skills—locked into a path chosen by someone else.
They were trying to level everything at once.
A natural Guardian knows better. We evolved the skills that mattered. Focused our energy where it counted. But these new ones… they wanted to raise everything evenly. No priority. No discipline.
They were building polished, gleaming swords—with no edge.
In some rare cases, that might be smart.
However, in Thomas's case—and in the majority of the born Guardians—it was incredibly stupid.
Thomas was a perfect example. As a Swordmarshal—a battlefield leader class—his two most important skills were Swordsmanship and Callout. The former was only D-rank. The latter, (C-).
Callout was a leadership enhancer: ten minutes of heightened cognitive function, allowing faster strategy execution and clearer command. A critical tool for his role—and it wasn't even near the top of his list.
Instead, he had Blessing of Wind at B-rank—a skill that boosted wind abilities by thirty percent for fifteen minutes. Probably inherited from a wind mage parent.
And he didn't have a single other wind-based skill.
A complete waste.
So while this new generation's levels were much higher than mine, with the limited amount of skill points the Goddesses handed out, more than half had been wasted on random skills like Blessing of Wind.
Blessing of Wind improves any wind-related skills by 30% for fifteen minutes. One of his parents must have been a Wind Mage.
Basically useless for a close-combat fighter like Thomas.
So he basically wasted a chunk of his skill points on a useless skill he could neither change nor get back.
I sighed heavily. There was nothing I could do about the past. Born Guardians couldn't change their job or skills, and they were stuck with a limited number of slots.
I didn't blame Thomas. He'd probably heard stories from his parents about how vital that skill was and leveled it subconsciously. The same mistake most of them were making.
And the only person I knew who could change skills was the King of Hell, Raphelos—given that he took just about every single one of my skills away. So until I figure out a way to help them change out their skills, I'll just have to mentor them on what to upgrade.
What a headache.
The next issue was job ranks—another fixed limitation that applied to both natural and born Guardians. But back in Homedge, while I was drinking at Gyra's Tavern, I'd overheard a group of demi-humans talking.
A rumor. Someone out there had managed to advance their job rank—via some kind of test.
Pre-cube me would've never believed them and called it a farce—a tall tale—but after raising my Mana Control skill to (SSS) while my job rank was (SS), I figured there was still more to the Goddess's system that we hadn't yet discovered.
I'll have Ria look into it. In the meantime, I'll have these guys get as high as they can with the skills they have—until more resources or opportunities pop up.
"Sentinel, have the captains write down all their skills and their rank on a piece of parchment and bring it to me after this next trial. For now, you're dismissed. Rest up."
Thomas gave a sharp nod and left.
I watched as Thomas departed, then my attention was drawn to the giant clock tower behind the Capitol walls—a tower built in the Empress's image, her hand holding up a giant clock that rang every hour. A reminder of how little time I had left.
I had a few minutes remaining before I had to head back and begin the next trial.
so I closed my eyes and pushed for that 34th circle.
– Lace's POV –
Right as I heard Basil dismiss them for an hour, I turned toward the medical tents. I knew Gyra would be there.
She was upset about not being able to help much and felt stuffy just sitting in her quarters the past few days, so I offered for her and Adian to help out the medical tents for the severely wounded.
She, of course, jumped at the idea—her hardworking attitude paired with her gentle heart. Why wouldn't she?
Adian, on the other hand—that scoundrel—groaned and complained. Said Julie was planning to show him around the Capitol.
I told him he didn't have a choice, if Gyra was going, he would be too.
I scanned the area, trying to spot them, but the angle wasn't right. Just as I started toward the tents, Basil called out to me.
Right as I began walking toward the tents, Basil called for me.
He asked me to make a mental note about reprimanding the healer girl who broke one of his two rules.
I knew perfectly well why he was upset. Through all my days as a captain at the Church of Death, I had plenty of my men do the same.
But what concerned me wasn't the disobedience—it was how this new Basil would handle it.
He'd changed.
There was a darkness in him now. A constant edge to his voice, to his presence. Like he was always seconds from snapping.
I gave him a simple acknowledgment and filed the reminder away in the back of my mind. After waiting a moment to be sure he had nothing more to say, I resumed my walk toward the tents.
Two questions weighed on my thoughts as I went.
He was immortal, yes—but how many times had he actually died? How much weight did that kind of death-and-return cycle stack on a man's soul?
And more importantly… how had he stayed sane through it all?
I wouldn't call myself the strongest mentally, but I'm far from weak. Still, I think I'd start slipping after thirty deaths or so. Start questioning whether reality was real. Whether I was just stuck in some kind of nightmare loop.
I had no time to answer either question because I had arrived at the tents. So I let them slip off my mind as I searched for Gyra.
I walked through each tent, looking for her soft smile or a flicker of her long blue hair.
