Valen lay fast asleep in the modest inn room he had rented. Morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, striking his face and forcing him awake. With a quiet groan, he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and splashed his face with cold water from the basin.
After changing into a clean tunic and fastening the sword at his waist, he went downstairs. The common room was quiet, with only a few patrons seated near the windows. Valen ordered a simple breakfast and waited patiently. Soon, a plate of bread and eggs along with a cup of fresh water was placed before him.
He ate quickly. Though the meal was plain, it filled his stomach and steadied his nerves. Once finished, Valen tightened his belt and made his way toward the barracks.
As he approached, he noticed a long line of new recruits stretching outside the gate. Some looked nervous, others eager, but all were waiting for their gear. Valen jogged over and joined the line, slightly confused at first but relieved once he understood what was happening.
Not long after, he felt a presence behind him. A boy in polished armor and carrying a fine sword sneered at the peasants in line.
"Hah. Look at them—pathetic. Without the army, they wouldn't even have armor to wear." The noble's voice was full of disdain.
His eyes fell on Valen. "And this one... a weak peasant trying to play soldier."
Valen turned, meeting the noble's gaze.
"What? Surprised by proper armor? Don't stare too long, peasant."
"Harold, stop it already," a girl's voice cut in. A red-haired noble girl stood beside him, her expression weary.
"Velichia, don't interfere. I am Harold von Portohen, son of the great Godwin von Portohen! No peasant could ever surpass me," Harold snapped.
The girl sighed and turned to Valen instead. "Ignore him. My name is Velichia von Humbfort. You?"
"I'm Valen, son of Eufrey the blacksmith," he replied simply.
Velichia's lips curved into a small smile. "A fine name. Let's be friends, Valen."
"...Sure."
The line slowly shortened, and soon Valen reached the front where a guard stood waiting with a list.
"Name?" the guard asked.
"Valen, sir."
The guard checked his parchment, then handed him a bundle of gear. "Here's what you ordered. Go change in that building."
"Thank you, sir."
Inside, Valen equipped his armor piece by piece. The metal rang softly as he fastened the straps, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Once finished, he stepped outside and saw the other recruits already lined up before an instructor.
"You there! Get in line!" the instructor barked, pointing at him.
Valen hurried into position. The instructor cleared his throat to speak—
"Alright, recruits. As you all know, you—"
"Duke Edward von Gooserian is here!" a guard shouted, bursting in.
At once, silence fell. A man in ornate armor rode in on horseback, surveying the recruits with sharp eyes.
"Fourteen-year-old Valen, step forward!" he commanded.
Valen froze, heart pounding, but forced himself to obey.
"So you're Valen," the duke said as he dismounted. "James told me what happened. Is it true?"
"Y-Yes, sir."
"You did well. After this training, you will be promoted to sergeant—and I grant you the title of squire." His voice carried pride and authority.
Valen's eyes widened. "Th-thank you, Your Grace!"
The duke gave him a nod and remounted. "Good. Train hard." Then he departed as swiftly as he came.
The instructor exhaled. "W-Well then. Enough distractions. Two days to make soldiers out of you! Draw your swords and start slashing the air—your muscles must learn the motion."
Steel hissed as recruits obeyed. All but one. Harold stood still, arms crossed.
"Harold, why are you not practicing?" the instructor demanded.
Harold smirked. "Because I don't need to. My father's blood flows in my veins. His skill lives in me. I learn by dueling, not childish drills."
"Harold—just do the practice," Velichia pleaded.
"Silence, Velichia."
The instructor's eyes narrowed. "Very well. If you refuse drills, then prove yourself. Duel Valen. If you win, I'll allow you to train however you like. But if you lose, you will follow every lesson. Agreed?"
"With that peasant? Easy," Harold scoffed.
The instructor turned to Valen. "Can you do it?"
Valen hesitated, then nodded. "...I'll do it, sir."
Velichia stepped forward. "Valen, you don't have to—"
"I must," he answered firmly.
The two faced each other in a circle marked on the ground. Recruits gathered around, anticipation buzzing in the air.
"Begin!" the instructor signaled.
Harold charged first, his strikes sharp and fast. Valen blocked, sparks flying as steel clashed. The clang echoed through the yard, each blow testing Valen's strength.
He gritted his teeth, waiting, searching. Then he saw it—Harold's stance left his legs wide. Valen countered with a swift strike, forcing Harold off balance.
The duel continued, blades ringing until Valen sidestepped a strike and drove his foot into Harold's stomach. The noble staggered, fell to his knees, and dropped his sword.
Silence.
Then, the instructor clapped slowly. "Well fought. Both of you. But Harold—you lost."
Harold clenched his fists, then sighed. "Fine. I'll keep my word and follow the drills."
"Good lad," the instructor said with a nod. "Back in line! Everyone, resume practice!"
The recruits returned to their drills. Hours passed until the instructor finally called for rest. Valen sheathed his sword, wiping sweat from his brow.
Velichia approached, smiling faintly. "You okay, Valen? That was impressive."
"Yeah. I'm fine," he replied.
"Thank you for standing up to Harold. Now he'll train properly—and maybe come home alive."
Valen glanced at Harold in the distance. "I hope so. He's still a noble, after all."
"Mm. Well, I'll see you later. Farewell, Valen."
The bell rang soon after, signaling the day's end. Valen returned to his inn room, removed his gear, and collapsed onto the bed.
That night, the clash of steel still echoed in his ears—the first true step of his new life as a soldier.