At breakfast, they served us a mountain of food, tasteless and gray. I picked at it, my stomach twisted not from hunger, but dread. The weight of this new reality pressed in on me. The men around me talked in fast, strange cadences—familiar syllables twisted by harsh accents. The words danced just out of reach, teasing comprehension. I didn't speak. I listened. I endured.
No guards followed me when I wandered the training grounds, which only deepened my unease. I stayed close to my assigned barracks, eyes fixed on the seasoned recruits. They moved like wolves—disciplined, lethal. Men and women trained in brutal silence, swinging weapons, running in unison, clashing in small-unit formations. My gut churned at the sight. They were sculpted, honed. I was soft and squishy, an intruder in a world of blades. When I watched a trainee's arm snap under a club, white bone piercing flesh, I had to turn away and dry-heave.
Two more days passed in a slow crawl. The bunks filled. At breakfast on the third morning, a mage named Damian handed me a translation amulet. I wasn't alone—five others were given one too. He helped me fasten it around my throat.
"Tight cord," Damian said. "So it doesn't swing free. They're expensive. If you were regular militia, you wouldn't get one."
I turned the amulet in my hand. It looked like a rusted pocket watch. "How does it work?"
"Runes. Stacked. Aligned with aether."
I nodded like I understood. I didn't.
Damian seemed tired, but kind. "Language lessons, without the amulet?" I asked.
He gave me a long look. "Your body and mind will be dragged through fire every day. If you have any energy left, find me after dinner."
The amulet was a lifeline. Words flowed now. I could speak. I could ask questions. Most of the men in our barracks were here for crimes darker than mine—blood crimes, violent pasts. Still, I found a small trick with the amulet. It echoed my words in translation, even when whispered. I practiced outside to avoid their scowls.
I tried to be friendly. I tried to find connection. But I remained an outsider, tethered to the edges of their camaraderie. When the final bunk was filled, our training began.
Seven instructors—grim-faced men who were both wardens and executioners. One man tried to flee on the second night. They caught him before morning.
Commander Silas, cloaked in a mantle of authority, addressed us. "No one leaves. You run, you die. Our mages—" he gestured—"will find you. Always."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. At a motion from his hand, one of the instructors drove a dagger under the prisoner's jaw. His scream gurgled into silence. I vomited. Others did too.
Two years of labor might've been the better deal.
The dead man's bed was filled before nightfall. No one mentioned him again.
Each month, a new cohort began training. Our barracks—seven in total, one hundred to a building—were part of a larger compound, overseen by command staff who lived in a manor on the hill. Damian told me the estate housed over a hundred officers. There were more mages than I'd thought. Ten to fifteen, depending on need.
The first morning was a crucible. A run before dawn, packs weighing us down like chains. Then food—our bodies trembling, desperate for fuel. After lectures drenched in Empire propaganda, combat. No instruction, just punishment. Broken bones, shrieks, and rivers of sweat.
My turn came. I took a blow to the mouth. Two teeth gone. My instructor barked, "Pick them up! A healer'll fix them if you still got them."
I dropped to my knees, blood dribbling from my chin. Damian realigned them and used aether to fuse them back. He said nothing. Just a pat on the back, then I was shoved into another lesson—another beating.
Meals came like ceasefires. The men grumbled, bonding through their suffering. I stayed quiet. Always just outside the circle.
We were given dull practice swords from a rusted barrel. "Seven forms. Seven segments each," the instructor told us. "Mastery comes through repetition."
We trained until our muscles screamed. If you did well, they gave you a heavier sword. A reward disguised as cruelty.
After swords, we rotated weapons daily: spear, axe, dagger, polearm, crossbow, and more. Enough to defend ourselves, never to master. The message was clear: survive. Nothing more.
Evenings came with aching bodies, healing magic, tasteless food. Showers fed by aqueducts. Two hours of freedom. Most collapsed into sleep. I studied language.
That's how I met Helena.
She spun a staff like it was an extension of her body. One of only two women in our barracks. The other used her body as currency. Helena trained.
After a few nights, she tossed me a staff. "Train or watch, your choice."
I caught it. Groaned as I stood. "Why keep training? Aren't you broken?"
"Pain lies," she said. "The body obeys the mind."
She didn't talk much. Just moved. I learned through mimicry, through bruises. She was a better teacher than any of the instructors.
One night, I asked, "Why are you here?"
Her eyes were cold. "Debt." Nothing more.
I trained with her each night. My body screamed, but I started to listen less to the pain. She taught me that. She showed me that even in this pit, there were choices. Even if the world took everything from us, we could still choose how to endure.