At last, I at least found Adian, who was carrying a box of HP potions from one tent to another.
I caught up to him and grabbed his shoulders. When he turned to face me, I was met with dead eyes and an exhausted face.
"Oh… Captain. It's… you," he said, voice flat and souless.
"Are you alright, Lieutenant?" I asked.
Adian let out a dry desperate laugh. "NO! I'm so tired, please let me take a break."
I let out a soft chuckle before responding. "Seems you're doing just fine. After these men are healed and on their way, you may go. We won't need healers for this next trial anyways."
"Thank you, Captain—or should I call you Dreadblade now?"
"No need for that. Lace is just fine, Lieutenant." I paused. "You haven't seen Gyra around, have you?"
"I believe I saw her at the main tent. She was helping fill the water buckets."
I gave Adian a nod before continuing on.
When I reached the main tent, there she was.
Even with her apron stained in blood, her beauty hadn't faded in the slightest. Her hair was tied neatly back, a few stray strands brushing her cheek, and her hands were smudged with dried blood—likely from tending to the more severe cases. She wore simple clothes beneath the apron, but she looked no less radiant for it.
As I approached, my stomach twisted.
She was laughing.
And not at something I said—but at the words of another man. He stood close, too close, one hand on her shoulder, laughing along with her.
"Gyra," I said, interrupting their conversation. "You doing okay?"
Gyra's smile grew bigger as she turned and saw me. "Lace! I haven't seen you all day. But yes, I'm doing just fine. I didn't know it was going to be this much work, but I've been powering through!"
"That's good to hear." I glanced at the man. "And who's this?"
He offered a polite smile and extended his hand.
"Mark. I'm part of the medic crew sent by the Empress. I'm actually one of the lead healers here. And you must be the Dreadblade of the new legion? Gyras told me all about you!"
"Hah, yeah. I'm still getting used to my new title," I said, shaking his hand.
"Well, pleasure meeting you, but I best get back to work." he gave a polite nod and turned to leave.
my gaze drifted back to Gyra.
I guess she could see the concerned look on my face, because she suddenly spoke up.
"His daughter used to work at my tavern. Apparently, she made enough funds to attend the Magic University here in the Capitol—which was her dream. So we were catching up about her."
Relief washed over me, and my stomach unknotted.
"Ah… that's nice."
We shared a moment of silence before she spoke again.
"Did you need something?" she said softly.
"Oh—no. Just wanted to check on you. Adian looked like he was about to pass out, so I figured I'd see how you were holding up."
A soft smile crept across her lips. "Thanks, Lace. But yeah, I'm doing fine. Say… do you maybe want to go to a pastry shop sometime?"
I blinked.
She kept going, completely unaware of the internal war now happening inside me. "A few of the healers keep talking about this one in the Capitol that's apparently amazing. The sweetness, the craftsmanship—"
But I wasn't really listening anymore.
Did she just ask me out on a date?
No… just a simple excursion as friends. We used to go on those all the time, right?
RIGHT?
I watched her lips move—soft and plush. My face started to heat up as my brain conjured a few too many thoughts I probably shouldn't be having.
"Sure," I managed. "I'd love to. I should be free tomorrow. Basil said it'll be a rest day. He's got a meeting with the Empress or something."
"Perfect!" she said, beaming. "Anyway, I better get back. Apparently, I'm the only mage here who can use water magic, so I'm on permanent bucket duty."
She waved at me as she left. I watched as her blue hair bounced up and down as she walked out of the tent.
I still needed to tell her how I felt.
Basil had been right—I couldn't keep waiting forever. The way my chest clenched when that stranger touched her... I couldn't ignore that.
I walked back to where the men were gathered and observed them.
"Sir, the hour's almost up, but I don't see the Commander anywhere," a voice called from behind me.
I looked at the clock and realized he was right.
I narrowed my eyes.
Where did Basil run off to?
– Basil's POV –
I opened my eyes and looked at the clock tower just barely peeking over the Capitol walls.
Shit!
I meditated too long. Still, though—I was close to creating the 34th circle around my heart.
After discovering the new method back in my room, the creation of the circle had been going much smoother.
But that would have to wait.
I rushed down the hill using Phantom Step and took my place in front of the five groups next to Lace. When they saw me arrive, they all fell into formation, each standing in place within their respective groups—roughly around 1,100 men in each for a total of five groups.
I let the silence stretch just a beat before I began.
"Attention. We will now begin the last trial. Before we begin, let me go over the rules. The last 100 spots in each group will be eliminated. The top 10 in each group will be given the rank of Captain. And the group that scores the most points will be excluded from the punishment and will begin training immediately."
Shoulders squared. Eyes sharpened. Every heartbeat seemed to fall into rhythm with mine.
