The world, or what was left of it, reeked of iron and ash. It was a symphony of agony and destruction—the guttural cries of retreating soldiers, the triumphant roars of something monstrous, and the sickening sizzle of flesh meeting flame. Kaelen lay sprawled amidst a grotesque tapestry of bodies, his own chest a canvas of searing pain. He gasped, each breath a struggle, a ragged cough rattling his ribs.
His eyes, heavy and unfocused, blinked open to a sky choked with smoke, a bruised purple against the orange glow of a burning world. Below him, the ground was a muddy, blood-soaked morass, littered with discarded weapons and the silent, broken figures of the fallen. A low-ranked conscript's tunic, now torn and stained, clung to his bleeding side.
Who am I?
The question echoed in the cavern of his mind, hollow and without answer. There was no name, no face, no memory of a life before this moment. Only instinct remained, a primal urge to survive that clawed at him, even as consciousness threatened to slip away. He was just another casualty on the sprawling, ruined plains outside Karshelm Fortress, the last bastion, the final defiant gasp of humanity against an unending tide of despair. The fortress walls, once towering symbols of defiance, were now pockmarked and scarred, a testament to endless sieges.
A stray ember drifted down from the smoke-laden sky, landing on his cheek. It didn't burn, not truly, not compared to the gnawing chill that seeped into his bones. He tried to move, to crawl, to find some semblance of safety, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. This was it then, the end before a beginning.
Just as the grey mist of oblivion began to creep in, a sound, unlike any other, pierced the chaotic din of the battlefield. It wasn't a scream or an explosion. It was a whisper. Cold and clear, it resonated not in his ears, but directly within the deepest recesses of his being.
[System Online.]
Kaelen's eyes snapped wide open, clarity momentarily cutting through the pain. A shimmering interface, invisible to anyone but him, flickered into existence before his vision. It was simple, elegant, and utterly alien.
[Class: Legionborn.]
[Unique Skill Unlocked — "Replicate Troop."]
[Condition to Activate: Complete Mission Objectives.]
Replicate Troop? Mission Objectives? His mind, devoid of personal history, latched onto the words with a desperate, burgeoning curiosity. This wasn't a dream. This was… something more. A chance. A sudden, exhilarating spark ignited within him, chasing away the encroaching despair.
Another message appeared, bold and resolute.
[You are a one-man army. Build it.]
A one-man army. The concept was absurd, yet it resonated with a deep, forgotten part of him. A quiet hum of power thrummed beneath his skin, an energy that wasn't painful, but invigorating. He pushed himself up, a grunt escaping his lips, muscles screaming in protest. But he was moving. He was alive.
A sudden clang of steel brought him back to the grim reality. A small unit of Orcs, their green skin scarred and their tusks gleaming, had broken through a compromised section of the outer wall, just a hundred paces from where he lay. They were cutting down the last stragglers of his own side, their crude axes rising and falling with brutal efficiency. Panic flared amongst the few remaining human soldiers.
"Fall back! They're too many!" a voice screamed, fear thick and raw.
Kaelen saw a grizzled sergeant, his face streaked with dirt and blood, trying to rally a handful of exhausted men. Sergeant Rhys, his jaw set, his eyes grim but determined, was a bulwark against the tide. Beside him, a young private, no older than Kaelen himself, trembled, his spear clutched too tightly in his shaking hands. Private Finn, his face pale, looked like he was about to break.
A wave of tactical insight, sharp and incisive, flooded Kaelen's mind. It wasn't a memory, but a perfect, instinctual understanding of the battlefield. Flank them. Use the debris for cover. Target the shaman first.
Without thinking, Kaelen moved. "Rhys! To your left, now! Flank the orc leader!" His voice, surprisingly strong, cut through the din. He grabbed a discarded sword, heavier than he expected, but strangely balanced in his grip.
Sergeant Rhys, startled by the unexpected command from a bleeding conscript, hesitated for only a fraction of a second. But something in Kaelen's eyes—a cold, calculated certainty—made him obey. Rhys bellowed orders to his men, diverting their desperate retreat into a desperate counter-attack.
Kaelen, though still weak, pressed forward. He moved with a strange, fluid grace, parrying a clumsy axe blow with surprising ease, then thrusting the sword into the orc's exposed side. He wasn't strong, not yet, but his movements were efficient, economical. He barked more orders, his voice a surprising anchor in the chaos. "Finn! Shield wall! Protect Rhys's flank!"
Private Finn, jolted by the direct command, stiffened. He wasn't a natural warrior, but Kaelen's words seemed to pierce his fear. He moved his shield into position, forming a flimsy but vital barrier.
The fight was short, brutal, and utterly desperate. Kaelen fought not with strength, but with precision, directing the meager force like a conductor orchestrating a grim symphony. He saw openings, anticipated enemy moves, and issued commands that seemed to arrive at the perfect moment. His tactical genius, a new and unsettling discovery, flowed unimpeded.
