After returning to the fortress, the polished streets, the scent of bread, the quiet hum of life—it all felt distant, unreal. But reality came fast. By order of the Empire, all surviving recruits were now officially recognized as Imperial Reserves.
To become true Imperial Soldiers, they had to apply to a Chapter.
And each Chapter… was a beast of its own.
Ten thousand soldiers minimum. Led by one Chapter Master, under him ten Chapter Commanders, each of whom had ten Captains—and beneath them, the grunts. One Sergeant for every Captain, serving as both advisor and executioner.
The system was massive. Cold. Efficient. And deadly.
Adel, Finley, and Troy stood at the edge of the fortress courtyard, their papers clutched tight. The official forms. Their application.
They were not alone. Hundreds of survivors stood in scattered clusters, eyes shifting nervously, voices low. The trauma of the forest still clung to their steps.
Adel's hand twitched slightly at the sound of a nearby hammer. Finley hadn't touched food all day. Troy didn't speak—his axe was already strapped on.
But they all stood straighter as Sergeant Garran approached.
He hadn't changed. Same worn boots. Same cold eyes. Same immovable expression. But something in his gaze softened—barely—as he looked at the trio.
"You survived," he said. Not a question. A statement.
Adel saluted. "Sir. We're applying for positions under Chapter White Spear."
Garran crossed his arms. His silence felt heavier than usual. Then he spoke.
"My Chapter doesn't take weaklings. White Spear isn't a retirement post. It's a battlefield post. Patrols the northern ridges. Handles monster incursions. Collapses rebellions before they start."
Troy stepped forward. "We're not weaklings, sir."
Finley added, "We already bled for the Empire. We'll bleed again."
Adel said nothing—but he met Garran's eyes. And held them.
The sergeant stared at them. For a moment longer than comfort allowed.
Then, quietly:
"I watched you three in the forest. You're green. But you've got grit."
He pulled a scroll from his belt and unrolled it. "These are the current slots open under White Spear."
Names. Numbers. Roles. Openings. Garran tapped three lines.
"Captain Dareth. Commands 1st Centuria of White Spear. He's a brutal bastard. Likes order, hates cowards. You'll report to him if you're approved."
Adel took a breath. "What's the trial?"
Garran almost smiled. Almost.
"You think we just hand you a post because you walked out of the woods breathing? You'll be tested. Ten applicants go in. Five stay. Five go elsewhere—or home."
Troy grinned. "Now that sounds like fun."
Garran snapped the scroll closed. "You have one day to prepare. Then you'll report to the training yard at dawn. Impress Captain Dareth—or don't show up at all."
He turned and walked away, boots echoing on the stone.
The trio stood in silence.
"Back into the fire, huh?" Finley muttered.
Adel stared at the horizon.
"No," he said. "We never left it."
At a different scene
Garran looking at a distant
Hundreds of recruits were being gathered into separate groups by administrative clerks and low-ranked officers—people who hadn't been chosen, hadn't been endorsed. They were being marched to caravans.
Each bound for a different fortress, a different Chapter, a different fate.
Some were crying. Others protested. But orders were orders.
No second chances.
Garran turned his back and walked away.