Ironhold Bastion Great Hall
The first batch of recruits arrived at their dormitory, where they found fifty small, hard beds neatly arranged in orderly rows.
There was no comfort in sight.
The stone floors were scuffed and uneven, the walls bare and gray, showing faint cracks from years of wear. Tall, narrow windows lined the sides of the hall, letting in cold drafts but offering little sunlight. The air smelled faintly of dust and old metal.
At the far end of the hall were two plain wooden doors—one leading to the bathing area, the other to the storage room. A few dusty shelves stood against the walls, holding worn-out cleaning supplies and folded linen. There were no decorations, no curtains, not even a rug. Everything about the room was cold, practical, and unwelcoming.
Several noble-born recruits grimaced in dismay at the room, clearly displeased that they would have to adjust to this spartan lifestyle.
The commoners, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised.
"Are they really putting us here with everyone else?" a neatly dressed young man grumbled in disgust as he inspected the corners of the room.
"Unfortunately, yes. Didn't your brother tell you, Brother Arwin?" a taller young man replied casually, already used to the arrangement. Several other noble-born recruits clustered behind Arwin, still unwilling to let go of their pride even here.
"The beds are so small and hard. Can we even sleep here?"
"Can't we request better accommodations?"
"I doubt they'll listen to us."
While they grumbled, Valen had already chosen his bed—near the window. The air inside the hall was stuffy, so being close to the window meant a cool breeze and better ventilation.
Seeing this, the other young men quickly scrambled to pick their own beds.
Valen placed his small luggage on his bed and began neatly arranging his bedding.
A shadow suddenly loomed over him.
"Move. I want this bed," Arwin demanded, his tone dripping with entitlement.
Valen pursed his lips and sneered. "I chose this bed first," he said flatly, continuing to unpack.
"You dare talk back to me, cursed bastard? You think we don't know who you are?" Arwin spat, his companions chiming in with sneers.
"We don't want to be near you. We've picked this area. Move."
"I picked this bed first. Find your own."
"You—"
Before the argument could escalate, a soldier entered the hall, ordering them to line up for the orientation tour.
Arwin and the other nobles had no choice but to grudgingly pick other beds, but not before casting lingering glares at Valen.
How childish. Valen thought as he quickly changed his clothes and lined up with the group.
Arwin was still unpacking when Valen passed by him.
Just then, a dark inky substance—a worm-like shadow—slithered from Valen's ankle and darted towards Arwin's feet.
The shadow worm swiftly latched onto the soles of Arwin's feet, its form twisting and seeping into his skin, leaving behind a symbol—an inverted triangle with a single dot hovering above it.
Arwin briefly winced, glancing down at his boots, but found nothing.
'However he himself was even more childish.'
Valen smirked knowingly.
—
The recruits were gathered in lines, their boots scraping against the stone floor as the supervising soldier led them through the stronghold. His sharp voice echoed through the wide corridors.
"Listen carefully! There is no room for error here. You'll be living under a strict schedule. Miss a task, and you'll face the consequences."
Their first stop was the cafeteria—a large, utilitarian hall filled with long metal tables and benches bolted to the floor. The place smelled of boiled grains and bland broth, the clatter of utensils and trays forming a constant backdrop. Steam rose from large iron pots at the serving stations.
"This is your dining hall," the soldier said. "Meals are served three times a day. You have thirty minutes to eat. No more, no less. Latecomers won't be fed. No seconds."
A murmur of dissatisfaction passed among the recruits.
"Remember," the soldier added, "eating quickly isn't just encouraged—it's survival. Your next training will start immediately after meals. You'll thank me later when you're too exhausted to chew."
Valen silently observed the soldiers moving through the cafeteria like clockwork, trays in hand, eating quickly and rising with precision. Discipline is drilled into them at every step. His brown eyes flicked toward the doors, counting exits, noting the routes of patrolling guards. His mind mapped the place instinctively.
