The rebellion was no longer a whisper in the shadows. It was a wildfire.

  Aelric made sure of that.

  Each village they passed through bore the same mark—the heads of the fallen Order, mounted on stakes, a warning to those who still clung to fear. A message written in blood and carved into wood stood beside the grotesque display:

  THE ORDER IS NOT ETERNAL. IT WILL CHANGE. JOIN US.

  There was no more hiding. No more secrecy. The world would know that the rebellion had begun.

  And Aelric would make sure they never forgot.

  Aelric, Kaela, and Veyne moved through the night like ghosts, leading their warriors through the dense woods. They moved from village to village, hunting down the Order’s patrols, slaughtering their messengers before they could report back.

  One by one, they fell.

  A patrol unit stationed at a riverbank—slain.

  A squad of enforcers collecting taxes from starving peasants—cut down before they could react.

  A messenger desperately riding toward a city—struck down by Kaela’s spear before he could scream.

  The corpses were left behind as warnings. Bloodied armor. Lifeless eyes. And always, the same message left behind:

  The Order is not eternal. It will change. Join us.

  Fear gripped the land. But so did something else.

  Hope.

  When Aelric and his warriors arrived at the next village, they found nothing but bones and ashes.

  The Order had burned it to the ground.

  Aelric stepped through the remains of houses, his boots crunching over blackened wood. The stench of death still lingered in the air. A few survivors—hollow-eyed, starved, broken—huddled together in the ruins of what had once been a home.

  Aelric’s jaw tightened.

  He had seen villages like this before.

  The Order had punished them. Likely for showing sympathy to rebels.

  Aelric turned to the villagers, his golden eyes burning.

  He could see it in their faces.

  They had already given up.

  He stepped onto the remains of a fallen building, raising his voice so all could hear.

  “How long have you lived like this?”

  His voice cut through the still air. The villagers barely moved.

  Aelric’s golden eyes swept over them, cold and piercing.

  “How long have you woken up before the sun, only to break your bodies for the Order?”

  A few heads lifted.

  “How long have you bowed your heads, too afraid to look your masters in the eyes?”

  Silence.

  “Have they ever asked if you were tired? If you were hungry? If you were afraid?”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The villagers trembled.

  Aelric’s voice turned sharper.

  “They do not see you as people. They see you as tools. They take what they want—your labor, your children, your very lives—and leave you with nothing.”

  A small child clung to his mother’s tattered robes.

  “But tell me… why?”

  Aelric’s expression was unreadable.

  “Why do you let them?”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Aelric let the silence stretch before he spoke again, softer now, but just as powerful.

  “Do you believe this is the only way to live?”

  A pause.

  “Do you believe the gods have cursed you to a life of servitude?”

  Another pause.

  “Or is it simply easier to believe that… than to fight for something more?”

  Aelric stepped forward, his presence overwhelming.

  “I will tell you what the Order fears most.”

  He looked at them all, one by one.

  “It is not swords. It is not armies. It is not blood.”

  A sharp breath.

  “It is you.”

  The villagers blinked, confused.

  Aelric’s lips curled into a smirk.

  “They fear the day you realize that they need you far more than you need them.”

  Silence.

  And then—

  “The Order has already lost.”

  Aelric’s voice rang like steel against stone.

  “They just don’t know it yet.”

  A long, heavy silence followed.

  Then—

  A man clenched his fists.

  A woman wiped her tears.

  A child, no older than ten, looked up at his father and asked, “Is he right?”

  And for the first time—

  The father did not have an answer.

  Aelric raised his chin. His final words sealed their fate.

  “I do not offer safety. I do not offer comfort. I offer you only this—a chance.”

  His golden eyes burned into them.

  “A chance to take back what was stolen. A chance to carve your own fate.”

  A deep breath.

  “A chance to be free.”

  One by one, they stepped forward.

  And the rebellion grew.

  Aelric left every village with more soldiers than he arrived with.

  Farmers who had nothing to lose.

  Mothers whose children had been taken by the Order.

  Teenagers, too young for war, but too angry to sit by and do nothing.

  It did not matter if they were weak. It did not matter if they had never held a sword.

  If they had the will to fight, they were welcome.

  Each new rebel was given a simple order—spread the message.

  The Order is not eternal. It will change. Join us.

  Within days, the words were whispered in every marketplace, carved into the walls of taverns, painted across the streets of occupied towns.

  The Order tried to erase it.

  But they were too late.

  The fire had already caught.

  And it would not stop.

