The assembly grounds were a massive dirt field surrounded by training equipment that looked designed to inflict maximum suffering. Obstacle courses with walls twice as tall as any of the recruits. Weighted training dummies. Climbing ropes that disappeared into the sky. Everything was functional, brutal, and clearly well-used.
Two hundred recruits stood in rough formation, waiting.
Instructor Salmosa stood on a raised platform, flanked by five junior instructors who looked like they'd personally fought every monster on the frontier and won through sheer meanness.
"Listen up!" Salmosa's voice cut through the nervous murmuring. "What happens next will separate the worthy from the trash. We call this the entrance ceremony. You will call it hell."
He gestured to the junior instructors.
"These are your training instructors. Instructor Valen." A scarred woman with iron-gray hair nodded. "Instructor Kross." A massive man who made even the largest recruits look small. "Instructor Reeves." A lean, dangerous-looking fighter with empty eyes. "Instructor Chen." A middle-aged woman whose smile promised pain. "And Instructor Black." A young man whose pleasant expression was somehow more threatening than the others' scowls.
"Each instructor will lead five training groups of ten recruits each," Salmosa continued. "You will live, train, and suffer with your group. If one member fails, the entire group is punished. If one member succeeds, the entire group benefits. You are no longer individuals. You are units."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"The entrance ceremony is simple. You will march from here to the academy's main campus—a distance of approximately fifteen kilometers through frontier terrain. The instructors will lead. You will follow. Any recruit who falls more than fifty meters behind will be eliminated and sent home immediately."
Nervous whispers rippled through the assembled recruits.
"Additionally," Salmosa's smile was cruel, "the terrain between here and the main campus is not secured. Low-level monsters, mutated beasts, and other hazards are common. Your instructors will handle anything genuinely dangerous. Everything else? That's your problem."
Finally. Real testing.
"You have ten minutes to organize into your assigned groups. Group assignments are posted on the board behind me. Find your number, find your group, find your instructor. Move!"
The scramble was immediate.
Arden found his number quickly: Group 1-A, Instructor Valen.
Group 1-A assembled near Instructor Valen, who was watching her assigned recruits with the expression of someone evaluating livestock.
Ten recruits total:
0001 (Arden)
0012(Serra Hallik)
0023 (a quiet boy with dark hair and calculating eyes)
0034 (Thrain Vokker)
0045 (a girl with silver hair and twin daggers)
0056 (a wiry boy who moved like a street fighter)
0067 (another girl, archer's calluses visible on her fingers)
0078 (a stocky boy built like a tank)
0089 (Garrett Millhouse, looking terrified)
0091 (a lean girl with frontier clothing)
Arden's attention was immediately drawn to 0012.
Serra Hallik had periwinkle-blue hair that was unusual even by Northern standards—a shade that suggested some kind of magical bloodline. Her eyes were a similar blue, though they lacked the warmth one might expect from such a gentle color. Instead, they were guarded, cautious, the eyes of someone who'd learned not to trust easily.
She stood slightly apart from the others, her posture perfect but isolated. When other recruits tried to make conversation, she responded with curt, minimal answers before turning away.
Alone by choice or circumstance? Hard to tell.
"Group 1-A," Instructor Valen said, her voice rough from years of shouting orders. "You're the top-ranked preliminary group. That means I expect more from you than the others. It also means you have targets on your backs. Every other group will be watching to see if you live up to your numbers."
She pulled out a steel sword—standard military issue, dulled edge for training but still capable of inflicting serious damage if wielded properly.
"You've all been issued training weapons. Draw them now."
Arden and the others complied. His steel sword was heavier than Frost's Whisper, less balanced, but functional. A weapon meant for learning, not killing.
He noticed Serra's grip on her sword was technically perfect—textbook form that suggested extensive training. But there was something rigid about it, like she was following memorized patterns rather than natural movement.
Trained but not experienced. All theory, no practice.
"The march begins in five minutes," Valen continued. "Stay within fifty meters of me at all times. If you encounter hostile creatures, deal with them yourselves unless I judge the threat is beyond your capability. Questions?"
Serra raised her hand, her voice quiet but clear. "What's the failure rate for the entrance ceremony?"
"Usually about thirty percent. Most quit in the first hour when they realize this isn't going to be easy." Valen's smile was sharp. "But some of you look like you might actually have spines. We'll see."
