And so, Rayne officially became a part of the Salt Blade. A world full of unknowns, dangers, opportunities, and challenges was slowly opening its doors to the young boy.
The continent of Solmara was by no means a peaceful paradise. Here, various races coexisted, and friction over territory, resources, and beliefs was constant. The deep mountains and wastelands were home to countless powerful monsters and marauding bandits. Armies could only protect the large, densely populated towns. As an important supplementary armed force, mercenary legions were widely welcomed. For the right price, they would accept commissions of all kinds, from escorting merchant caravans and finding lost items to hunting monsters and clearing out bandits. During large-scale wars, some powerful legions were even conscripted by kingdoms to serve as auxiliary forces on the front lines.
Mercenary legions were typically graded into eight ranks: Class-F to Class-S were the first seven. Above Class-S, there was a legendary, highest rank—Mythic-Tier.
As one of the three Class-B legions in Luminea, the Salt Blade, with just over a hundred official members, was the smallest of the three, but its overall strength was widely regarded as the greatest. In most legions, Rank-1 or Rank-2 warriors were considered the main force. But in the Salt Blade, Rank-3 was the minimum standard for entry.
The captain of the Salt Blade, Dario, was one of only two Rank-8 warriors in all of Luminea. The other Rank-8 powerhouse was the supreme commander of the Luminea garrison, Division Commander Cullen. However, Commander Cullen was a recluse who rarely involved himself in matters outside of military affairs, which was the main reason why Damari, despite his public humiliation at the Orchid Bar, did not dare to directly provoke the Salt Blade at their headquarters.
The vice-captain, Freya, was a Rank-6 Fire Mage. As for the short-tempered, one-armed Victor, it was said that before losing his arm, he had been a formidable warrior, but his combat power had declined so severely that it was now difficult to gauge his true level.
Beyond them, individuals like Jason, Klaus, and Vaelin all possessed the formidable strength of Rank-5 warriors and often led small squads on independent missions.
Victor's position within the Salt Blade was unique. Many mercenaries privately believed he was the true leader. While Dario handled mission assignments and execution, all financial matters, logistics, and daily management were Victor's sole responsibility. He had a short temper, and almost no one in the legion dared to provoke him. Even the captain, Dario, would speak to him in a consultative tone when discussing matters.
As Victor's assistant, Rayne discovered that beneath the one-armed, grumpy, overweight man's exterior hid a kind heart. Though Victor was always grumbling and cursing, he never truly treated Rayne like a servant. He handled most of the chores like cleaning and laundry himself, never letting Rayne touch them. He first patiently taught Rayne to read the common tongue, and then put him in charge of organizing the vast and chaotic storehouse.
Rayne was exceptionally bright, with a learning ability and memory that far surpassed others his age. He mastered everything Victor taught him with incredible speed. Moreover, he cherished the opportunity to stay with the mercenary legion. Besides completing the tasks Victor assigned, he often took the initiative to do what he could for Victor and the other mercenaries.
For example, every morning before Victor woke, Rayne would have a basin of water ready for him to wash his face, along with a hot towel. By the time Victor opened his door, the entire courtyard would already be swept spotless.
After one month, Rayne could quickly and accurately find any item Victor needed from the storehouse...
After two months, Victor found himself relying on Rayne more and more without even realizing it...
After three months, there were many times when Victor had only just begun to speak, and Rayne would already have the needed item in front of him...
The other mercenaries gradually noticed the changes, too. Victor lost his temper far less often, and they even saw him smile occasionally. The weapons and armor in the storehouse were always clean and well-maintained whenever they were needed. For any miscellaneous issue in the legion, if they found Rayne, he could always figure out a proper solution.
Soon, nearly everyone in the Salt Blade had grown fond of the "little guy." It seemed that Rayne's good days had only just begun.
...
The early summer sun hung in the azure sky like a giant ball of fire, relentlessly baking the earth.
In the Salt Blade's training ground, waves of heat rolled across the packed dirt.
Thirty-odd mercenaries, bare-chested and their dark skin glistening with sweat, practiced a warform under the blazing sun. The set of techniques looked simple and ancient, yet it was filled with a murderous aura.
Beneath the tall wall on one side of the training ground, Rayne was earnestly mimicking the mercenaries' movements. Though his strength was still nascent, his form was exceptionally precise.
Ever since Victor had "grounded" him at the legion's headquarters, he would sneak here to watch the mercenaries train whenever he had free time.
Over time, he had memorized the warform by heart and could imitate it flawlessly.
"Put some power into your punches! What's with this soft-patted bullshit? Are you embroidering flowers like a sissy?!" Just as Rayne was absorbed in his practice, a resonant voice boomed from behind him.
"Uncle Victor," Rayne immediately lowered his fists and turned, a brilliant smile on his face.
"Hmph," Victor grunted, then nodded. "Kid, do you know the name of this warform?"
"They all call it the 'Hope Fist.' Sounds a bit strange."
"The true name of this warform is the Doomseeker Strike! Those guys thought the name was too grim, too unlucky, so they changed it! The Doomseeker Strike originated from the most elite 'suicide squads' of the human army—a life-or-death combat art! Its very essence is for killing! Only by first possessing the courage and determination to face death without fear can one unleash their greatest fighting power in a desperate situation!"
"Then Uncle Victor, can you teach me the Doomseeker Strike?" Rayne's blood boiled with excitement. He looked up, mustering the courage to ask.
Victor stared at Rayne with his one deep eye, his gaze filled with a complex mix of emotions: pride, reminiscence, and a deep-seated sorrow.
He remained silent for a long time, so long that Rayne thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he let out a long, heavy sigh, his voice tinged with an inescapable bleakness. "Sigh... Kid, the ones who truly mastered this Doomseeker Strike... they're probably all dead now. It truly is... a path to death."
Rayne froze. He could feel an indescribable weight and sadness in Victor's tone.
Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the side gate of the training ground. A dozen mercenaries rushed in, carrying two makeshift stretchers.
"Boss Victor! Quick! We need help!" Jason, his usual playful demeanor gone, sprinted at the front of the group, looking frantic.
Victor's face changed. He forgot about Rayne and immediately rushed toward the stretchers.
The mercenaries training on the field also stopped and quickly gathered around.
On the stretchers lay two unconscious Salt Blade mercenaries, covered in caked blood and dirt, their faces pale as death.
One of them had his chest wrapped in thick layers of white gauze, but crimson blood still seeped through, staining the stretcher beneath him a dark red. The other was in a deep coma, the left leg of his trousers empty and flapping—he had lost a limb.
Victor went to the mercenary with the severed leg and ripped open the trouser leg. The man's left leg was gone from the calf down. Victor tore away the gauze, revealing a horrifying, mangled wound from which dark red blood was gushing.
A white glow of aetheris erupted from Victor's right hand, instantly enveloping the wound and forcibly suppressing the flow of blood. Several nearby mercenaries with first-aid knowledge quickly tightened a clean tourniquet above the injury.
"Everyone, make way!!" Just then, a slightly aged voice called from outside the crowd. A white-haired old man in a grey robe walked over quickly. It was Eliel, a Rank-3 Nature Mage specializing in healing.
Eliel glanced at the mercenary's injury, his brow furrowed. He held a green staff, and as he began to chant, a pale green light gathered at its tip and enveloped the severed leg. Nourished by the Nature magic, the gushing blood gradually stopped, and the wound slowly began to close.
This was the Rank-2 Nature healing spell, Verdant Sprout.