Right as dawn touched the horizon, the call bell echoed throughout the recruit barracks complex. The sound pierced Kael's ears, waking him from a restless sleep. For years, he had been accustomed to waking before sunrise to train. But this time was different. This was his first morning as a military recruit.
Kael sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his still-heavy eyes. The nine other recruits in his room were still battling their blankets, some groaning with hoarse voices, others still fast asleep. Only one was already standing, a skinny youth with blonde hair tying his boots with swift movements.
"Five minutes!" shouted a voice from out in the corridor. "Anyone who isn't lined up in five minutes will run ten extra laps!"
The effect was instantaneous. In a flash, the entire room turned into organized chaos. The recruits scrambled to put on their training uniforms, some bumping into each other in panic, others cursing under their breath. Kael himself was already dressed in less than a minute, a habit formed from years of waking early.
The blonde youth who was first to get ready looked at Kael with curiosity. His eyes were clear blue, his face still showing remnants of sleepiness, yet there was a sharpness within them indicating he wasn't as foolish as he looked.
"Erik," the youth said, extending his hand. "From Stormgard. You?"
Kael accepted the handshake briefly. "Kael. From Millbrook."
"Millbrook?" Erik raised his eyebrows. "That's near Greenwood, right?"
Kael didn't get a chance to answer. The bedroom door was shoved open violently, and a large man in an instructor's uniform stood in the doorway. His shoulders were broad, his arms like tree trunks, and his face was hard as rock weathered by time.
"SERGEANT BROK!" the man announced his own name with a booming voice. "From now until you finish basic training, I am your god. I am your mother. I am everything! You will eat when I say eat. You will sleep when I say sleep. And you will breathe when I say breathe! UNDERSTOOD?"
"UNDERSTOOD, SERGEANT!" the whole room replied, some with voices still hoarse.
Sergeant Brok scanned his gaze across the entire room, his eyes lingering for a moment on each face. When his gaze met Kael's, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or merely curiosity. It was hard to tell.
"Line up in the courtyard in three minutes!" Brok turned and left the room with heavy steps.
The central courtyard of the recruitment complex was filled with over a hundred recruits. They stood in unorganized formations, still trying to find their places. The morning sun had only half risen, casting a golden light that touched the peaks of the buildings around them.
Kael stood in the third row from the front, a position he didn't choose intentionally but felt right. He observed the recruits around him. Most were still half-conscious, yawning or rubbing their eyes. Some whispered to their neighbors, perhaps sharing complaints about the harsh treatment they had just experienced. Others stood with a relaxed posture, as if this whole process was just a formality before they became heroes.
They didn't understand. Kael could see it from the way they stood, the way they spoke, and from their eyes that were still full of illusions. They thought war was a stage for glory. They didn't know that war was a meat grinder that didn't distinguish between nobles and commoners.
Heavy footsteps sounded from the direction of the platform at the front of the courtyard. Sergeant Brok appeared first, followed by several other instructors. And behind them, walking with unhurried yet authoritative steps, was Captain Aldric Ironforge.
Instantly, the courtyard fell silent. The whispering vanished, replaced by a tension that could be felt in the air. Aldric wore no hat; his graying hair fluttered in the morning breeze. His sharp eyes scanned the entire formation, as if searching for something or someone.
"Good morning, recruits!" Aldric's voice echoed across the courtyard.
"GOOD MORNING, CAPTAIN!" over a hundred voices replied, not entirely in unison.
Aldric didn't react to the imperfection of the response. He walked slowly to the edge of the platform, his hands clasped behind his back.
"I will speak to you today, and I will only say this once," Aldric began in a calm voice that was clearly heard by everyone. "Some of you are here seeking glory. Some seeking money. Some because of family tradition. And some, perhaps, because you have no other choice."
He paused, his eyes looking toward Kael who stood quietly in his row.
"I don't care about your reasons. What I care about is one thing. In three months, you will be sent to the border. Out there, there is no difference between a king's son and a farmer's son. The demons won't ask who your father is. They will only try to kill you."
Aldric continued with a heavier tone. "I have fought in this war for thirty years. I have seen recruits like you, hundreds of them. Some became heroes. Most became corpses. The difference isn't in their talent, not in their family's wealth, and not in who they know. The difference is here."
He thumped his chest hard. "In the heart. In resolve. In the willingness to keep standing when everyone else has fallen."
"I do not promise to make you heroes. That is not my job. My job is to make you soldiers. Soldiers who can survive. Soldiers who can protect the person next to them. Soldiers who, when the time comes, can die with dignity."
Silence. There was no sound other than the rustle of the morning wind. Aldric let his words sink into the consciousness of every recruit.
"Alright," he finally said with a lighter tone. "Training begins now. Prepare for a five-kilometer run!"
