Nascent Soul Rebirth: Starting as a Wizard

The dull rumble of the conveyor belt echoed endlessly beneath the massive dome of the limestone production base, like the panting of some dying beast.

The sound seeped into the marrow, intertwining with the sharp hiss of mechanical friction, the cracking sound of ore being crushed, and the muffled roar of elements inside the smelting furnace, creating an industrial elegy belonging to the rear.

Solo stood on the observation platform, his hands gripping the rusty railing, looking down at the never-ending production line.

The massive robotic arms emerged from the depths of the earth, each pull causing the ground to tremble slightly—they brought back not only ore, but also the rock creatures that had just been born deep within the ore veins.

Those bewildered life forms struggled, the energy patterns on their shells flickering like the first cry of a newborn baby.

Then the foreman's giant hammer fell, and life, born at the moment of its creation, was pulverized and sent into the entrance of the pulverizer filled with sharp teeth, along with the ore.

Further away, the fiery red smelting furnace gaped open, devouring the mineral deposits that had undergone preliminary screening.

The temperature inside the furnace was so high that it distorted the air. Occasionally, fragments of rock creatures that were not completely dead would let out their final screams in the molten liquid before turning into wisps of smoke.

At the other end of the furnace, gray-black metal ingots were pushed out in rows like corpses, emitting residual heat and the smell of sulfur.

"This is the rear," Solo muttered to himself, his voice drowned out by the roar of machinery.

His fingers unconsciously caressed the cold knight's badge on his chest.

The badge bears the emblem of the Emerald Academy—a vine-entwined crown supporting a gem, identical to the emblem he once wore on his wizard apprentice robes.

The only difference is that the material has changed from fine silver to rough iron, and there are burrs left from the casting process on the edges.

Eleven days ago, Solo was still stuck in the field medical station on the seventh front of the Rock Plane—not a treatment facility, but a repair station made of canvas and rotten wood, prepared specifically for consumables.

His hands never stopped trembling, not from fear, but from the damage to his nerve endings caused by excessive spellcasting, a mark of sixteen hours of continuous spellcasting every day.

The fingertips tremble uncontrollably, as if pulled by invisible strings, and can only be barely suppressed by gripping the instrument tightly.

Every day, thousands of injured people are dragged in from teleportation arrays or on stretchers.

Here, there are no knights, no wizard apprentices—only those who are still usable and those who need to be disposed of.

Solo primarily faced slaves, prisoners of war and natives from various conquered planes.

Their injuries were bizarre: trolls whose bodies were half melted by the acid of rock creatures, miners whose lower limbs were crushed by collapsing ore, and workers burned by fire elemental ore explosions on the sorting line.

Occasionally, knights and wizard apprentices would be sent there, but that usually meant they had lost their fighting ability and become "tools to be repaired" on par with slaves.

Treatment was brutal and utilitarian. The principle of frontline medical care was as clear as a knife: to restore the wounded to their most basic ability to work with the lowest possible cost and in the shortest amount of time.

As for the aftereffects, long-term pain, and loss of vitality after surgery—nobody cares.

Solo learned how to perform an amputation in thirty seconds and how to determine in three seconds whether an injured person was worth using a bottle of the lowest grade of healing potion.

How to stimulate the slaves' will to survive through near-torture so that they can return to the production line or the battlefield as soon as possible.

Catherine's arrival brought a turning point to Solo, who had been somewhat indifferent on the medical front lines.

A dozen days later, Solo was standing on the observation platform of the limestone production base, looking down at the endless conveyor belts and furnaces below.

This is the rear, a place jokingly referred to by frontline soldiers as a "retirement home"—a noisy, polluted corner that seems to have been forgotten by the entire war machine.

His hands, however, would still tremble slightly when no one was looking.

The transfer order clearly stated: Senior Knight Solo is hereby transferred to the limestone production base to serve as the commander of the Knights Order.

He could almost picture how the wizards in charge of coordination would look at his file and choose between the titles of "lowly wizarding apprentice" and "veteran knight"—in the rear, being able to fight was more valuable than being able to heal.

"Commander Solo."

A rough, hoarse sound, like the friction of gravel, interrupted his thoughts.

Solo turned around, his movements maintaining the alertness and restraint characteristic of a knight.

The newcomer was at least two meters tall, and his muscles bulged unnaturally under the old plate armor, as if the armor had been forcibly stretched.

Three hideous scars on his left cheek stretched from his forehead to his chin and across his nose—a testament to the claws of a rock creature.

Tiny crystallized particles can still be seen at the edges of the wound; these are residual rock toxins that were not completely removed.

Knight Gareth, the former commander of the garrison knights at Grayrock Base, is now his second-in-command.

"Sir Gareth," Solo replied calmly, taking the report from the magic tablet handed to him.

His gaze lingered on Gareth's hand for a moment—the hand was missing its little finger and ring finger, and the cut was rough and healed, clearly an old wound.

Gareth's eyes, like the scars on his face, openly displayed hostility.

This is understandable; Solo's sudden arrival directly ousted him from the position of commander, and anyone would be dissatisfied in his place.

Moreover, in such a remote production base, the position of regimental commander meant better rations, safer job assignments, and a pitiful amount of power.

The report was made using a substandard magic board; the edges were already starting to crack, and it contained production data from the past week.

Limestone production has stabilized at 320 tons per day, rare crystal mining has decreased by 5 percent, three slaves have died in a sorting accident, and a supplementary request has been submitted but not yet approved.

A production base weekly report that couldn't be more perfect.

Solo's gaze lingered on the third page of the report, his fingertip hovering over a line of data: "Production Line 3, fire element ore sorting efficiency has dropped by 15 percent for three consecutive days."

"Gareth," Solo looked up, his voice still steady, "Have you informed the wizard apprentice in charge of Line 3 about the inefficiency issue?"

Gareth raised an eyebrow, and the scar across his brow bone twisted, like a centipede come to life.

Clearly, he hadn't expected the new commander to notice such a detail.

"Production line efficiency is the responsibility of wizard apprentices," he said, his voice carrying a deliberately emphasized sense of boundaries.

"The Knights are only responsible for protection and security. We don't care how they tinker with those runes and machines."

"But decreased efficiency may indicate a problem with the sorting process,"

Solo turned the report around and pointed to the simplified production flow chart attached to the back.

"And missorted fire element ore—if mixed with high-purity fire crystal fragments—may trigger a chain energy reaction during the crushing stage."

A similar incident occurred at the front last month, destroying half the battle line and killing dozens of knights and thousands of slaves.

Gareth's surprise was now clearly written on his face. He stared at Solo as if he were seeing the man for the first time.

It wasn't that young knight who parachuted in to steal the spot, but something else entirely.

"You know witchcraft? And you've been on the front lines?" His tone was a mixture of doubt and a cautious reassessment.

"I'm just a part-time senior knight; my main job is as a wizard apprentice." Solo handed the report back, his movements as natural as stating a perfectly ordinary fact. "I've worked in the frontline medical ward; it's no place for a human being."