When the whistle blew, all twenty-five groups began moving simultaneously.
Instructor Valen set a brisk pace—not running, but fast enough that the recruits had to work to keep up. She led Group 1-A away from the assembly grounds and directly into the frontier forest.
The terrain was immediately hostile. Thick underbrush, uneven ground, roots trying to trip unwary feet. The temperature dropped as they moved under the forest canopy, and snow appeared in shadowed patches despite it being spring.
For the first kilometer, nothing happened. Valen maintained her steady pace, occasionally glancing back to ensure no one had fallen behind. The recruits stayed together, though Garrett was already breathing hard and Serra walked alone at the edge of the group formation.
Then Arden heard it: rustling in the underbrush. Not wind. Something moving.
He wasn't the only one who noticed. Serra's hand moved to her sword with practiced speed. Thrain shifted his weight into a ready stance.
Three massive shadowcats burst from the undergrowth—each one easily twice the size of a normal feline, with obsidian fur that seemed to absorb light and fangs like curved daggers. Their eyes gleamed with unnatural crimson intelligence.
Mutated beasts. Low-level threats by frontier standards, but deadly to untrained children.
Instructor Valen didn't even slow down. She just kept walking.
No help from her. This is our test.
The shadowcats split up with practiced coordination—one going for Garrett, who froze in terror; another charging Serra; the third heading straight for Arden.
Arden moved first.
He stepped forward to intercept the shadowcat targeting Garrett. The beast lunged, claws extended. Arden didn't try to meet it head-on. Instead, he pivoted at the last second, letting the creature's momentum carry it past while his blade traced a line across its exposed flank.
SLASH!
The mutated beast's hide was tough—tougher than normal—but Arden's mana-reinforced strike cut deep. The shadowcat yowled and tried to recover, but Arden was already moving. He brought his sword down on the back of its neck.
THUD!
The shadowcat collapsed, twitching.
One down.
He spun to check on Serra.
She was struggling.
Her technique was perfect—textbook defensive stance, proper blade positioning, excellent footwork. But the shadowcat was fast and aggressive, and she was hesitating. Every time she had an opening to strike, she second-guessed herself, pulling back at the last instant.
Too much in her head.
The shadowcat sensed her hesitation and pressed the attack, forcing her back step by step.
Dammit.
Arden moved to assist, but Thrain got there first. The massive boy's overhead strike forced the shadowcat to disengage.
CRASH!
The blade missed, but the sheer force of the swing sent the creature skittering sideways. Serra used the opening—finally committing to an attack—and her blade found the creature's throat.
SQUELCH!
Two down.
The third shadowcat, seeing its packmates fall, tried to retreat. Thrain threw his sword like a spear.
WHOOSH! THUNK!
The blade caught the beast in the hindquarters, crippling it. The stocky boy (0078) finished it off with a crushing overhead strike.
Three down.
Total engagement time: maybe twenty seconds.
Instructor Valen glanced back, nodded once, and kept walking.
"Not bad. But that was the easy part. Keep moving."
The recruits reformed their loose formation and continued. Garrett was pale and shaking, but he was moving.
"Thank you," he whispered to Arden. "That thing was going to—"
"Save it. We're still being tested."
Arden glanced at Serra, who had returned to walking alone at the edge of the formation. Her knuckles were white around her sword grip, and her jaw was clenched.
She knows she hesitated. Angry at herself for it.
Over the next hour, the attacks intensified.
A pack of frostfangs—six of them, wolf-like creatures with ice-coated fur and crystalline fangs that could freeze flesh on contact. They moved with pack coordination, trying to separate the weakest members of the group.
The recruits were scattered, disorganized, and the frostfangs were exploiting that.
Need structure. Now.
"Form up!" Arden called out. "Defensive circle! Thrain, take point! Serra, left flank!"
Serra's head snapped toward him, surprise flickering across her face at being directly addressed.
"Serra! Left flank, now! We need your reach!"
She hesitated for just a moment, then moved into position.
"Heavy hitters front line! Archers—" he pointed to 0067 and 0091, "—target the flankers! Everyone else, guard the center and cover gaps!"
The group responded to his commands. The authority in his voice, the confidence—it cut through the panic.
The frostfangs attacked.
SNARL! SNAP!
One leaped at Thrain, who caught it mid-air with a brutal upward strike.