  Deep within a fortress far from the villages, a high-ranking officer of the Order read the reports with cold fury.

  Another patrol wiped out.

  Another village lost.

  And worst of all—rebellion was spreading.

  The officer’s hands tightened around the parchment.

  Aelric.

  His name was not yet known. But his actions were.

  The Order had thought themselves invincible.

  Now, for the first time in centuries—

  They were afraid.

  And that fear would turn to rage.

  The war was only beginning.

  The world was shifting.

  Every village Aelric passed through left behind only one truth—the Order could bleed. And if they could bleed, they could die.

  The villagers who accepted his offer vanished like ghosts into the subspace, a world unseen to the Order’s eyes. There, Aelric ensured they had food, water, and shelter—things they had never been given freely before. Warriors trained them relentlessly, sharpening their bodies and minds, forging them into something the Order had never considered possible—an army.

  But those who chose not to fight did not remain silent.

  Rumors spread like wildfire.

  A man and his army, cutting down the Order wherever they walked. A force that did not tire, did not fear, did not hesitate. The Order’s men, impaled, displayed in the streets as warnings.

  At first, people whispered of him in cautious voices. Then, as the days passed, their voices grew louder.

  Some called him a demon.

  Others called him salvation.

  Regardless of what they believed, the truth was undeniable—for the first time in generations, the people’s eyes were gaining life again.

  Those who did not see Aelric with their own eyes still heard the stories. Some traveled across villages, expecting exaggeration, only to find the severed heads, the carved messages, the absence of Order patrols.

  And they realized.

  If there was ever a time to rebel…

  It was now.

  The peasants, long broken, long silenced, began to rise.

  Within the grand halls of the Order’s highest temple, a high priest named Shallmer sat comfortably, swirling a glass of fine wine. Reports of rebellion were piled before him, delivered with urgency, yet he did not seem concerned.

  He smirked, flipping through them lazily.

  “So,” he mused, “the lower filth finally remembers how to bite?”

  The attendants before him stiffened.

  Shallmer chuckled. “Let them. Let them grow.” His fingers tapped against the wooden desk. “For the first time in so long, something is happening. I admit, I’m curious.”

  One of the attendants hesitated. “Your Holiness, if we allow them to grow too strong—”

  Shallmer waved a hand dismissively.

  “They are peasants. They were born to die. We will let them crawl out of their holes, gather in their pathetic numbers, and when they believe they have a chance…”

  His smirk widened.

  “…we will crush them.”

  A cold, cruel silence settled in the room.

  And far away, beyond their reach, the flames of rebellion only burned brighter.

  Aelric stood before his gathered forces, two thousand strong. Though they had been villagers, farmers, beggars, and runaways only weeks ago, they now stood with the hardened resolve of soldiers.

  But war was not only fought with weapons.

  Aelric had calculated everything. Nothing would be wasted.

  Those who were too weak to fight, the elderly, the injured, and even the children who had no place in battle, they would not be idle.

  “Strength comes in many forms,” Aelric declared. “Not all of you will hold a blade, but each of you will be the backbone of this war.”

  The subspace, a world apart from the one ruled by the Order, would be built into a fortress.

  The farmers would cultivate land within, ensuring that food would never be scarce.

  The craftsmen would gather metal and wood, forging new weapons, armor, and tools.

  The builders would construct shelters, training grounds, and places to house the growing army.

  The scavengers would strip every fallen Order soldier of their armor, weapons, and supplies—nothing would go to waste.

  “Every role matters,” Aelric told them. “Without you, the warriors cannot fight. Without you, we will not endure.”

  And so, while the warriors trained and marched, those who could not fight built the foundation of their future. Fields of grain and fruit blossomed within the subspace. Blacksmiths shaped steel into deadly new weapons. The dead Order soldiers no longer served their masters—their armor was reforged for the very people they sought to oppress.

  With every battle, Aelric’s forces grew.

  Weapons meant for the Order’s enforcers now armed the rebellion.

  Men and women who had never lifted a sword now trained to kill.

  They struck without warning, appearing like ghosts.

  Order patrols? Massacred.

  Messengers? Erased before they could speak.

  Everywhere Aelric went, he left behind a single message—The Order is not eternal.

  Those who refused to join him still carried his legend. They spread whispers, rumors, the truth.

  Aelric, the golden-eyed warrior, the ghost leading an army that grew stronger with every battle.

  And across the land—people began to rise.

  Not just in secret, not just in whispers. Peasants openly defied the Order.

  The world was changing.

  And Aelric was leading it.

  Chapter 25 ends