Red swiped his hand to bring up the master roster. Exactly one thousand Vanguard veterans had reached the required synchronization threshold to handle raw system magic.

He began checking the boxes.

He started with his Kobolds. Iron-Scale was at the top of the list, desperately needing the upgrade after nearly dying to a Herald. Moss-Eye and Swift-Tail were selected next, followed by Snarl and the other scouts.

He saw Krug’s name highlighted in gold, but his first Apostle was currently unavailable, managing the vast administrative duties back at Bastion. Red left him in the queue for later as he didn’t know what would and could happen in his current condition.

Moving down, he selected his Obsidian-Claw Troglodytes. Gorak was chosen alongside the elderly administrator Zek and capital commander Zolog. Red also checked Gulag’s name. Since the brawler was already unconscious in a field medical tent recovering from her berserker backlash, slipping into a spiritual trial would not change her current physical state at all.

Next came the Grey-Fin Lizardmen. Elder Syra, Fin-Bar, and Razor-Fin were added to the batch. From the Shell-Kin, he selected the massive siege-tank commander Old-Shell. He included the Mud-Skippers’ lethal chemical specialists, Sludge and Bog-Rot.

Finally, he highlighted the highest-ranking humans who had fully assimilated into his faction. Elian, acting as his proxy and Prophet, was an obvious choice. Red also added the frontline commander Novus, the operative Hawl, and the militia chief Gustav.

With the named leadership locked in, Red highlighted the remaining nine-hundred-plus veterans who formed the absolute core of his military might.

A thousand souls, ready to cross the threshold.

"Activate," Red commanded.

[ Target selection confirmed: 1,000 Faction Members. ]

[ Initiating Divine Conduit. ]

[ Dispensing raw mana... ]

The digital interface flared with brilliant crimson light. Red felt a sudden surge of energy pull from his newly expanded core, traveling instantly down the spiritual tethers connecting him to his followers.

Across the ocean and back on his home continent, one thousand elite warriors simultaneously stopped whatever they were doing, their eyes slipping shut as they collapsed into a deep, unbreakable slumber to face their trials.

The Vanguard was finally awakening.

The physical world of the western shipyards faded away.

Iron-Scale opened his eyes to find himself standing in an endless, completely featureless white void. He wore his standard star-iron plates, and his twin daggers hung securely at his waist, but the suffocating scent of salt and blood from the harbor was entirely gone.

"Commander," a voice echoed through the emptiness.

Iron-Scale drew a dagger instantly, his draconic eyes narrowing as he scanned the blank horizon. A figure materialized directly in front of him, coalescing from swirling white mist. It was Ghizlan. The Conqueror stood perfectly healthy, wearing the same dark tunic and armed with the lethal obsidian longsword.

"This is an illusion," Iron-Scale stated, shifting into a defensive stance. "I killed you on the docks."

"You did," the phantom Ghizlan agreed politely. "This is not a rematch of flesh, but a test of conceptual alignment. Your Sovereign has granted you the opportunity to wield magic, but a mana core requires an anchor. You must demonstrate exactly what element your soul resonates with."

The phantom raised the obsidian sword. The blade did not radiate the crushing, heavy gravity that the real Ghizlan possessed. Instead, it hummed with raw, unfiltered potential.

"You survived our duel because you refused to match my density," the phantom analyzed, stepping forward. "You relied on speed, precision, and the mechanical wires to dictate the flow of combat. You are a creature of motion. Show me."

The phantom lunged, sweeping the heavy blade in a blistering horizontal arc.

Iron-Scale instinctively reached for his hip, expecting to fire his pneumatic spool and launch himself backward out of range.

His hand found empty air. The mechanical wires he relied on were completely gone, destroyed during the real fight.

The obsidian blade slammed into Iron-Scale’s chest, carrying enough kinetic force to shatter his armor and launch him backward. He crashed heavily into the invisible floor of the void, gasping for air as the phantom immediately closed the distance for a downward execution strike.

Iron-Scale rolled desperately to the side, feeling the heavy sword cleave the space his head had just occupied.

’I am too slow without the wires,’ Iron-Scale realized, scrambling to his feet. ’He said this is a conceptual test. The magic depends entirely on my soul.’

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, tuning out the incoming phantom. He thought about his fighting style. He wasn’t a stationary juggernaut like Gorak, and he wasn’t a destructive brawler like Gulag.

He was a scout, an inquisitor, and an assassin. He slipped through enemy lines completely unseen, striking with lethal precision before vanishing into the shadows. He needed mobility. He needed to be everywhere at once.

He didn’t need heavy earth or destructive fire. He needed the air itself to become his weapon.

Iron-Scale opened his eyes. He focused on the empty space around him, willing the stillness of the void to move.

The phantom swung again. This time, Iron-Scale didn’t try to dodge physically. He channeled his intent outward. A sudden, violent gust of wind erupted from his boots, physically launching him backward with the exact same speed and trajectory as his missing wire-spools.

He landed softly ten yards away, staring at his hands in disbelief.

"Better," the phantom Ghizlan noted, lowering his sword. "But motion is only half the equation. A blade must also cut."

The phantom swung his sword upward, sending a condensed crescent of pure mana hurtling across the void toward Iron-Scale.

Iron-Scale drew both of his serrated daggers. He pictured the razor-sharp edge of his blades extending outward, visualizing the air itself compressing into an impossibly thin, lethal edge. He swung his twin daggers in a rapid cross-slash.

Two crescent blades of highly compressed, howling wind shot forward. They slammed into the phantom’s mana wave, cleanly slicing it into three harmless pieces before continuing forward and striking the phantom directly in the chest.

The illusory Ghizlan dissolved back into white mist, leaving Iron-Scale alone in the void.

A warm, pulsing sensation bloomed deep within his chest, directly beside his draconic aura. The trial was over.

Iron-Scale opened his real eyes, gasping as he woke up on the wooden planks of the captured western shipyard. He felt entirely different. A dense, swirling core of emerald energy now rotated within his chest, burning with the unfettered power of the wind.

He raised his hand, and a miniature cyclone instantly formed over his palm.

"Is this the magic Sovereign promised?" Iron-Scale asked himself.