CRACK!
Another tried to circle around, but Arden was already there. His blade intercepted the creature's lunge, deflecting it into Serra's range. She struck without hesitation this time, her sword finding the vulnerable joint where neck met shoulder.
SLICE!
The pack fell apart under the coordinated defense. Two recruits took minor injuries—scratches and bites that drew blood but weren't crippling.
But Serra's section of the defensive circle held perfectly. Her technique, when given clear direction and structure, was devastating. She moved with precision, her blade finding vulnerabilities with surgical accuracy.
Good. She just needs a framework to operate within.
Instructor Valen still didn't intervene. Just kept walking.
The march continued. Two hours. Three hours. The recruits were tired, sweating despite the cold, breathing hard.
Then came the screechers.
A flock of them—maybe twenty—descended from the canopy like a nightmare. Bat-like creatures with leathery wings spanning two meters, serrated beaks, and talons that dripped with paralytic venom. Their shrieks were piercing, disorienting.
SCREEEEE! SCREEEEE!
"Shit," Serra muttered, still keeping her distance from the main group. "We can't fight flying enemies effectively with swords."
It was the first time Arden had heard her speak without being directly asked a question.
Several recruits were already swinging wildly at the air, accomplishing nothing. One girl got grabbed by the shoulders, talons sinking deep.
This is chaos. Need to change the approach.
"Stop flailing!" Arden shouted. "They're diving at us! Wait for them to commit, then strike!"
He pulled out a handful of his sunflower seeds and threw them at the nearest screecher. The creature dove reflexively for the scattered food.
Arden's sword took its head off mid-dive.
SLASH!
"They're opportunistic! Bait them in! Make them come to you!"
But more were diving now, and the group was still struggling. The archers couldn't get clean shots with everyone moving. The melee fighters were out of range.
Then Serra stepped forward.
She extended her hand toward the flock. Her mana surged—2nd Stage, fully realized—and ice began forming in the air around her.
She can cast without incantations. Advanced.
Ice shards materialized, maybe a dozen of them, floating in formation around her extended hand. Each one the size of a dagger, crystalline and deadly.
"Fire," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
SHHHHK! SHHHHK! SHHHHK!
The ice shards launched upward with devastating accuracy. Three screechers dropped from the sky, impaled.
SCREEE—THUD! THUD! THUD!
The rest of the group stared.
"Serra, keep targeting the flyers!" Arden commanded. "Everyone else, handle whatever she brings down!"
The battle became more coordinated. Serra's ice magic thinned the flock, forcing more screechers into diving range. When they dove, the melee fighters were ready.
But there were still too many.
One screecher got past the defensive line, diving straight for Garrett. The boy screamed and covered his head.
Arden was too far away.
Can't reach in time. Need height. Need—
He spotted Thrain bracing against another diving screecher.
That'll work.
"Thrain! Don't move!"
Arden sprinted toward the massive boy, who was mid-swing at his own target. As Thrain's shoulders tensed, Arden jumped.
His foot landed on Thrain's broad back, using the boy as a stepping stone. Thrain grunted but held steady, instinctively understanding what Arden was doing.
Arden launched himself upward with mana-reinforced legs, his blade already moving.
This better work—
He caught the screecher just as it was about to sink its talons into Garrett's head. His sword punched through its wing membrane, then redirected into its exposed underbelly.
SLICE!
The creature shrieked and flailed. Arden rode it down like a grotesque carnival ride, his blade still embedded in its flesh. They hit the ground hard.
CRASH!
Arden rolled, pulling his sword free as the screecher spasmed its last. He came up in a crouch, breathing hard, adrenaline singing through his veins.
That was insane. That was amazing. That HURT.
The remaining screechers, seeing their numbers depleted and facing organized resistance, fled with piercing cries.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Garrett started laughing—the slightly hysterical laughter of someone who'd just avoided death. "You used Thrain as a LADDER! You jumped off his BACK!"
"It worked, didn't it?" Arden said, wincing as he stood. His knees were going to hate him tomorrow.
Even Serra was staring at him now, her carefully neutral expression cracked by genuine surprise.
Instructor Valen allowed a five-minute rest.
"That was..." She paused, seeming to search for words. "Creative, 0001. Insane, but creative. You've got command instincts and the willingness to adapt tactics on the fly. That's rare." She looked at Serra. "And 0012, your magic work was exceptional. Controlled, efficient, perfectly timed."