Finally, the last orc fell, its guttural gurgle fading into the background. The small breach was secured, for now. The few remaining human soldiers, panting and bloodied, leaned on their weapons, staring at Kaelen with a mix of awe and bewilderment. Sergeant Rhys approached, his brow furrowed.
"Lad, where did that come from? You fought like a seasoned veteran," Rhys said, his voice gruff, but with an undeniable note of respect.
Kaelen managed a weary, charming smile. It felt practiced, natural, yet utterly false. "Just instinct, Sergeant. Sometimes you just… know." He shrugged, making the movement seem casual, hiding the strategic mind churning beneath.
Just then, a faint chime sounded in his mind.
[Mission Objectives Complete: Hold the breached section for 10 minutes. Zero casualties for your direct command.]
[1 Duplication Token Gained.]
[Bonus: Zero Casualties — 1 Additional Duplication Token Gained.]
[You have 2 Duplication Tokens. Choose a living soldier to Replicate.]
Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, exhilarating drum. Two tokens. Not one, but two! This was it. The moment of truth.
He looked at the weary faces around him. Sergeant Rhys, solid, dependable, a leader forged in countless battles. Private Finn, terrified but brave, who had overcome his fear to hold the line. Each one was a testament to survival, a potential template.
A cold, methodical thought surfaced, startling him with its clarity. If a soldier dies, their 'template' is lost forever. He could only copy those who lived. And if he let someone be pushed to their very limit, but not quite die… could he mold them into something more before copying them? The idea was a seed, planted deep, already beginning to sprout.
But for now, he needed a foundation. He needed loyalty. He needed a direct connection to this strange new power.
He focused on Private Finn. The young man had faced his fear, pushed past it. He was a good starting point, raw but resilient. More importantly, he had obeyed Kaelen's commands without question. He was a soldier Kaelen could build upon.
He focused his intent on Finn. The interface shimmered, displaying Finn's name.
[Replicate Private Finn? This will consume 1 Duplication Token.]
Confirm.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground. A soft, golden light enveloped Private Finn for a mere second, so faint that the other soldiers, preoccupied with their exhaustion, didn't notice. Then, as if from thin air, a new figure shimmered into existence beside Kaelen.
It was another Private Finn. Identical in every way—the same slightly too-large helmet, the same dirt-smudged face, even the same nervous flicker in his eyes. He stood ramrod straight, his expression one of unwavering, absolute loyalty. Not to the Kingdom, not to Rhys, but to Kaelen.
Kaelen felt a powerful, undeniable connection to this new Finn. It was a bond of command, of purpose, of something profound and thrilling.
Sergeant Rhys, finally catching his breath, looked up. His eyes widened. "Finn? But… you were just there?" He pointed at the original Private Finn, then the new one. The real Finn looked equally bewildered.
Kaelen, calm and collected despite the internal earthquake, just smiled. "Reinforcements, Sergeant. A stroke of luck, it seems. He must have been hiding nearby, waiting for his moment." It was a flimsy lie, but in the chaos of war, desperate men often believed what they wanted to believe. And the new Finn, the replicated one, stood silently, his loyalty a palpable force.
Suddenly, a gruff voice cut through the air. "What's this mess, Sergeant Rhys? And who is this new recruit, just appearing out of nowhere?"
Captain Theron, a stern-faced officer with a neatly trimmed beard and armor that looked too polished for this war-torn place, strode towards them, his eyes sharp and suspicious. He was the embodiment of the rigid hierarchy Kaelen was about to subtly dismantle.
"Captain, sir! This conscript, Kaelen, rallied our men. And… well, this new recruit just arrived." Rhys stumbled over his words, clearly unsettled by the appearance of the second Finn.
Kaelen stepped forward, his smile confident, almost disarming. "Kaelen, sir. Just trying to do my part. As for the new private, he must have been separated from his unit." He nodded towards the replicated Finn, who remained perfectly still, a silent testament to his control. He felt the other duplication token burning in his pocket, a promise of what was to come.
Captain Theron's gaze lingered on Kaelen, assessing. There was something in Kaelen's eyes—a depth, an unnatural calm—that the Captain couldn't quite place. But Kaelen's explanation was plausible enough, given the disarray of the battlefield. The Captain grunted, satisfied for now. "Very well. Rhys, get these men back to the Inner Keep. And Kaelen, report to the supply depot. We need every able body for the next push."
As they began to move, Kaelen glanced back at the ravaged plains, then at the sturdy walls of Karshelm Fortress. This fortress, designed as humanity's last stand, was more than just a stronghold. For him, a man with no past and a terrifyingly powerful future, it was a forge. A place where he would not just survive, but build. He had his first soldier, his first step. And a whole fortress full of potential templates. His gaze hardened. The real war, the one he intended to fight, had only just begun.
He had another token. And a distinct, exciting notion of who he wanted to copy next, and why.