The fortress loomed in silence.
Its towers rose not in defiance but fatigue, stones worn thin by wind and war, mortar flaking like dead skin. **Broken Stone** did not repel invaders; it endured them—like an old knight who had long stopped bleeding, but never stopped hurting.
Arthur dismounted as the gates closed behind him, the iron creaking like it remembered better days.
The garrison had gathered—those still stationed, at least. Most were young, wide-eyed, their armor mismatched. A few bore scars. Fewer still had the stance of men who had seen real battle. They watched him with a mix of caution and curiosity, but not the reverence he'd grown used to in Stormgrave.
Arthur didn't expect it here.
He walked past them without a word, cloak trailing dust. The knights shifted as he passed—not out of respect, but uncertainty.
> "A core's weight reveals itself in silence," his father once told him. "If they do not listen, they will feel."
He could feel the **realm levels** around him as he moved—subtle signs, the quiet rhythm of breath, the way their feet met stone.
The ones at the courtyard's edge? Barely initiated. Knights of the Awakening Core—men who had opened their internal reservoir of aura, but little else. Their nerves were raw, their will untested.
Closer in stood those with harder eyes—scarred knuckles, still stances, controlled breath. Their movements flowed more naturally, their blades hung at the correct angle, not for show. **Iron Nerve** realm. Second level of the path. Reflexes honed, body attuned to the Codex's silent drumbeat.
Beyond them—just a few—held something deeper. One leaned on a spear and stared at Arthur as if weighing his soul. His presence was like stone beneath riverwater: calm, heavy, immovable.
> "That one's stepped into the Tempered Vein realm," Arthur noted.
> "He's not fast—but you'll die if you try to trade blows."
But there were too few of them. Far too few.
Knight-Captain Arga walked with him through the keep's interior. The torches burned low. There were no sigil-lights here—no power inscriptions humming along the walls as in noble fortresses. Just fire and stone.
"Number?" Arthur asked at last.
"Four hundred, give or take," Arga muttered. "We're supposed to field a thousand."
Arthur didn't respond.
"We hold a wide region. Bandits near the southern marshes. Beast migration to the east. Supplies come irregularly. And too many of these lads…" Arga glanced back toward the yard. "They were trained by map, not war."
Arthur raised a brow. "How many above Tempered Vein?"
"About twenty-five. Including myself."
That made Arthur stop.
The **Tempered Vein** was the third gate of the knight's path. From that point onward, a knight could begin to draw forth **internal Oath Aura**—the will-forged essence that shaped their strikes and reinforced their soul.
> "And how many," Arthur asked, "have stepped into the fourth gate?"
Arga looked at him. "Six. Including the blacksmith. And only three have crossed into the fifth."
The **Stone-Bound Oath** and **Knight's Ascendancy**—fourth and fifth realms. The first where a knight's aura began to leave traces in the world.
That meant the whole of Broken Stone had **only three knights capable of true Oath Aura projection**.
> *This fortress isn't just understaffed,* Arthur thought. *It's vulnerable. Forgotten.*
That evening, Arthur stood before a ruined shrine built into the outer wall. Moss clung to the stone like a curse. The idol was shattered—whatever divinity it once depicted had been ground to rubble.
A woman—thin, grey-cloaked, faceless in the dimming light—stood beside him. She whispered something too soft to hear, and vanished into the mist.
> "Strange," Arthur thought. "No aura. No footfall. As if she wasn't here at all."
The **Codex stirred** in his chest—not awakened, but... curious.
He pressed his palm against the cold stone, and for a moment, heard something.
A rasping breath beneath the fortress.
Later that night, Arga led a small scouting band into the eastern ridges. Arthur rode beside him. Six knights total. The wind was sharp, moonlight pale, and the trees stood too still.
They passed a broken patrol marker. Shattered iron jutted from the earth, scorched black. The grass nearby had not regrown.
Arthur stepped down, kneeling to touch the dirt.
It crumbled too easily. A fine powder.
"Last patrol vanished two days ago," Arga said behind him. "No signs of struggle."
Arthur's fingers closed over a thin crack in the ground. It wasn't natural. Nor was it carved by claw or tool.
It was as if **the earth itself had opened willingly.**
> The Codex **throbbed** once in his chest—dull, steady. Not warning. Recognition.
He rose slowly, eyes on the darkness beyond the ridge.
Then came the sound.
Not a growl. Not a howl.
A **whisper**, like breath through bone. A limb scraped stone. Another slithered behind it.
Arga drew his sword. The others followed, tense.
And from beneath the ridge—
A shape began to rise.
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