The following weeks was brutal.
Every sunrise brought a new punishment: running with full packs, push-ups in the mud, carrying logs uphill, holding stances until legs shook and arms went numb. The instructors didn't care about complaints—only progress.
Adel's sword arm ached. His fingers had blistered and peeled. But every day, his swings got cleaner, his footwork sharper.
Finley had it worse.
"Why didn't I pick a dagger…" he muttered, half-dead, his hands red and raw from spear drills.
"Because you're too skinny for close combat," Troy teased, patting him on the back with a laugh.
"Not helping."
Meanwhile, Troy thrived. The axe suited him—heavy, blunt, wild. He swung with the strength of a blacksmith and the joy of a child smashing pots.
"Careful, you'll split someone's skull," Garran warned one morning after Troy nearly knocked out a wooden dummy's head.
"Not my fault they gave me a toy to train with," Troy grinned.
One afternoon, Garran pulled them aside.
"Three of you. You're not the strongest. You're not the fastest. But you're clicking faster than most. Keep it up."
"Was that… a compliment?" Finley asked.
"Don't get used to it," Garran said, walking away.
The trio blinked, then laughed together.
That night, while the camp quieted and most recruits collapsed into sleep, Adel sat outside, staring at his sword under the moonlight.
It was still simple. No magic, no runes, no legacy. Just a blade.
But it was his. And in his hands, it would become something.
Finley sat beside him, tossing pebbles.
"Crazy, huh? 7 months ago we were just strangers."
Troy joined them next, carrying dried meat he "borrowed" from the kitchen.
"Now we bleed together," he said, grinning. "That makes us brothers, right?"
Adel looked at the two of them—one tired, one wild—and gave a small nod.
"Brothers."
Three months passed.
The recruits now moved like soldiers. Uniform footwork, sharper reflexes, tighter formations. Muscles had grown. Bruises faded faster.
But now came the real test—the self-training phase.
The instructors gathered everyone in the courtyard on a cold morning. Garran's voice echoed through the brisk air.
"For the next three months, you're on your own. Improve, or fall behind. You may train alone, or seek out a mentor. Captain's orders."
Murmurs spread fast.
Some recruits already made their picks—veteran soldiers, grizzled sergeants, even retired knights assigned as fortress guards. Those with charm or noble blood quickly gathered masters.
Others, unsure, just gripped their weapons and looked lost.
The trio stood at the edge of the crowd.
"I'm not training alone," Finley said flatly. "No way I'll survive without someone yelling at me."
"I think I'll find someone too," Troy muttered. "Maybe that beast of a man in the south yard who swings his axe like it's a stick."
Adel stayed quiet.
He wasn't sure what he needed.
A master could teach him. But a voice inside whispered: learn by doing…
"Not you too," Finley groaned. "Don't tell me you're going to train solo?"
Adel looked at the sword at his side—still plain, still simple. But somehow it felt like it wanted something more from him.
"I want to see how far I can go on my own," Adel finally said. "At least for now."
Troy raised a brow. "You sure? This phase makes or breaks people."
Adel nodded. "If I break, then I wasn't meant for the battlefield anyway."
That week, the three split paths.
Finley apprenticed under a quiet former knight named Sir Kael—a master of reach, defense, and footwork. Every day, Kael drilled him on form, timing, patience.
Troy found a wild brawler named Gunther—a retired soldier with a taste for tavern fights and surprise punches. Their training looked more like street brawls than anything else.
Adel?
He woke up before sunrise. Trained alone in the misty fields. He read old scrolls from the fortress library. Studied sword movements in the mirror of a shallow pond. He sparred with whoever was willing—often losing, always learning.
At night, while others rested, he practiced slow, silent strikes under the moonlight.
One evening, Sir Kael approached Adel in passing.
"You've got fire, boy," he said. "But fire burns out if it doesn't have form."
Adel bowed slightly. "Then I'll forge it into something sharper."
Kael smirked, then left without another word.
Weeks passed.
Scars faded into stories. Weakness turned into memory.
The trio met less often—but when they did, the bond was stronger than ever.
And soon, word began to spread.
About a mission.
A test.
A final trial before they could call themselves anything more than recruits.
The Black Forest awaited.
The fire crackled softly under the night sky, casting dancing shadows on the canvas tents around them. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and burnt wood.
Troy threw another stick into the flames. "So... the Black Forest. You boys ready?"
Finley made a face. "I still don't get it. Why send us there? Can't we just fight in normal places? Like... fields? Castles?"
Adel looked into the fire, quiet.
Troy chuckled. "Normal? There's nothing normal about being a soldier, brother. And that place... it's not just a test. It's a warning."
Finley raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
Troy leaned in, his voice low. "They say trolls roam the outer woods—huge ones. Skin like stone. If you're lucky, they just throw you. If you're not, they eat you whole."
Finley paled.
"And that's just the start," Troy continued, a glint in his eye. "Goblins build camps in there too. Nasty little bastards. Smell worse than they look. But it's deeper in where it gets real bad."
Adel finally spoke. "The monsters."
Troy nodded slowly. "Yeah. Things no one's even named. They say the forest births them. Crawlers with no eyes. Shadows that move even when there's no light. Screaming trees. Creatures that... that look like people you've lost."
The fire popped, and Finley shivered.
"And the deeper you go," Adel said quietly, "the more wrong it feels. Like something's watching you. Waiting."
Silence.
Then Finley gave a nervous laugh. "Why are we even doing this again?"
"To become Imperial Reserves," Troy grinned, flexing his arm. "Survive the forest, and we're soldiers. Real ones. No more training. No more proving ourselves."
Adel's hand gripped his sword gently. He didn't smile.
"I'm not going there to prove anything," he said. "I'm going there to come back alive."