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Wrath Domain, The Ashbastion, August 14, 2025.
KRAAANG! KRAAANG!
Ashen's eyes snapped open to the shriek of the citadel's alarm. It was a harsh, metallic wail that pierced the stillness of the hour.
A glance at his wristwatch made his sleepy eyes narrow in irritation.
It was four in the morning, when even the stones of the fortress seemed asleep, yet the noise promised nothing but urgency.
He pushed himself off the straw-stuffed pallet in the dim dormitory, where a dozen other reserve soldiers stirred and cursed under their breaths. The room reeked faintly of sweat, damp wool, and steel left too long unpolished.
Privacy was a luxury not afforded here… just rows of crude bunks and the cold draft of stone walls that cared little for human warmth.
He shoved on his boots and cloak. Not a single day in, and he was already feeling the weight of the place pressing down on him.
Discipline was drilled into their bones here, and it was for a sole reason: survival.
The citadel squatted on the frontlines like a scarred old sentinel, and that meant hordes of monsters, sneak attacks, raids… anything and everything could happen at any given moment here.
So when the alarm howled, you moved—whether you were sleeping, sharpening your blade, or squatting over the latrine.
Hesitation meant corpses, and the monsters outside had no patience for men fumbling with their belts.
Ashen joined the surge of bodies funneling into the courtyard, the cobblestones cold and slick underfoot.
The central plaza yawned wide, framed by towering walls and torchlight that guttered in the predawn chill. The air carried the taste of iron and the tension of men too tired to pretend at bravado.
Trainees gathered in uneven lines, muttering, rubbing sleep from their eyes, some pale as milk while others forced smirks they didn't feel. Exhaustion clung to them, but beneath it, a quiet thread of dread stitched them all together.
A figure broke the murmur as she strode into view.
The woman's gait was steady and unhurried. Every step radiated the kind of calm only a seasoned killer could wear.
Her cloak swung with the weight of age and battle; the piercing look radiating from her eyes made the grown men flinch. She didn't need to shout to command attention; silence spread before her like frost.
Ashen had to physically stop his jaw from dropping. After all, he knew that person—it was none other than Sabrina!
Gone was the cute maid outfit, and in its place was a tight military uniform. Even that expression that used to be a bit vacant but still held some softness vanished for an intimidating face.
Ashen had to do a double-take in case his eyes were playing tricks on him.
She stopped at the plaza's center, let her gaze sweep over the half-awake assembly, and barked the first words in a gravelly voice that cut sharper than steel:
"On your feet, dogs. The enemy won't wait for you to finish yawning."
'What...?' Ashen's mind reeled. 'The cute maid is really gone...'
Despite being a woman, no one dared to utter a word at being called a dog. That's how much intimidation she radiated right now.
It was also clear that this was not the first time she was doing this, from how at ease she appeared to be.
"Listen well," she continued, her boots clicking against the stones as she paced before the half-awake recruits.
"As of now, you're not just tired boys in a dormitory, you are reserve soldiers of this citadel. That means when the walls shake, your feet move. When the horns scream, you run to the plaza, no matter where you are, no matter what you're doing. You belong to the citadel now, and the citadel does not forgive slowness."
The voice rang sharp and commanding, but it came from a woman who cut a striking figure in the torchlight.
And despite the crass language, she moved with grace, as if every step was measured. Her long black ponytail swayed behind her like a whip, and her blue eyes swept over the crowd with chill precision.
She stopped, turned on her heel, and let her gaze settle on them one by one. "Two weeks from now, you'll be dispatched. By then, the frontline regiments will return—battered, bloodied, and needing rest, and you will take their place. Consider yourselves their shadows, filling the gap while they lick their wounds."
Her lips curved into a mocking half-smile. "But don't fret. I'll help you 'acclimate.'"
Ashen could swear that her eyes penetrated the crowd and landed squarely on him when she said that. But somehow, it only gave him chills instead of reassurance for having the chance to 'acclimate'.
"You'll learn the behavior of the monsters clawing at our walls; their tricks, their hungers, their patterns. You'll learn what in this land will kill you slowly, and what will kill you quickly. The plants, the beasts, the very ground you'll march on..."
More than one man's gaze lingered on the curve of her thighs, the faint gleam of her lipstick… but they quickly snapped their eyes elsewhere, as if she might gut them for the indulgence.
"...And if that doesn't grind the softness out of you, then we'll move on to the proper business. Military formations. Terrain codes. Orders that you will follow without hesitation."
She leaned slightly forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Because hesitation is the enemy's favorite meal."
The plaza stood silent. Some men kept shifting, though… rigid and pale, trying not to look at her lips or her legs, yet unable to escape the sharpness in her eyes.
She let the silence hang, savoring it, before straightening again and barking,
"Two weeks. That's all the time you have to become soldiers... or corpses. Let's see which you choose."
Her voice lingered like steel scraping stone. Then, unexpectedly, her tone softened into a quieter, almost reflective voice. She clasped her hands behind her back, pacing slowly before the rows of stiff recruits.
"I see it all the time," she said. Her blue eyes swept over them. "Men who complain. Who shirk their duty. Who scrape by, doing the bare minimum just to last another day."
She stopped. The corner of her lip curled, but not in mockery… more like pity. "They always end the same. Dead in a ditch, nameless, faceless... forgotten."
Some soldiers shifted uneasily, lowering their eyes.
"Let me enlighten you on the unfortunate truth…" Her boots echoed sharply as she turned. "As men, you will never have an easy life." She let the words hang, then jabbed a finger toward them. "So abandon the thought. Whether you're here or not, it will be the same."
Her tone dropped lower, steady and cold. "Your lives will never be about happiness. It's always about struggle. About pain."
Her gaze narrowed. "And if you feel pain... if you feel suffering... It's just because you are supposed to. That's the weight of men."
She let silence stretch, only the wind rattling against the high walls. Then, softer still, almost intimate:
"You have two choices. Two only." Her eyes locked with theirs, one by one. "Suffer the hardships it takes to become men of value. Or suffer eternally still, but as nobodies."
She stilled, her shadow stretching long beneath the torchlight. "Those are the only two ways to suffer. You either suffer to become someone worth remembering. Or... You suffer as a perpetual and forever… nobody."
The words fell heavy. This time, no one dared look at the curve of her thighs or the flash of her lips. Their grim eyes clung to her as if the very truth everyone had always avoided all their lives had just been laid bare in the open.
And surprisingly, respect began to take hold unnoticed, etching itself into their stances.
She let the silence coil tighter, eyes sweeping over the faces before her. Then, her voice cut in again, "If you choose the first path... You will carve yourself into something unbreakable."
She paced forward, her cloak brushing against her thighs, the torchlight flashing off the steel buckles of her uniform. "Through pain, you will earn strength. Through sorrow, resolve. And through hardship… worth."
Her boots stopped. She lifted her chin, blue eyes gleaming under the flame. "And when the world looks back on you... It will not see a nobody."
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