Arcane Warfare: From the Ashes of a Disposable Soldier

 The air was heavy and thick with the stench of blood. Black and red, it pooled and rippled unnaturally, rising past Cedar's knees like a living entity.

 The area was submerged in thick, crimson blood that rose ominously to their knees.

 The world around them was suffocatingly dark. Yet in that oppressive void, three things stood out sharply: Ivan, the grimoire, and a tall figure cloaked in a flowing black cape.

 The man's presence dominated the space. His long black hair framed sharp, aristocratic features.

 His skin, pale to the point of otherworldly, seemed to glow faintly. His dark, ancient eyes glimmered with a cold power that demanded submission. Even the blood-soaked ground seemed to yield to his will.

 Cedar's voice cracked the silence. "What… is this?"

"We are inside your dream," the man said calmly, his voice deliberate. "Dreamwalk magic allows us to speak without interruption."

 Cedar froze. He recognized that voice—the same one from the cave. But now, it had a face. A terrifyingly real face.

"You…" Ivan muttered, his fists clenched but also trembled. Len showed his true form but the pressure was still overwhelming. "Master Len?"

 Cedar glanced at Ivan, confused. Yet somehow, he wasn't afraid. The surreal atmosphere dulled his senses, leaving his mind awake but unsteady.

 Len's lips curved into a faint, chilling smile. His gaze flicked to the grimoire, then back to Ivan. "It was no accident you found that artifact. The blood within you called to it."

"Blood?" Ivan echoed, unease creeping into his voice.

"You carry elf mana," Len continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "Your bloodline traces back to Asterius, the hybrid of elf and human. The grimoire recognized the dormant power in you and was drawn to it. This relic belonged to an elf, after all."

 Cedar's mind reeled. Elf mana? That was supposed to be a myth, like dragons and vampires—though the latter wasn't so mythical now, not with one standing before them.

"But why?" Cedar asked, his voice tight. "What does it want with him? With us?"

 Len's expression darkened. "The grimoire is no mere relic. It predates your Mage Wars and your entire understanding of magic. It is a weapon—a weapon that would have devoured you both had I not intervened."

"Devoured us?" Ivan flinched, his voice barely above a whisper.

 Len nodded, his tone sharp. "Never forget that the grimoire is a living entity, one that feeds on those too weak to wield it. I placed a seal on it, binding its power to keep it from consuming you. For now, the seal allows you to harness fragments of its strength, giving you time to adapt. But make no mistake—you'll only survive if you grow strong enough to control it."

 Cedar clenched his fists. "So what do you want from us? You're not doing this out of kindness."

 Len stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "Indeed, I do nothing without purpose. You will serve me."

 The words hit like a hammer, but Len pressed on without pause.

"The world teeters on the brink—not from your mortal wars, but from the resurgence of Old Magic. Ancient powers are awakening, and you must be prepared for the storm to come."

 His gaze locked onto Cedar. "You will grow stronger, gather allies, and navigate this war. In return, I will let you live."

 Cedar's stomach churned. Len wasn't offering salvation—he was dictating terms.

"What if we refuse?" Ivan challenged, though his voice shook.

 Len's smirk was razor-sharp. "Then you die. The grimoire will consume you without my guidance, and you'll perish before this war even begins. But serve me, and I will make you stronger than you ever imagined."

 He paused, his tone colder than ice. "Do not mistake my patience for weakness. This is a rare offer, born only of your bloodline. Refuse, and you'll be nothing more than insects crushed beneath my heel."

 Silence fell.

 Both of them could feel the pressure. Cedar knew that if either of them made the wrong move, if either dared to refuse, Len would kill them instantly.

 They had seen what happened in the cave: the enemy soldiers were crushed like insects for daring to resist. The only reason they were still alive was because they had shown neither obedience nor defiance. But Len's patience was running out.

"You won't survive without me," Len pressed, his voice as heavy as the blood beneath their feet. "Choose wisely. Rise to power, or fall as pawns. The choice is yours."

 Cedar stared at the rippling blood beneath him, his jaw clenched. This wasn't just survival—it was a chain around their necks.

"Roger, sir," Cedar responded instinctively, his actions guided by the hazy, dreamlike state he was in. Yet Len, ever perceptive, recognized this as more than mere reflex—it was a sign of agreement and submission.

 Unlike the ritual that had bound them, this verbal acknowledgment solidified their roles.

 The reason Len hadn't demanded their agreement during the ritual wasn't an act of mercy or to give them time to think. No, it had been a test—a deliberate measure to assess their resolve.

 The entity had demonstrated his power effortlessly: entering Cedar's dream, pulling Ivan into it despite him being awake, and controlling the surreal space as if it were a plaything.

 It was a chilling reminder that Len could do far worse. He could kill them both without lifting a finger, wipe out the entire military camp if he deemed it necessary, or punish anyone they sought for help.

 High-ranking mages, soldiers, allies—none would be safe from his wrath.

 Len's faint laughter echoed as his figure began to dissolve into the darkness. "Good. You'll need every ounce of strength for what lies ahead. But next time, call me Master."

 His gaze lingered briefly, and then he spoke again, his words slow, deliberate, and suffused with a weight that sent chills down Cedar's spine as he stared at him. "Although I have awakened, it is not yet time for me to appear in the daylight. Therefore, I shall allow you to wield what will one day become my ultimate weapon."

 At first, Cedar assumed Len was addressing Ivan, but then the vampire's piercing gaze locked onto him. Confusion washed over Cedar, and unease churned in his gut.

 Why me? The thought rippled through his mind. He had never wielded any special weapon, let alone one connected to an emperor vampire.

 Sensing Cedar's inner turmoil, Len continued his voice calm but laced with a sinister edge. "I speak not of something you have touched, but of something you are. Something you have yet to comprehend."

 Cedar's confusion deepened, and Ivan's bewildered glance did little to ground him. Len's cryptic words hung in the air like a puzzle Cedar wasn't sure he wanted to solve.

 Then, Len's next statement hit like a thunderclap, shaking Cedar to his core.

"I did say you are the weapon. But you must have misunderstood. Perhaps that explains why you insolent rats took so long to submit." Len's tone grew colder, sharper, slicing through the silence like a blade. "I am not speaking of some mindless creature driven by bloodlust, like the work of a necromancer. No. I refer to a true weapon. Something tangible, something that can be held in hand to cleave through flesh and bone."

 The weight of his declaration bore down on Cedar like a crushing wave, stealing the breath from his lungs. His mind raced, grappling with the impossible implications.

 What does he mean? The thought repeated itself in a frantic loop.

 How could I—a living, breathing human—be a weapon?

 Seeing the bewilderment etched on both Cedar's and Ivan's faces, Len's lips curled into a wicked grin, a flash of sharp fangs adding to the menace.

"So," he began, his voice dripping with amusement, "as 'L' used to say, it's story time."