The training yard was quiet for once.
No gunfire.
No shouted commands.
Just rows of recruits standing straight, uniforms still dusty from the day before, bruises hidden under fabric like secrets they weren't ready to talk about.
Batch 1939 stood assembled.
Darius was there too—but not pacing, not yelling. Arms behind his back. Face hard. That alone set the tone. When instructors stop barking, it means the stakes just went vertical.
Bootsteps echoed.
A tall figure stepped onto the raised platform—broad shoulders, silver-threaded cloak, the insignia of high command stitched clean into the fabric. The Commander General didn't waste time with ceremony. No dramatic pause. No patriotic warm-up speech.
He looked at them like numbers that had finally turned into names.
"Listen carefully," he said. His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "What you hear today changes your lives."
A map unfurled behind him—inked borders, red markings, burn scars across a green land.
"The Orcish Republic."
A ripple moved through the ranks. Even the loud ones stayed quiet.
"Two and a half years ago," the General continued, "this nation broke free from its former masters. They chose alliance. Trade. Law. Stability."
His finger tapped a red-slashed region on the map.
"And ever since, an insurgent faction has been trying to burn it back into the ground."
He didn't dress it up.
"These orcs are not rebels fighting policy. They are executioners. They raid villages. They slaughter civilians. They destroy infrastructure not to win territory—but to erase the idea that peace is possible."
Silence.
Even Kael didn't crack a joke.
"The war has dragged on because the enemy blends in. Knows the terrain. Knows the people. And because good nations hesitate to put young soldiers in the dirt."
The General's gaze swept across them.
"That hesitation ends now."
A beat.
"Batch 1939—alongside veteran divisions—you will be deployed to the Orcish Republic. Defensive operations. Civilian protection. Insurgent suppression."
Some swallowed.
Some clenched fists.
Some—like Garrick and Theo—looked ready yesterday.
Gilbert felt it settle in his chest. Not fear. Weight. The kind you carry because you have to, not because you want to.
"You will not be saviors," the General said. "You will not be conquerors. You are there to hold the line so peace can survive long enough to take root."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Darius.
"Instructor Darius will remain with you in-theater. His authority is absolute. His word is law."
Darius nodded once. No pride. Just responsibility.
"If you freeze," the General continued, "people die. If you hesitate, villages burn. If you forget your training—your squad pays the price."
Then, softer—but sharper.
"But if you hold… if you adapt… if you fight together…"
The map shifted. Red zones shrinking. Roads reopening. Towns lit with small, hopeful dots.
"You help end a war."
No cheers followed. This wasn't that kind of speech.
"Deployment begins in three days," the General said. "Write your letters. Rest your bodies. Sharpen your minds."
He looked at them one last time.
"You trained to become soldiers. Now you deploy to prove it."
The platform emptied.
The yard stayed quiet.
Kael finally exhaled. "So… foreign war. Orcs. Insurgents. No pressure."
Cassian cracked his neck. "Good. Training was getting boring."
Clara stared at the map even after it was gone. "Real targets now," she muttered. "No paper."
Finn stood stiff, eyes wide. Ellior leaned slightly closer—not touching, but present.
Marina glanced at Gilbert. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Ask me again when we're there."
Darius's voice cut through them one last time that evening.
"Get used to each other," he said. "Out there, you're not recruits."
He paused.
"You're all each other has."
And just like that, Batch 1939 crossed the line
from training to war,
from potential to consequence,
from boys and girls with skills
to soldiers with a destination.
The Orcish Republic was waiting.
Three days later, the western coast of Velmora disappeared behind uniforms, steel, and salt air.
Batch 1939 stood among hundreds—no, thousands—of soldiers funneling toward the docks. Different patches. Different accents. Same gear. Same tired eyes. Rifles slung. Packs heavy. Boots scraping wood and iron in a steady, relentless rhythm.
And then there were the ships.
They were massive—absurdly so. Three of them, docked like steel islands squatting in the water. From ground level, a single hull towered over a person like a moving cliff. Thick armor plating. Reinforced decks. Massive anchor chains groaning as crews finished last-minute checks.
Kael let out a low whistle. "Yeah… okay. That's bigger than I imagined."
"Everything looks smaller when it can kill you," Cassian muttered, adjusting the strap of his pack.
Gilbert walked beside Kael as the line crept forward. The crowd moved slow—too many bodies, too much equipment. Every step felt deliberate, like the world itself was making sure they understood there was no rushing this part.
"So this is it," Kael said quietly. "No more drills. No more 'reset the exercise.'"
Gilbert nodded. "Feels… unreal."
"Give it time," Kael smirked faintly. "Reality always shows up late."
Around them, small conversations sparked and died:
Garrick laughing too loudly with Theo
Clara walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Nina and Marina, voices low
Finn sticking close to Ellior, eyes everywhere
Ezra and Victor already drifting toward the edges, instinctively
Darius moved ahead of them, unmistakable even in the crowd. Straight-backed. Unhurried. Like he'd done this more times than he cared to remember.
The boarding ramp groaned under the weight of boots and steel.
Once aboard, the scale became even clearer. The interior corridors were wide enough for vehicles. Overhead lights hummed softly. The smell shifted—from sea air to oil, metal, and something recycled far too many times.
They were assigned quarters quickly.
Four soldiers per room.
Not private. Not comfortable. Just enough space to sleep, stow gear, and exist between orders.
Gilbert ended up roomed with Kael, Finn, and Rey. Packs hit the floor. Helmets were set down. Nobody said much.
Kael flopped onto the lower bunk. "I call this one. Seniority by vibes."
Rey snorted. "You're eighteen."
"Exactly. Youth privilege."
Finn laughed—nervous, but real.
The ship's horn sounded once.
Then again.
Deep. Vibrational. Final.
Gilbert felt it in his chest more than his ears.
The ship began to move.
Slow at first. Almost gentle. The dock drifting away inch by inch until Velmora's western port became a layered mess of cranes, soldiers, and waving banners—shrinking, receding, becoming memory.
Some recruits pressed to viewports. Others looked away.
No speeches. No music.
Just departure.
Later, they were allowed onto the upper decks.
That's when the truth of the vessel revealed itself.
This wasn't just a ship.
The top platform stretched wide, reinforced to carry air power—massive heavy-lift balloons tethered like restrained giants, their fabric rippling softly in the wind. Beneath and between them sat a dozen military-grade airships, sleek and armored, crews still absent.
The whole thing felt like it was holding its breath.
Kael leaned against the railing. "So… it's a ship that flies ships."
Gilbert nodded. "Feels excessive."
"War usually is."
For now, they waited.
Pilots would board later.
Crews would run checks.
Orders would come.
Until then, Batch 1939 rested—not in peace, but in suspension.
Between land and sky.
Between training and war.
Between home and whatever waited beyond the horizon.