The training grounds smelled like sweat, blood, and scorched earth.
They always did.
Throy stood at the edge of the sparring circle, wooden practice spear in hand, staring at the opponent in front of him. A boy named Gelvar—older by two years, a head taller, all shoulders and arrogance. One of the favored ones. One of the ones who beat to impress the drillmasters instead of survive.
Today, Throy didn't plan to survive. He planned to win.
The crowd of trainees circled around them, murmuring low. There was always something electric before a duel—part fear, part hunger. Pit boys didn't get bread, but they fed on dominance just the same.
"Begin!" barked Drillmaster Korik.
Gelvar charged immediately, aggressive and broad like a bull.
Throy didn't flinch. He didn't backpedal. He stepped sideways—not away—and spun his spear low, letting Gelvar's overhand swing catch air. A second passed. A heartbeat.
Throy's spear cracked into the back of Gelvar's knee.
A roar of pain, a stumble—
Then a fist slammed into Throy's ribs, breaking the rhythm. Gelvar was already recovering, swinging wildly.
Throy gritted his teeth, ducked, and rammed his shoulder forward into the older boy's gut. They hit the dirt in a spray of dust.
Throy rolled. Recovered. Spear in hand again.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
But it was long enough for Throy to prove a point.
When Gelvar lay on the ground, chest heaving, weapon out of reach, and eyes full of disbelief, the silence was deafening. Even Tharn, who was usually the first to cheer or jeer, simply stared.
Korik stepped forward, arms crossed. "Throy."
"Yes, master."
"You've never held a real weapon."
"No, master."
"You've never killed."
"…No."
Korik stared a moment longer. "You fight like someone who knows what pain is."
Throy said nothing. That was the only answer he had.
Korik turned away, but not before muttering something under his breath.
"Might be something in that one after all."
[SYSTEM LOG UPDATED]
Action: Victory in unbalanced combat.
Traits Displayed: Adaptability, Control, Timing.
EXP Gained: +61
[Level 2 → 3]
Perk Unlocked: Tactician's Eye (Passive)
‣ Slightly improved ability to recognize patterns in enemy behavior during combat.
Trait Growth: +1 Cunning, +1 Resolve
Title Progress: [Iron Seed] — 18% Complete
Alignment Drift Detected: Judgment of Iron
Throy sat alone that night under the broken beam he had claimed as shelter. His ribs throbbed, and his jaw still clicked from a blind elbow during the scuffle—but there was something else in his chest now.
A thread pulling taut. A direction forming. A path.
The Iron Path.
The next day, the world changed.
Not all at once. But in ways that mattered.
The drillmasters began calling him to the front during group exercises. Assigned him to spar with older trainees. Gave him bruised, discarded gear no one else had earned.
The other boys noticed. Some gave him space. Some didn't.
A few tried to challenge him in the shadows, hoping to reclaim their pecking order.
They lost.
And Throy did not gloat. He did not taunt.
He simply learned.
"Your eyes have changed," Tharn said one night, throwing a stone into the fire beside him. "They used to drift. Like you were always somewhere else. Now they cut."
Throy glanced over. "Maybe I stopped pretending I was anywhere else."
Tharn laughed. "Good. Pretending gets you dead."
He leaned in, firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. "You're thinking long. I can see it."
"What do you mean?"
"You're not just surviving this place. You're building something in your head."
Throy didn't answer. Because it was true.
What he saw was more than escape. More than glory.
He saw command.
He saw a world beyond the walls of Drassos Cradle. A broken world of weak lords and hollow kings, where strength meant cruelty and power was bought in blood.
But he would not rise by becoming another monster.
He would forge something new.
[SYSTEM UPDATE]
Goal Set: Establish Foundational Command Unit
Reward on Completion:
– Unlock Squad Interface
– Leadership Skill Tree Access
– Unique Title Path Options
Progress: 0/5 Members Recruited
Condition: Bonded Unit Must Be Forged Through Shared Struggle
That same week, the Stormfang Unit returned.
Veterans of the outer border skirmishes—bronzed, scarred, and swaggering. They weren't pit-bred boys. They were soldiers. And they came to scout for new recruits.
Throy stood in formation as they passed. One of the Stormfangs—a grizzled man with a broken nose and a black fang tattooed on his neck—locked eyes with him.
He nodded once.
Then moved on.
Later, Tharn found him. "They're not gods," he said, throwing a stick over his shoulder. "Stormfangs. They bleed like us."
Throy raised an eyebrow. "Thinking of fighting one?"
"I'm thinking we build something better. Meaner. Smarter. Loyal."
"A unit?"
Tharn grinned. "Yeah. A name they'll remember. Something like…"
He paused.
"…Iron Vow."
Throy let the name settle in the air.
Iron Vow.
Not for glory. Not for conquest. But for something unbreakable. A vow to each other. To purpose.
He nodded.
"We start tomorrow."