Chapter 2: I Thought It Was Dark Fantasy, But It Was a Romance (1)

The enlistment process was simpler than I’d expected.

Thanks to the influence of the Nordelheim ducal family, no one bothered to scrutinize my background or records.

That damned duke who promised to “help” had thrown me straight to the front lines.

Was this his idea of help, that bastard?

The place I ended up was the Edberk trench line, the most monsterinfested region in the North.

Still, if there was a silver lining, it was that this was one of the few places where aura techniques were formally taught.

“Stop breathing. Then draw it back up, like you’re gripping your heart, lungs, and spine all at once.”

“…Is this really something humans are meant to do?”

“It is, so just do it. If you don’t, you’re dead.”

Training in aura techniques was pure agony.

It was an insane cycle of meditation and extreme cardio, pushed to the brink.

Even when muscles tore or ligaments snapped, there was no stopping.

From what I’d heard, the first step was sensing the energy flowing within your body.

I had no clue what that flowery nonsense meant.

If they told me to do it, I did it.

I trained until I felt like I’d drop dead.

It wasn’t just the pain of broken bones—it felt like my bones were being crushed from the inside.

My veins boiled, and my eyes burned as if they were on fire.

But the results were undeniable.

The blood of Balthazar must’ve carried some talent, because I had a knack for it.

In just one month at the training camp, I’d grasped the basics of aura techniques.

When you train with the mindset that you’ll die if you don’t, somehow, it works.

“You’re the only one who’s ever graduated from this camp in a month, rookie,” the instructor said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“In the entire history of this camp, you’re a talent unmatched.”

“You’re too kind.”

After completing training, I was immediately deployed to the front lines.

The battlefield reeked.

It was the stench of soldiers who hadn’t bathed in months, drenched in monster blood and sweat.

I didn’t want to know, but within two weeks of deployment, I realized I smelled just as bad.

Why was the punishment for running my mouth so harsh?

This sucked.

“Hey, rookie! Don’t fall behind!” barked the squad leader.

His armor was shredded, three of his teeth were missing, and his mouth spewed constant, gravelly curses.

Yet, he was easily three times stronger than me.

“You dumb bastard, why aren’t you running?! That alley’s a death trap!”

“I’m running, damn it!” I snapped back, swallowing my irritation as I sprinted.

This was the northern front.

If you wanted to die, all you had to do was stand still.

For the first month, I fumbled just trying to kill a single monster.

The beasts here were on a different level from the ones I’d faced outside the front lines.

Twothirds of my training camp peers didn’t survive two weeks.

They died in all sorts of gruesome ways—heads crushed, limbs torn off, hearts ripped out.

I lost count of how many times I vomited at the sight of their mangled corpses.

Determined not to end up like them, I fought tooth and nail to survive.

The more fiercely I clashed with monsters, the stronger my aura grew.

By three months, I could break through monster hordes alongside the assault squad.

By five months, I could hold my own against hightier fiends long enough to buy time.

“I’ll hold it off!” I shouted.

“Are you suicidal?! Shut up and run!” the squad leader yelled.

“No way. I’m killing that thing!” I insisted.

“Damn it…!” he groaned.

A year later, I drove my blade into the critical weak point of the hightier fiend Razhel, slaying it singlehandedly.

A rookie, just one year on the front lines, had taken down a hightier fiend.

Most called it a rumor; some chalked it up to luck.

“Bet that newbie just ran around and barely survived,” one soldier scoffed.

“Lucky bastard,” another muttered.

But undeniable results were proof enough for some.

A medal ceremony was held.

Surviving soldiers from the northern front gathered in one place.

Most had half their faces caved in or were missing a limb or two.

Yet, they all stood tall in crisp uniforms.

My name was called.

“Ian, 13th Infantry Battalion, step forward.”

I moved to the front.

“Is that the guy who supposedly killed Razhel?” a soldier whispered.

“No way, that’s nonsense,” another replied.

The northern front’s commanderinchief, Baldir Nordelheim, pinned a medal to my chest.

The Iron Blood Medal of the North, a goldembellished honor reserved for those who’d slain hightier fiends.