Five kilometers. Not a very far distance for Kael. For years, he had run further than that every morning. But this run was different. Sergeant Brok ran alongside them, and he offered no leniency.
"FASTER!" Brok yelled while running beside the formation. "THIS IS NOT A LEISURELY STROLL! YOU ARE NOT LOSERS! YOU ARE VALDORIAN SOLDIERS! SHOW ME THAT YOU DESERVE TO BE PART OF THIS ARMY!"
Kael ran in the middle of the pack, neither leading nor falling behind. He regulated his breathing carefully, a technique he learned from a book on physical endurance. Two steps for every inhale, two steps for every exhale. A consistent rhythm that allowed him to last longer.
To his left, he could hear Erik still trying to keep the rhythm. The blonde youth possessed natural speed, evident from the way his legs moved, but lacked the endurance built from years of training.
"How..." Erik grunted between his panting breaths. "Are you... still... fresh?"
"Training," Kael answered shortly.
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Ahead of them, a group of recruits from the noble ranks ran in a neat formation. They didn't look tired; some could even converse while running. Kael recognized a few of them. Children of noble families who had received private training since childhood. An advantage that commoners couldn't compete with.
Among them, one figure stood out. A youth with slick black hair, perfect posture, and a handsome but arrogant face. He ran with ease, as if five kilometers was merely a warm-up for him. His eyes occasionally looked back, staring at the other recruits with an expression that was hard to hide. Condescending.
"Marcus Valerius," whispered Erik, noticing the direction of Kael's gaze. "Son of the Valerius family. They claim direct descent from the knights of Aurelia. Very arrogant, but admittedly, they have talent."
Kael didn't answer. He didn't care about lineage or claims to glory. On the battlefield, the only thing that mattered was the ability to survive.
The morning training continued for hours. After the run, they did hundreds of push-ups, sit-ups, and other strength exercises. The sun rose high, turning the cool morning air into a scorching heat. Sweat poured from every recruit's body, creating a pungent, sour smell.
Some recruits fell. Some vomited. Some cried. But Sergeant Brok showed no mercy. He walked among the ranks, kicking legs that weren't low enough, screaming into the ears of those who paused for a moment.
"YOU WANT TO GIVE UP?" Brok yelled at a recruit who had fallen and was struggling to rise. "LEAVE! GET OUT OF THIS ARMY! WE DON'T NEED COWARDS!"
The recruit, a skinny youth with a tear-streaked face, stammered to his feet and continued his push-ups. His hands trembled, but he didn't stop. Kael watched this from his position, and something in his heart stirred. This was the side of war he didn't see in books. This was the side of humanity that couldn't be taught by words.
In the afternoon, after a brief lunch break, the recruits were gathered in the sword training arena. The arena was large, surrounded by wooden poles that marked the fighting area. In the center stood several instructors with wooden swords in hand.
"Now we will see your fighting skills," Captain Aldric stood at the edge of the arena, his arms crossed over his chest. "I want to know who among you can already hold a sword properly, and who still needs to learn from scratch."
He took out a roster and began calling names. Recruits were called in pairs to spar. Some fights ended quickly, with one party clearly superior. Others lasted longer, though the techniques displayed were still rough and uncoordinated.
"Marcus Valerius!" Aldric called a name that made several recruits whisper.
The noble youth stepped into the arena with overblown confidence. He picked up a wooden sword from the rack and twirled it in his hand with an elegance clearly the result of years of private training.
"Your opponent..." Aldric looked at his list for a moment, then a faint smile appeared on his face. "Kael."
Kael stepped forward, picking a wooden sword from the rack. His hands were already familiar with this sensation. Thousands of hours of training alone had made him one with this weapon.
Marcus looked at him with an expression that was hard to hide. That gaze moved from Kael's simple boots to his unbranded clothes, then to his face that bore no family crest.
"A farmer?" Marcus let out a short laugh, his voice loud enough to be heard by the other recruits. "Really, they'll take anyone these days."
Kael didn't answer. He assumed the Dawn Blade Style stance, left foot forward, sword at his right hip with the tip pointing down. A posture he had honed for years.
Marcus raised an eyebrow as he recognized the stance. "Dawn Blade Style? Interesting. But a stance means nothing without technique."
"BEGIN!" Aldric commanded.
Marcus moved fast, his sword slicing the air with impressive speed. It was clear he had trained with expensive private tutors. Every movement was smooth, flowing from one technique to the next with an almost artistic grace.
But Kael wasn't intimidated. He had fought against a thousand shadows in his dreams. He had faced monsters in his memories every night. A noble youth with polished technique was not a threat.
