(Planet Ixtal, Cult Camp, Leo's POV)

*GASP*

Leo woke with a sharp intake of breath as his body jerked slightly, his awareness snapping back into place before his eyes fully opened, as the first thing he felt was a dull, aching soreness radiating from his abdomen.

His hand moved there on instinct.

*Wince*

Pain flared faintly at the contact, not sharp enough to cripple him, but persistent enough to remind him that whatever Soron had done had not been gentle, even if it had been effortless.

'What the hell was that attack?'

Leo wondered, his thoughts slow and heavy as he stared up at the canvas ceiling of a small tent, light filtering through the fabric in muted hues as the distant sounds of the Cult camp drifted in faintly.

He lay there for a few seconds longer, breathing steadily as he took in his surroundings.

The faint smell of treated cloth and earth lingered in the air, while the low murmur of soldiers training sounded outside.

However, he didn't focus on those sounds for long, as soon the memory of him being knocked out resurfaced.

'He just vanished….'

Leo thought, as he replayed the chain of events in his head.

Soron vanishing.

The pressure.

The impact.

The way everything ended before it ever truly began.

'Charles had warned me about this….

He had warned me to not rely on intent too much.'

Leo thought, his brows knitting slightly as the recollection surfaced.

At the time, Leo had not fully understood what the smoking man meant.

Intent had always been reliable. Infallible, even. Against Monarchs and anything below them, intent revealed openings, trajectories, killing paths, making combat feel almost transparent.

But Soron's attack today had carried none of that.

No intent lines.

No warning.

No readable flow, as intent betrayed him for the first time in his life.

*Sigh*

Leo exhaled slowly as that realization settled in, not with panic, but with clarity.

'It's fragile. Intent works on beings who still operate within the same framework as me, but Gods are beyond it.'

He realized, as the truth clicked into place.

Against immortals who moved beyond the third dimension, it was nothing more than a crutch.

Yet strangely, he did not feel bitter.

If anything, he felt relieved.

'Better now than later. Better in a spar than in real combat.'

Leo thought, as his fingers curled slightly against the bedding, his mind once again drifting to the moment just before he lost consciousness.

'It wasn't just the intent. I couldn't even use my special technique.'

He realized, as the unease deepened.

He had already begun to move.

The mana circulation had started.

The technique had been initiated.

And yet, Soron had countered him mid-motion, knocking him out before the move could even manifest, at a speed which was simply beyond his comprehension.

'I wasn't even at the stage where I could attempt a strike. I did not even have the skill to try.'

Leo thought grimly, as he realized that the gap between him and a God was even wider than he had initially imagined.

"Mhmm–"

He shifted, pushing himself upright with a faint grunt as he swung his legs off the bed, stretching carefully as his muscles protested mildly.

'The way he blew away my aura was strange too. I still don't understand how he did it.'

Leo thought, flexing his fingers slowly, before pausing.

'But at least I've seen it with my own eyes now….'

He thought, as he felt happy, that he had witnessed peak strength, which made this sparring session not a loss for him at all.

*Crack*

*Crack*

Leo stood fully, rolling his shoulders as he straightened, the soreness already beginning to fade as his recovery kicked in.

"While saving Veyr, I need to avoid God-level opponents at all costs. I'm not ready to face them at my current stage,"

Leo muttered aloud, his voice low and steady as he took in a slow breath.

"If I see one coming for me, then praying and running away are my only options."

He concluded without shame, as he acknowledged his limits and decided to stay well within them to stay alive.

"Twelve days left….. just twelve."

He reminded himself, as he thought about the deadline to Veyr's execution and what all he needed to achieve before then, with the most important task being the meeting with the Cult Monarchs, as he drilled the war plan into them in precise detail.

"There can be no mistakes made…."

He murmured, as the words left his mouth quietly, more a vow to himself than a statement meant for anyone else to hear, as his thoughts sharpened and began organizing themselves with cold efficiency.

This war was not going to be won by passion or hatred.

It was going to be won by precision.

Leo knew that once the day of Veyr's execution arrived, the Righteous Faction would already be operating at peak alertness, their elites prepared, their weapons sharpened and their traps laid in anticipation of retaliation.

Which meant that any deviation, any delay, any misunderstanding among his Commanders would cascade outward into disaster for the Cult.

'Every Monarch needs to understand the intent behind each movement, not just the orders themselves.'

He thought, as the image of the upcoming meeting took shape in his mind.

He would walk them through every phase of the war plan, step by step, explaining not only where they would strike, but where they would not, which formations were bait, which legions were expendable, and which responses from the Righteous Armies were acceptable and which ones required immediate deviation.

They were his blades.

And blades that did not move in unison were useless.

'I need them thinking three steps ahead, not reacting in the moment.'

Leo thought, as he thought about how saving Veyr would need everyone to perform at 110%, with there being no room for mistakes.

The next twelve days were not going to be about training soldiers or refining formations.

Those systems were already in motion.

Instead, they were going to be about alignment.

About making sure that when the first signal was given, four billion lives moved as one, without hesitation, without doubt, and without error.

*Inhale*

Leo took another steady breath, feeling the soreness in his abdomen fade further into the background as resolve replaced reflection.

He realized that he no longer had time to waste thinking about past mistakes, for the greatest war fought in the past millenium was approaching fast.

And his job, above all else, was to make sure that when it did, the Cult did not falter even once.

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