Serra nodded but said nothing, her expression carefully returning to neutral. She didn't move closer to the group despite the praise.
"You're doing better than expected," Valen continued. "Most groups lose at least two people by now. You've kept everyone together."
"How much farther?" Arden asked, massaging his aching knees.
"Another eight kilometers. And the terrain gets worse." She stood, signaling the end of the break. "We're entering the red zone now. Higher-level threats. More mutations. If you encounter anything genuinely dangerous, I'll step in. Otherwise, you handle it. Understood?"
"Yes, Instructor."
They continued.
The attacks became more frequent. Venomspitters—snake-like creatures that could launch acidic venom from distance. Razorbacks—boar-like beasts with blade-sharp quills covering their bodies. Shambling hulks that might have been bears once but were now something twisted and wrong.
Group 1-A adapted. Arden's commands became sharper, more efficient. The recruits responded faster, moved with better coordination.
Serra's magic became a reliable element of every engagement. Ice barriers to channel enemy movement. Ice shards for suppressing fire. She didn't question commands. Didn't hesitate. Just executed with technical precision.
But she still kept her distance when they weren't actively fighting.
She's participating but not connecting. Going through the motions but not really part of the group yet.
By the time they'd marched ten kilometers, every member of Group 1-A was injured to some degree. Cuts, bruises, one sprained ankle on Thrain that he was ignoring with sheer stubbornness.
Serra had a nasty gash on her left arm from a screecher's talon, but she'd wrapped it quickly and continued without complaint or asking for help.
Then they encountered the real test.
The creature that stepped out from behind a massive frost-covered boulder was unlike anything they'd faced so far.
"Howler," Instructor Valen said, actually stopping for the first time. "Canine-class apex predator. Stands upright, uses crude weapons, intelligent enough for basic tactics. This one's alone, which is unusual. Might be a scout or an exile."
The howler was maybe seven feet tall, covered in matted gray fur, wielding a club made from what looked like a femur bone wrapped in rusted metal. Its yellow eyes gleamed with clear predatory intelligence, and a ridge of bone-spikes ran down its spine.
When it saw them, it threw its head back and released a sound that froze blood.
AWOOOOOOOOOOO!
The howl echoed through the forest, primal and terrifying. Several recruits actually took a step back.
"Can we handle it?" Serra asked, her voice steady despite standing apart from the group.
Valen studied the creature. "Maybe. It's 2nd Stage equivalent, same as your best fighters. But it has more experience, and it's stronger pound-for-pound than any of you."
"We can take it," Arden said. We have to.
"Your call, 0001. I'll intervene if it looks like someone's about to die. Otherwise, this is your fight."
The howler charged.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Each footfall shook the ground. It moved with terrifying speed for something so large.
Here we go.
"Thrain, Serra—engage front! Draw its attention! Archers, aim for the eyes! Everyone else, flanking positions! GO!"
The fight was brutal from the start.
The howler's club swung in a wide arc. Thrain tried to block.
CRASH!
The impact sent the massive boy flying backward into a tree.
THUD!
Too much power. Can't block directly.
"Don't engage head-on! Dodge and counter! Serra—"
The howler dropped its club and lunged at Serra with claws extended. She thrust her hands forward, ice forming into a barrier.
CRACK!
The claws shattered through the ice like it was paper.
Dammit!
Arden threw himself between Serra and the howler, his sword coming up in a desperate guard. The claws met his blade.
CLANG!
The force rattled through his entire body. His arms screamed. For a moment he thought his wrists would snap from the impact.
Can't take another hit like that.
"Serra! Freeze its legs!"
She didn't respond verbally. Just thrust both hands toward the ground beneath the howler's feet.
Ice spread from her palms, crawling across the earth and up the creature's legs with surprising speed.
CRACKLE! CRACKLE!
The howler roared and tried to move, but the ice held just long enough.
"Heavy strikers! Hit the knees! NOW!"
Thrain, back on his feet and probably running on pure rage, struck alongside 0078.
WHAM! CRACK!
The howler staggered, one knee buckling.
Not enough. Still standing.
The creature's claws lashed out, catching Arden across the shoulder. His armor held, but the force launched him backward.
He hit the ground hard.
THUD!
The breath left his lungs. Stars danced in his vision.