Each night, before sleep, I tried to charge the amulet myself. Magic existed—I'd seen it. If I had even a flicker of it, I had to try. Two weeks in, I felt something. A tingle. A pull. Maybe.
Training broke me. Healers rebuilt me. Every day, I was shattered and sewn back together. I learned to fight with cracked ribs, a fractured arm. "The pain doesn't matter," an instructor told me. "That's what makes you Legion."
But I knew better. What made me Legion wasn't the pain. It was surviving in spite of it. Fighting, learning, hoping. Quiet hope—threadbare and frayed, but still there.
After three weeks, we were tested on the aether tablet. Fourteen men failed and were shipped off to the front lines. Damian let me see my results:
Physical
Strength (+10) 30/78
Power (+7) 28/81
Quickness (+2) 17/48
Dexterity (+3) 16/54
Endurance (+11) 40/86
Constitution (+3) 21/64
Coordination (+7) 16/59
Mental
Intellect (+0) 24/53
Reasoning (+2) 34/58
Perception (+1) 44/59
Insight (+1) 18/47
Resilience (+0) 39/70
Empathy (+0 8/20
Fortitude (+6) 29/86
Magical
Aether Pool (+0) 6/20
Channeling (+1) 2/54
Aether Shaping (+1) 1/8
Aether Tolerance (+0) 18/49
Aether Resistance (+0) 2/18
Prime Aether Affinity - Space
Minor Aether Affinity - Time
[Tablet stats— showing small magical growth and modest physical progress.]
I had barely moved the needle magically. But I had moved it. Proof that my nightly struggle mattered.
After the test, we fought. Three days of combat. Rankings determined who got to stay, who was expendable. I was middle of the pack—better than I expected.
The top three received minor essences—small marbles of raw potential. Strength. Power. I learned from Damian that they could raise your attributes and potential, but they were costly.
In my conversation with Damian, I learned that minor essences varied in price depending on the stat they affected—ranging from one to twenty gold coins each. Physical stats were the most affordable, mental stats sat in the middle, and magical stats were the most expensive. On average, it took around thirty minor essences to forcibly raise a stat by one point without any training. However, their effectiveness sharply declined once a stat reached half of a person's potential—unless that person also trained the stat alongside essence use.
There were also major essences, about the size of a coin, which were far more potent. These could push a stat up to roughly 80% of someone's potential without the need for training and were ten times stronger than minor essences. Only three were needed to achieve the same result as thirty minors. Their cost reflected their power—anywhere from 50 to 500 gold each, depending on the stat.
Lastly, there were apex essences. Roughly the size of a golf ball, they were extremely rare and difficult to obtain. Each one cost several hundred gold at a minimum and could push a stat beyond the 80% threshold without training. More importantly, apex essences were the only known way to raise a person's potential itself—the ceiling that capped how far a stat could grow. Because of their rarity and value, they were tightly controlled. Only nobles, specifically those with the title of First Citizen, had the authority to grant someone permission to use one. Possessing or using an apex essence without that approval was considered a crime. Touching one without sanction? Treason.
Three more weeks passed in blood and sweat. I improved. The tablet showed it. My stats edged upward.
Physical
Strength (+6) 36/78
Power (+7) 35/81
Quickness (+3) 20/48
Dexterity (+1) 17/54
Endurance (+6) 46/86
Constitution (+2) 23/64
Coordination (+12) 28/59
Mental
Intellect (+0) 24/53
Reasoning (+0) 34/58
Perception (+3) 47/59
Insight (+1) 19/47
Resilience (+1) 40/70
Empathy (+0) 8/20
Fortitude (+7) 36/87 (+1 Potential)
Magical
Aether Pool (+0) 6/20
Channeling (+1) 2/54
Aether Shaping (+2) 2/8
Aether Tolerance (+0) 18/49
Aether Resistance (+0) 2/18
Prime Aether Affinity - Space
Minor Aether Affinity - Time
[Second stat chart—moderate gains in physical, still weak in magic. Slight increase in potential noted.]
"Your fortitude potential jumped a point," I said.
The mage glanced at the chart. "Happens. Could be calibration. Could be luck. Don't count on it."
Six more were cut. We were seventy-seven. Rumors spread: only thirty would graduate. The top six would join the Emperor's Legionnaire. The rest, dispatched under mage command.
Combat intensified. I clawed upward. 19th in sword, 9th in hand-to-hand. Others fell. Seventy-four of us remained.
Then, mercy. A day off. Our first. One man wept when they told us. No one mocked him.
We had earned that single breath in the endless storm.
In that moment, I realized something dangerous. Hope hadn't died in me. It had gone quiet. Waiting. And now, it stirred.