Next, they were led to the training field, a vast open area lined with sand and surrounded by high wooden barriers. The rhythmic thud of soldiers punching training dummies and the clang of swords against wooden poles filled the air.
"This is where your morning training will be held," the soldier barked. "Expect to be here before sunrise. You'll run, exercise, and drill until your bodies remember the pain of discipline."
The recruits stiffened.
His gaze swept over the training grounds, catching sight of the watchtowers, the weapon racks, and the instructors whose cold gazes scanned them like prey.
One building, more opulent and heavily guarded, stood isolated near the back.
Restricted? Must be the officers' quarters.
Valen smirked a plan and noted this place.
They moved on to the combat arena, a circular pit surrounded by raised stone stands. The air smelled of sweat, dirt, and old blood.
"This is the arena," their guide continued. "Here you will spar using real weapons. Wooden swords may save your fingers, but they won't save your life."
The soldier's boots clicked on the stone as he descended the stairs into the arena floor. "Injuries are expected. Combat here is your preparation for a real battle."
Valen's sharp gaze lingered on the combatants currently training—fast, brutal, and unforgiving. He quickly calculated the level of their skill.
This place is not for the faint-hearted.
Their final stop was the military office complex, where squads were assigned and duties were posted. The building was quieter, lined with wooden doors, the smell of old parchment and ink lingering in the air.
"You'll report here every afternoon," the soldier said. "Your units will be posted. You'll follow your squad captain's orders from now on. This is also where you'll receive missions."
Valen's gaze darted to the inner hallways, particularly a door guarded by two soldiers in black armor, their expressions hard and impenetrable. That's the center. Information must be kept there. Closed off and heavily guarded… interesting.
He quietly memorized the pathways, the guard rotations, and the structure of the office. If I plan carefully, I might slip in smoothly.
Just as the tour seemed to conclude, a group of soldiers in distinct red-trimmed uniforms passed by. Their steps were disciplined but relaxed, a quiet confidence surrounding them.
The recruits turned to watch as a young man with short silver hair and striking golden eyes approached. His uniform was sharper, his boots perfectly polished, a sword resting at his side with a personalized emblem on the hilt.
Gasps and whispers rippled through the new recruits.
"Is that—"
"The Crown Prince…"
"Prince Lucien Cross…"
"I heard he's already a captain of a unit?"
"That's right. It's because he has already unlocked his aura and officially become a knight."
"Wow, how impressive—to become a knight at such a young age."
"Of course. He's a genius, after all."
"I heard it too and he's only two years older than us…"
Lucien's golden eyes swept over the new recruits, his gaze steady and piercing, as though he could see straight through them. His posture was upright, his presence calm yet overwhelming—like standing before a towering mountain.
"New blood, huh?" Lucien said, his voice smooth, but carrying an underlying edge.
Some recruits tensed under his gaze, while others looked away, unsure whether to bow or salute.
"Don't worry—I don't care for formalities here. Stand tall. From this moment on, you are the future of our kingdom. Train hard. Do not disappoint the path you've chosen."
His words were neither harsh nor cold, but they left no room for doubt or weakness. His tone commanded respect and naturally stirred the hearts of those listening.
The recruits straightened instinctively, the weight of their responsibility sinking in.
Lucien's gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, then he gave a slight, dignified nod before walking away without another word.
In that brief encounter, he had firmly planted his image in their minds—not just as a prince, but as a leader worthy of their loyalty.
So this is the Crown Prince of the Cross Kingdom… the so-called genius of the century who became a knight at seventeen. He certainly fits the rumors.
A knight is a weapon wielder capable of harnessing aura—a mysterious power that emerges when a person perfects their skills.
He is indeed a son of heaven.
Valen's lips curled into a faint smirk.
The karma points I can gain from you… will be plentiful.
The soldier escorting them barked again. "Move! You'll receive your unit assignments tomorrow."
Valen followed, his heart steady, his mind already weaving threads of strategy.
This place will be my stage. And by the time I leave, they won't dare forget my name.