Kael dodged. Parried. Moved flowing like water. The Dawn Blade Style focused on defense and counter-attacks, utilizing the opponent's momentum to create openings. He parried every one of Marcus's strikes with minimal movement, answering every opportunity with a rapid counter-attack that forced Marcus to step back.
Marcus's expression changed from arrogant to surprised. He increased the intensity of his attacks, every strike becoming stronger and faster. But Kael continued to flow, his body moving with instincts honed by experiences that no private tutor could teach.
"TRY THIS!" Marcus shouted, launching a combination attack that was clearly an advanced technique.
Kael caught the pattern of the attack. He dodged to the side at the precise moment, then struck Marcus's wrist with his wooden sword. Marcus's sword flew from his grip and tumbled to the side.
Before Marcus could react, Kael's sword was already at his neck. Not touching, just close enough to show that the fight was over.
Silence. There was no sound other than Marcus's panting breaths and the rustle of the afternoon wind.
"Kael wins," Aldric's voice broke the silence.
Kael lowered his sword and took a step back, giving Marcus space to retrieve his weapon. Marcus's face was flushed red, a mix of shame and anger he couldn't hide.
"Luck," Marcus grunted, his voice low but loud enough to be heard.
"Maybe," Kael replied in a flat voice. "Or maybe because I train to survive, not to show off."
Marcus's eyes flared, but before he could say more, Aldric had already walked over.
"Enough," Aldric looked at Marcus with an unreadable expression. "On the battlefield, there is no luck. Only preparation and execution. You focus too much on beautiful techniques and forget the basics. One mistake, and that sword would separate your head from your body."
Then he looked at Kael. "And you. Your technique is still rough. Years of training alone have created habits that might be dangerous. But your instincts are good. Keep developing them."
That night, Kael sat on the edge of his bed with a body that felt like it had been pounded. Every muscle screamed, every joint demanded rest. But his mind remained sharp, spinning over the day's events.
The other recruits in his room were already asleep. Kael could hear Erik snoring from the bed next to his, and the heavy breathing of other exhausted recruits. They had all gone through the same day, but not all would last until the end.
He took his father's broken sword from his pocket and held it under the moonlight streaming through the window. The rusted iron felt cold, but its presence provided a comfort that had accompanied him for thirteen years.
"Father," he whispered into the silence of the night. "Today I won. But it didn't feel like a victory."
There was no answer. Of course there wasn't. Dorian was long gone. But Kael felt he could hear his father's voice in his heart. True strength isn't about defeating others. True strength is about protecting the people you love.
"Kael?" Erik's voice came from the next bed, this time not snoring.
"Why are you still awake?"
"Can't sleep." Erik shifted his position, his face now turned toward Kael. "Your fight earlier... it was incredible. Marcus Valerius is one of the best recruits in this batch. His family is famous for their knightly tradition."
"He was overconfident," Kael answered briefly.
"Maybe. But you..." Erik paused for a moment. "You're different. Many of us are here for various reasons. Glory, money, tradition. But you... you fight like someone fighting for something more."
Kael didn't answer. He didn't want to talk about the real reason. About the destroyed village. About his fallen father. About the vow under the oak tree that had burned in his heart for thirteen years.
"I'm here because of my little sister," Erik continued, as if not needing an answer from Kael. "She is sick. An illness that cannot be cured by ordinary healers. I heard the military has access to high-level Light Aether. Maybe... maybe they can heal her."
"That is a strong reason," Kael finally said.
"Yes." Erik smiled faintly in the darkness. "Everyone has their reasons. It would be interesting to know what yours is."
Kael stared at the broken sword in his hand. "Someday I might tell you. But not now."
"Alright." Erik nodded and closed his eyes. "But if you need a friend, I'm here. War can't be fought alone."
Kael looked at his new friend with an expression he couldn't hide. For thirteen years, he had been alone. He had built walls around his heart, convinced that relying on others would only lead to loss.
But Erik's words made him think. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to bear it all alone.
Outside the window, the full moon shone brightly. Its light washed the entire city of Valdoria in silver, touching every roof and wall with a soothing gentleness. Somewhere in the royal palace, a princess might also be staring at the same moon, thinking about the young man with eyes that had seen death.
The first day was over. Many more would come. The training would get harder, the tests would get heavier, and not all recruits would survive. But Kael had made his decision. He would endure. He would get stronger. He would protect the people who could not protect themselves.
That was his promise to his father. That was his vow under the oak tree. And that was the reason why he was here, not in the safe fields of Millbrook.
"Go to sleep," Kael whispered to himself. "Tomorrow will be harder."
He put away the broken sword and lay down. His eyes stared at the dark ceiling, but his mind had begun to calm. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the guards' trumpets changing shifts. That sound became his lullaby, a new rhythm in his new life as a military recruit of the Kingdom of Valdoria.
— To be continued in Chapter 7 —