The air in the training ground was heavier than the day before.
The sun had not yet risen high, yet sweat already ran down the faces of the recruits. Short, battered swords and heavy wooden practice blades were handed out. Everyone knew this day would not be about marching in lines… but a real test.
Commander Raun stood before them, his voice cold as iron:
"Today you will fight, man against man. I want no showy swings, no meaningless movements. I want those who dare to look their opponent in the eye—and stand until the end.
Anyone who falls to the ground… is defeated."
⸻
Kaizlan Valric gripped his practice sword with a nervous hand. He had never fought a man in earnest; most of what he knew came from his father's lessons or childish duels. His heart pounded, but inside burned a sharp desire: not to fall in front of all these eyes.
The first names were called. Two farmer's sons faced each other.
Dust rose as wooden blades clashed. One lunged recklessly, only to take a blow square to the shoulder and collapse with a cry. The match lasted less than half a minute.
Some of the recruits laughed at the brevity of the fight, but Raun raised his hand in silence, and all quieted.
"Battle does not need an hour. One mistake is enough."
⸻
When Kaizlan's turn came, he faced an opponent slightly taller than himself—the son of a minor noble. The boy wore a smug smile, clearly certain of his victory.
The signal was given.
His opponent moved at once, stepping forward quickly and swinging down at Kaizlan's shoulder.
Kaizlan lifted his wooden shield in panic—the impact shook his arm so hard he nearly dropped it.
"Heavier than I thought…"
He lashed out clumsily toward the noble's chest, but the blow was weak and slow. The arrogant boy smirked, batted the sword aside with ease, and struck again at Kaizlan's leg.
A cry of pain escaped Kaizlan's lips, but he did not fall.
"I won't let him mock me in front of everyone."
He stepped back, took a quick breath, and fixed his eyes on his opponent's movements. This time, he did not charge blindly.
When the noble lifted his sword high once more, Kaizlan suddenly lunged forward, driving his shoulder into his chest.
The boy staggered, unprepared for a strike of the body. Off balance, he faltered. Kaizlan seized the chance, raising his practice sword with all his strength and striking his side. A dull thud echoed, followed by the noble's fall into the dust.
Murmurs rose from the watching ranks. Some laughed, others clapped lightly.
But Commander Raun did not smile.
"A shoulder strike works once… but in a real battle, it may open your chest to the enemy's blade.
Remember: victory is not felling your foe… it is living afterward."
⸻
Kaizlan returned to his line, his arm trembling from pain, yet his heart pulsed with a strange exhilaration. It was not a perfect victory—but he had not fallen.
He lifted his eyes slightly, and met the gaze of Eiron Levara, who had been watching. A faint, ambiguous smile touched Eiron's lips, a mix of mockery and interest.
"That doesn't bode well…" Kaizlan thought, gripping his sword with a heavier hand.