"Now listen closely. I will only explain the rules once."
A hush fell.
"Each group's squad leader will divide their team into two divisions—front line and back line. The front line will compete in a series of one-on-one, hand-to-hand combat matches. One representative per group will fight at a time. The winner earns 4 points. Second place gets 3. Third earns 2. Fourth gets 1. Last gets 0. Simple."
"Back lines will be focused on mana endurance. Each member will attempt to fill as many (D)-rank mana crystals as their MP allows. Each completed crystal is worth 1 point. Additionally, the group with the highest total mana output earns 500 bonus points. Second place gets 250. Third, 100. Fourth, 50."
"Do you understand?"
In unison, they all yelled, "Yes, Commander!"
"Good. Squad leaders, you may begin separating your groups. You have 30 minutes."
Everyone moved with a hustle. Most already knew which group they needed to be in, but some of the average ones—who neither excelled with mana or physical combat—hovered in the middle, waiting to be told where to go.
Those were the ones I was trying to weed out. I had no time to train someone average. I needed only those who excelled in one or the other.
Those were the ones I wanted to weed out.
If I had more time, maybe I'd train them up. Maybe I'd mold their mediocrity into something serviceable.
But I didn't.
That's just the harsh reality of it. Another weight I'll have to carry on my shoulders.
This wasn't about fairness. This was about survival.
I needed excellence—blunt, unyielding excellence. I could either sharpen a handful of blades to perfection or hand out participation awards and let the Empire burn.
The lines were drawn. Barrels filled with tens of thousands of empty (D)-rank crystals were hauled in. Once the divisions were finalized, I raised a hand.
"Back lines—begin filling crystals. Front lines—send out your first combatants!"
The trial started.
Mana flared behind me as the back lines bent over their crystals, straining their pools to the brink. Meanwhile, the first round of fighters in the front lines collided in raw, unarmed contests of strength and technique. Lace and I moved between the groups, observing, calculating.
Group One was led by the oversized brawler—the walking mountain.
Group Two, by the sharp-eyed hunter.
Group Three, an older man with a long scar across his face and a soldier's stance.
Group Four, the healer girl.
Group Five… was a mystery. I hadn't observed their leader during the last trial, but his men clearly respected him.
The dark elf was part of the healer's group and was doing her best to go unnoticed. But I noticed.
As the hours passed, patterns emerged.
Group Three was leading—by 15 points. The scarred veteran was playing it smart. He sent out weaker fighters when stronger enemies were up, and held back his elites until the others tired. Tactical brilliance.
Group Two, the hunter's squad, went in order—strongest to weakest. Predictable.
Groups One and Four sent volunteers. No strategy, just enthusiasm.
Group Five was the oddity. They consistently landed third in every match. I wasn't sure how their leader was calling it, but every round, his pick was just strong enough to land middle-of-the-pack. Too consistent to be luck.
I walked around and observed the back lines of the different groups. Each person was focused, working hard to fill as many (D) rank crystals as they could before running out of mana.
They pushed their limits.
Most average soldiers had 200–300 MP. Exceptional ones pushed 1,000. I hadn't been blessed with a large pool myself—barely 250 at my peak—but it didn't matter now. I'd already found ways to render the old limits obsolete.
Some passed out after filling 20 or 30. Others managed 35 or 45. A few rare talents hit triple digits before collapsing into the arms of their squad mates or being carried off by nearby healers.
A (D) rank crystal took around 10 MP to fill up depending on the purity of your mana. So it was a good way to practice mana control and naturally push your mana pool to its limits.
Group Four's back line—led by the healer girl—was keeping a steady rhythm. She paced up and down her line, encouraging them, checking their vitals, pushing them just a little further when they were on the brink of giving up.
She hadn't used her mana at all. She was preserving it, monitoring the others instead.
Smart.
I turned back to the front lines. The final rounds were now underway.
Group Three's strongest member was finally stepping forward. He was calm, methodical. His body language told me everything—years of experience, probably military background, maybe even noble-blooded based on his posture.
He faced off against Group One's last man: the giant.
The fight wasn't flashy.
No fancy techniques.
No dramatic flourishes.
Just raw skill. Grit.
The scarred man from Group Three moved like he had wrestled ogres for breakfast. The giant swung like a mountain—slow but impossible to stop once it moved.
The crowd watched in silence.
Then it happened.
A misstep.
The giant overextended, his foot sliding in the dirt—and the scarred man slipped past his guard, wrapped his arms around his midsection, and with a grunt of force that shouldn't have been possible for his size, slammed the giant into the ground.
Dust flew. The back of the crowd erupted.
Group Three cheered. Group One fell silent.
And just like that, Group Three secured their lead.
I nodded to myself. If they could perform like this under pressure, they might be more useful than I thought.