“Well done. Can you keep fighting?”

“I’ll follow your orders, sir.”

He glanced at my face, then turned away.

Most of the gazes in the room held suspicion, not awe.

The applause was sparse despite the medal.

The surviving soldiers began to see me not as a comrade but as something alien.

Is this a blessing or a curse? I wondered briefly before dismissing the thought.

Surviving was enough.

“So, that’s the soldier who took down Razhel? Looks more like a gigolo than a fighter,” someone sneered.

“That’s Ian, the rookie. Finished training in a month and’s been on the front for a year,” another said.

“Dig into his background. Could be a southern spy.”

“I already did. Turns out, this Ian…” the voice trailed off.

“Interesting…” came the reply.

“Are you the soldier from the rumors, the one who survived the Razhel hunt?” a voice asked.

It was soft, almost drowned out by the soldiers’ laughter, but it carried an overwhelming presence.

The pressure was so intense that some soldiers instinctively reached for their weapons.

A knight clad in full plate armor, not a sliver of skin visible, stood before me.

The voice, though, hinted at her gender.

She removed her helmet, and silverwhite hair cascaded down like a flowing stream.

Icy blue eyes locked onto mine.

A cold, striking beauty stood there.

Irina Krauze.

One of the empire’s three aura masters.

Commander of the 1st Imperial Knight Division.

A living legend of the monster front.

And—

“You’re thinner than I expected. You’re not starving, are you?”

—the one destined to cause the collapse of the northern front.

“If you don’t eat in this place, you get bitten and die,” I shot back. “And you’re the knight commander holding this front together, right?”

Irina nodded, then asked abruptly, “How far have you progressed with aura?”

“I can channel it near my heart.”

“So, no fullbody circulation yet. Fine, whatever.”

She paused, then smirked. “Did you come all this way to die?”

“No. I came to survive.”

“Interesting. I like it. Join the unit I’m forming.”

“…Unit?”

Just like that, I was roped into a newly formed special task force, neither part of the knight order nor the regular army.

The official reason for its creation was to diversify tactics on the northern front.

In truth, it was just a combat unit Irina Krauze had cobbled together with soldiers she liked.

There were no rules, and the lineup was bizarre.

Three elite soldiers, two assassins, one mysterious wanderer, and me.

“You’re the new rookie? Name?” asked a woman, the team leader.

“Ian. No surname.”

“Heard you’re a nutcase who’s dying to get killed,” she said, eyeing me cautiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Word is, you got dumped by your fiancée and ran out to die fighting fiends.”

“That’s bullshit,” I snapped.

“What? It’s not true?”

“Not at all.”

Joining the task force didn’t open some grand path to glory.

The days were even more hellish than in the regular army.

While the knights fought hightier fiends, our unit had to hold the line behind them.

We were called a special task force, but we were basically the knights’ lackeys.

“Stop those bastards from getting through!” someone shouted.

“If even one slips past, the hunt fails!” another barked.

“Ian, you idiot! One’s breaking through!” the team leader yelled.

We dove into the heart of monster swarms, cutting them down, then returned to train, only to dive back in.

Veterans in the unit died one by one, their places filled by new recruits.

Through it all, I grew stronger.

By the time three more years had passed, I could spar with regular knights and win one out of five bouts.

“Ian, that last move was solid,” a knight remarked.

“Not bad for someone who didn’t even attend the Academy,” another added.

“Thanks, but I’ve still got a long way to go,” I replied, my gaze drifting to Irina Krauze.

She was training, her blade wrapped in aura.

Her right arm seemed stiff—she held her sword with her left hand, unlike usual.

The symptoms had already begun.

To prevent the northern front’s collapse, I had to surpass her.

“What, you’re aiming for Commander Irina?” someone teased.

“Haha! No way. She’s a monster who graduated top of the Academy,” another laughed.

“You don’t know until you try,” I said.

“Go for it, kid. Can’t stop that youthful fire. I’m rooting for you.”

It wasn’t about having to do it—I would do it.

With that resolve, I vowed to survive this damned dark fantasy world.

Gripping my sword once more, I steeled myself.