The Training Grounds – Main Yard
The trainees stood in a wide circle, morning dew still glistening on the wet grass. Captain Raon stood at the center, his eyes sharp as steel as he scanned the exhausted faces.
His voice rang out, firm and unyielding:
— "Today… no one survives on effort alone. The coming battle is collective. You will be divided into teams, and each team will be responsible for its own survival."
At his signal, soldiers dragged four chained men into the circle. Their faces bore the harshness of a life outside the law: dirty skin, untrimmed beards, eyes burning with hate.
— "Bandits, captured on the borders," Raon announced. "Do not mistake them for weak prey. These men have slit more throats than some of you have slaughtered chickens. Today… they will be your opponents."
Uneasy looks spread across the trainees. Milo bit his lip hard, while Toren smirked bitterly:
— "Perfect… more blood to test us."
Serin fixed her gaze on one of the prisoners, her expression as cold as stone. She didn't see a man—only an obstacle to be erased.
The Battle Begins
The trainees were split into four groups:
Group One: Kaizlan, Milo, Serin, and Hark.
Group Two: Toren, Iron, Ilda, and Riman.
The rest filled the remaining two groups.
The chains dropped with a harsh metallic clang. Raon's voice cut through the silence:
— "Begin!"
One of the bandits lunged like a starving wolf at Kaizlan's group, his rusty knife slashing forward. Kaizlan met him head-on with his wooden sword, the clash jarring his arms with its sheer force.
— "To the right!" Milo shouted.
Hark stumbled out of the way, while Serin pivoted sharply and struck the man's knee, knocking him down. But even on the ground, the bandit clawed at the dirt, flinging it into Milo's eyes before pouncing like a beast.
Milo staggered back, panicked, until Kaizlan grabbed his arm, yanking him clear, then brought his sword down hard across the man's shoulder.
— "Hold yourself together!" Kaizlan barked.
The Second Group
Across the yard, Toren and Iron fought shoulder to shoulder. Iron, with his ashen eyes, blocked each strike with precise control, his body moving as if it knew the rhythm before his mind did. Toren, bleeding from his forehead, attacked recklessly, grinning as if he thrived in the chaos.
— "Iron!" Toren laughed as he parried another blow. "I don't know why I'm smiling, but this… this feels like the life I want!"
Iron didn't reply—he simply planted his feet, drove his fist into his opponent's jaw, and sent the man sprawling.
Behind them, Ilda murmured her count under her breath, eyes fixed on her target:
— "One… two… three."
On the third step, she struck, slamming her wooden blade into her opponent's knee. He crumpled in shock, too slow to realize she had predicted his every move.
Chaos Unleashed
Blood seeped into the dirt, screams of pain mixed with ragged breaths. Some trainees faltered, their hands trembling too much to strike. Others snapped under pressure.
Bartol muttered to himself over and over:
— "I won't fall… I won't fall…"
Then suddenly he roared, bringing his wooden sword down on a man's skull with enough force to drop him unconscious.
All around, the line between training and survival blurred.
Aftermath
Minutes dragged like hours. When the fight finally ended, the yard was littered with bodies—some moving, some still. The trainees stood bent over, chests heaving, their faces streaked with sweat, dirt, and blood.
Captain Raon stepped forward, his voice flat and cold, the voice of a man long accustomed to death:
— "This is the truth. In war, the individual does not endure… only the team does. Remember this well: when one breaks, he drags others down with him."
He gestured to the fallen bandits.
— "Drag them out of the yard."
The clash of iron had faded, but the echo remained—not in the weapons, but in the hearts of the trainees, hammered harder than any blade.