The roll call rang out, names carried across the muddy yard.
The first two:
— "Kaizlan Valrik… Milo!"
A ripple of unease spread among the recruits. To see two friends—companions since the beginning—pushed into the trial as opponents was no easy sight.
The pair stepped into the dirt ring, wooden swords in hand.
Kaizlan drew a long breath, forcing down his hesitation. Milo raised his blade with unsteady grip, yet there was a resolve in his eyes Kaizlan had never seen before.
In a low voice, almost speaking to himself as much as to his opponent, Milo murmured:
— "Don't treat me as a friend. Strike me as an enemy… or you'll learn nothing."
They exchanged two tentative blows, testing both footing and will. But a sergeant's bark shattered the restraint:
— "This is child's play! Show us what you've learned!"
The spark caught.
Milo lunged suddenly, his strike crashing into Kaizlan's shoulder. Pain seared down his arm, forcing him back a step. But Kaizlan pivoted, sweeping a counterblow against Milo's leg.
Wood struck wood again and again, sweat flying, each strike heavier than the last. Whatever bond lay between them, for that moment it was swallowed by the demand to endure.
Then, for a heartbeat, Milo left his left flank open.
Kaizlan seized it, driving a blow to the ribs that toppled Milo to the ground.
For a moment Milo lay there, gasping. Then, through the pain, he smiled faintly:
— "Good… you didn't spare me."
Kaizlan's hand moved instinctively to help him up—until Captain Raon's voice thundered across the yard:
— "Do not mix training with mercy!"
Kaizlan froze, hand suspended in the air. Slowly, he drew it back, standing rigid. Inside, the turmoil cut deeper than any blow he had taken.
The next call: Serin versus Torn.
Serin entered with calm precision, face unreadable. Torn swaggered in twirling his wooden sword as if it were a toy, a mocking grin on his face.
— "Break my leg and I'll remember it as a favor," he joked.
She didn't answer. Her stance was steady, her silence sharper than any taunt.
Torn struck with a wide, sloppy swing. Serin slipped aside and cracked her sword against his leg. He cried out, but laughter followed:
— "I knew that silence hid something!"
Before he regained balance, she stepped forward and struck his hand. His sword clattered to the ground. He raised his arm in surrender, the grin still lingering.
From the sidelines, Sergeant Halg muttered to Raon:
— "Her eyes catch openings faster than any of them."
Then came Eron.
When he entered the circle, a hush fell. The grip on his sword was iron, his face tight with focus. His opponent shifted uneasily before the match had even begun.
Eron gave him no time. His first strike forced the boy to stagger low, the second nearly tore the weapon from his hand. Each impact cracked like thunder.
Step by step the opponent retreated until half his body crossed the circle's line.
— "Back inside!" barked the trainer.
But Eron pressed on. A third brutal strike drove into the boy's chest, dropping him flat to the dirt, gasping and raising his hands in surrender.
Eron stood over him, sweat pouring, his eyes still burning as though unsated.
Raon gave a slight nod, as if he had expected nothing less:
— "He does not know how to retreat… and that will either raise him high—or kill him swiftly."
When the matches ended, the recruits lined the edges of the ring, bodies aching, some groaning, some smiling faintly despite the pain.
Captain Raon faced them, his voice quieter now, but cutting deep:
— "This was not only a test of strength. It was for something greater—whether you have the will to face a friend if survival demands it."
No one answered. Only the ragged sound of their breathing filled the silence.
The dirt circle had tested their bodies—but it carved a deeper question into their chests:
Could they truly strike those they cared for… if survival was the price?