Back lines were finishing too.
Group Four and Group Five were neck and neck in terms of raw mana output.
But it wasn't just quantity. It was control.
Some applicants had overfilled their crystals, ruining them. Others cracked the crystal casing entirely, wasting their point.
Group Four, under the healer's guidance, made the fewest mistakes. Their yield wasn't the highest, but their precision kept them in first place with the healer girl filling up around 173 perfect crystals by herself. Impressive!
In her front lines the assassin girl took over after she noticed they were losing most of their fights. This caused them to at least manage second in the fights during the last half of the matches.
Group Five managed to push ahead of the other groups besides 1—barely. Their squad leader, whoever he was, seemed to have moved the majority of his forces to the back line making it 70% in the back lines and 30% in the front lines.
It seems he was the only leader to truly pick up on my words. I never said who had to go where, only that there had to be two groups.
Group Two fell behind. Their leader focused so heavily on the front line that their mana division had fallen into disarray. Too many overfilled crystals. Too many breaks.
Group One was already demoralized from the front line losses. That meathead that had more brawns than brian just picked someone random to be the back lines leader, and obviously that guy had no idea what he was doing.
And Group Three?
They were consistent. Not the best. Not the worst. But reliable—like a well-oiled machine. Instead of everyone filling crystals the woman that lead them, someone the middle aged man picked to lead them, had decided it would be better to have a few people actually finish the crystals while others filled them up part way. Keeping the ratio of broken to finished relatively low.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I had my results.
"Enough!" I called.
Everyone froze.
Healers moved in, tending to the injured. Those who could still stand did so with pride—drenched in sweat, caked in dirt and dried blood, but upright.
I stepped forward again, hands clasped behind my back.
"You've completed the final trial."
A wave of breathless relief rippled through the formation.
"Group Three," I continued, "took first place. You are exempt from punishment. Your training begins at dawn tomorrow."
No cheers. Just stiffened backs and quiet nods. Professionals. They didn't have the flashiest fighters or the strongest mage. They had something better—leadership.
"Group Four—second place. You're close, you had the most points in the back line, but your front line suffered. Keep pushing."
"Group Five—third. Well played." I finally picked up on his strategy, he didn't care about coming in first or last, every single one of his men had around the exact same points. Meaning it was going to be tough to decide who to cut, he did that on purpose, he was a compassionate leader who wanted to see all his troops pass.
"Group One—fourth. You've got talent, but you're too lopsided. Learn to divide your focus."
"Group Two… last. You'll report for conditioning. Tomorrow will not be pleasant."
Some groaned. Others clenched their fists. A few looked away in shame.
I didn't soften my tone.
"If you can't handle failure, you won't survive this legion, failure is growth. Accept it with open arms or get out."
I turned to Lace. "Have the final scores posted tonight. Let those who made the top ten per group prepare for leadership assessments."
"Yes, Commander."
"And Lace?"
"Yes?"
"Have the ones who didn't make it cut the day after tomorrow."
He smirked. "I believe they already know who they are."
I looked across the crowd one last time—and noticed a few already turning to leave, heads low.
So much to do.
So little time.
they were raw iron—and I intended to forge them into steel.
"Squad leaders stay behind, the rest of you are to report tomorrow at zero three hundred at the training grounds. Group 3 report at zero six hundred. Dismissed."
– Mirian's POV –
Mirian was in a chamber speaking with a few other nobles who were trying to get her to command Basil to teach their sons swordsmanship and the like.
"As I told you last time, Count Caleb, Viscount Evan—training the new legion takes precedence," she said, her tone even but laced with weariness. "If we don't fortify the borders, your sons won't live long enough to learn which end of a sword to hold."
"But, Your Majesty—" Caleb began.
"I said that's enough." Her voice cut through the air like a blade. "I'm tired of repeating myself. Every day since the duel, you've come here with the same request."
She turned, robes swaying behind her. "If you're so determined to see Basil train your children, go ask him yourself."
I left them standing there as I walked away. I knew it wasn't proper of me to be so dismissive of them, but right now I just didn't have the energy.
Something was wrong with me.
I could feel it.
For some reason, the past few days my body had been growing more and more tired, no matter how much sleep I was getting. my brain had been foggy—to the point that I forgot to attend an important meeting between the Empire and the Elf Kingdom regarding the North.
Luckily, they took the excuse that I had to attend more urgent meetings regarding Hell's Legion, so I didn't take a terrible hit to my reputation.
As I walked back to my room, the hallway appeared as if it were stretching and twisting.
I reached up and rubbed my forehead.
What's wrong with me? Why is my vision suddenly going blurry…?
I leaned on the wall for support and looked down at my hand.
My veins were slightly black for some reas—
Mirians body crumpled to the floor, unconscious, alone in the hallway. Helpless.