At dusk, the sound of boots thundered across the open plains—432 seasoned soldiers leading the way, their armor clinking in rhythm, with over 800 fresh recruits trailing behind. At the head of the column rode Captain Vince Ravenclaw, his crimson cape billowing in the wind like a war banner, his presence alone commanding silence.
They marched westward toward Silver Spear, the massive imperial fortress that loomed like a myth to the boys who'd only heard of it from bards and wandering storytellers.
"Hold!"
Captain Vince's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"We make camp here. We continue the march at sunrise!"
The men groaned with relief. Among them, Finley—a boy with wavy brown hair flopped onto the ground dramatically.
"Ahhh, that was one hell of a march," he groaned, wiping sweat from his brow.
"We're almost there… I'm so excited to see the fortress with my own eyes," said Adel, his face glowing with anticipation. "I've only heard about it in songs and stories…"
"Come on, Adel, let's set up the tent before the soldiers shout at us again."
The two hurried off, the scent of dust and firewood thick in the air.
Not far from their campsite, inside a large central tent draped in black and red banners, Captain Vince stood around a map-lit table with four other officers.
"Hah! Eight hundred recruits, just from our unit," laughed a massive, bald man with white beared and arms thicker than tree trunks. "I wonder how the other units fared."
"I saw one of the boys… looked exactly like the Emperor in the murals," said Sylas, a lanky man with crimson hair tied into a ponytail. "Hair black as a panther's fur, eyes like the abyss—"
"Watch your tongue, Sylas!" barked a sharp voice. A blonde woman stepped forward, fury in her eyes. "Don't speak the Emperor's name so casually—and don't you dare compare a commoner to His Imperial Majesty, or I'll slit your tongue myself."
Sylas raised his hands in mock surrender. "It wasn't even the Emperor. Just the murals…"
"Enough," the captain said quietly.
Silence fell.
Vince looked toward the candle's flame, thoughtful.
"That boy…" he murmured to himself. "There's no chance."
And yet… he smirked, as if trying to convince himself otherwise.
The Next Morning
As the sun rose over the horizon, the marching column reached a high ridge. Before them stood Silver Spear Fortress—spanning three kilometers, its walls rising thirty meters into the air like the teeth of a giant beast. Four roads intersected before its gates, and along those roads came three other columns, each numbering nearly a thousand strong.
"They must be the recruits from other towns," Finley whispered in awe.
Adel didn't say a word. His eyes glittered. His smile spoke volumes.
Within the mighty fortress walls, nearly 3,000 recruits were gathered. They were soon divided into four training zones: North, South, East, and West.
Adel and Finley were placed in the Western Training Grounds, with about 700 others. The sun bore down as they formed into formation—a massive square of new blood and trembling legs.
At the front stood a man built like a war god. His muscles looked carved from stone, his arms crossed, his stare enough to make lesser men tremble.
He raised his voice, low and firm, echoing over the field:
"In the first six months, you will undergo intense physical training. In the next three, you will learn to wield a weapon of your choice. After that, you'll spend three months under guidance—either self-training or learning from a soldier, captain, or commander of your choosing. Then, and only then…"
He paused.
"…you will be sent to the Black Forest, west of here. You'll survive there for a full month—together with your assigned unit. No aid. No supervision. No mercy."
The recruits fell into a stunned silence.
Adel stood still.
Grinning.
The sun had barely risen, but the western training ground was already roaring with barked commands and clashing bodies.
"DOWN! UP! AGAIN!"
Seven hundred recruits groaned in agony, their bodies pressed against the dirt in perfect rows as they pushed themselves into endless sets of exercises. Muscles screamed. Sweat poured. For some, even tears.
Adel wasn't the strongest, but he didn't stop.
Not once.
Beside him, Finley looked like he was dying. "What in the Emperor's name… did I sign up for…"
"Less talking," grunted Adel, panting. "More dying."
At the front, the instructor, known only as Sergeant Garran, watched like a hawk. Rumor had it he once punched a charging boar to death with bare fists. His eyes scanned the field with disgust and disappointment.
"You think you'll survive the Black Forest with bodies like that?" he roared. "If you can't even handle your own weight, the trees will eat you alive!"
Every day began the same:
Two hours of body conditioning—push-ups, squats, running with sandbags, climbing thick wooden posts slick with oil.
Then came combat drills—barehanded grappling, stances, footwork.
And for those who couldn't keep up?
They were carried away.
Some never came back.
Two weeks passed.
Bruises became badges. Soreness became routine. And slowly, boys started to become soldiers.
Adel rose early. Earlier than most. He'd run laps before sunrise and sharpen sticks into mock swords at night. He wasn't the strongest, or the fastest—but he never stopped moving forward.
Even Garran noticed.
During one sparring session, Adel was paired against a larger boy—Buric, a farmhand with arms like logs and the patience of a bear.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a beating.
Adel took hit after hit. His nose bled. His lip split. The crowd laughed, even Finley yelled for him to stop.
But he stood up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until finally, on the sixth attempt, he dodged, slipped under a swing, and slammed a knee into Buric's gut, sending the bigger boy crashing to the ground.
Silence followed.
Then a single nod from Garran.
"Good," the sergeant said. "You're starting to think like a soldier."
That night, as Adel lay in his cot, bruised and sore, he looked up at the moon through a small slit in the barracks roof.
The pain was nothing.
This was what he wanted.
But somewhere deep in his bones… he could feel something stirring.
A whisper in his blood.
Something older than training.
Something waiting.