Get up. Have to get up.
The howler advanced on him, yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.
"Ice shards! Now!" someone shouted—was that Thrain?
Serra manifested a dozen ice shards and launched them at the howler's face.
SHHHHK! SHHHHK! SHHHHK!
Most shattered against its thick hide. But two found vulnerable spots—one in the eye, one in the throat.
The howler staggered, blood pouring from its wounds.
SNARL!
That's the opening.
Arden forced himself up. His shoulder throbbed, his ribs ached, but he still had his sword.
The howler was wounded, partially blinded, bleeding. But still dangerous.
Need to end this. One clean strike.
He circled to the creature's blind side, moving quietly despite the pain. Serra's ice had cracked but still clung to one leg, slowing it.
The howler sensed something and started to turn.
Too late.
Arden lunged forward, his blade aimed at the gap between ribs that Serra's earlier attacks had exposed. He poured everything into the strike—all his mana reinforcement, all his remaining strength.
PIERCE!
The steel sank deep into the howler's chest. Azure blood poured over Arden's hands, hot and viscous.
The howler made a strangled sound—something between a growl and a whimper. Its claws came up one last time, but weakly.
Arden twisted the blade.
The howler shuddered and collapsed forward.
Arden barely threw himself to the side before the creature's bulk crashed down.
CRASH!
For a moment, everything was silent except for heavy breathing.
Is it dead?
The howler twitched once. Twice. Then went still.
Thank god.
Arden collapsed to his knees, breathing hard. His shoulder was on fire, his arms felt like lead, his ribs ached.
But they'd won.
Instructor Valen actually smiled—genuinely this time.
"Outstanding work, Group 1-A. That was textbook squad combat with creative adaptation." She looked at Arden. "You've got command instincts, 0001. And the willingness to use unconventional tactics. That jump earlier—using your teammate as a platform—that showed tactical flexibility." Then her gaze shifted to Serra. "And 0012, your magic control is exceptional. You two form a solid tactical core."
Serra's expression flickered—not quite satisfaction, more like cautious acknowledgment. She still stood slightly apart from the celebrating group.
"Don't let it go to your heads. You've still got five kilometers and whatever else this forest throws at you. Move out."
Five more kilometers. Great.
The final stretch was exhausting. More mutated beasts. More injuries. The adrenaline was fading, leaving just pain and fatigue.
But Group 1-A kept moving.
When they finally emerged from the forest and saw the main academy campus ahead—a fortress built into the mountainside, with walls that could withstand a siege—several recruits actually cheered.
"Congratulations," Instructor Valen said as they reached the gates. "You survived the entrance ceremony. You're now official recruits of Northern Military Academy."
She paused, looking over her bloodied, exhausted group.
"Not a single dropout. That's impressive. Group 1-A, you've earned the right to be here. Don't waste it."
As they filed through the gates, Arden caught sight of other groups arriving. Some looked worse than Group 1-A. Others looked better. But several groups were missing members.
We made it. All ten of us.
Later, as they were being directed to temporary barracks for medical treatment, Serra approached Arden—though she maintained careful distance.
"The commands helped," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm... better when I have clear objectives. When I'm improvising, I..." She trailed off.
"You did well. Your magic was crucial. We wouldn't have survived without it."
Serra's periwinkle-blue eyes studied him with something unreadable. Not quite hope. Not quite trust. Just careful evaluation.
"Maybe," she said softly. Then she turned and walked away before he could say anything else, returning to her isolated position at the edge of the group.
She's still keeping everyone at arm's length. Whatever made her like this, it's not going to change after one day.
But at least she's here. That's something.
She's still keeping everyone at arm's length. Whatever made her like this, it's not going to change after one day.
But at least she's here. That's something.
Then it hit him like a freight train.
Serra Hallik.
Why did that name sound familiar?
Arden's exhausted mind suddenly snapped into sharp focus as pieces clicked into place. The periwinkle-blue hair. The ice magic that was far too advanced for someone her age. The isolation. The technical perfection without practical confidence.
Shit. She's from the novel.
Not a major character—more of a tragic side note. A losing heroine who'd been relegated to barely a footnote in the story's later chapters.
Serra had been the daughter of Count Hallik—a frontier noble whose family had been destroyed by accusations of embezzlement and treason. False accusations, orchestrated by rival nobles who wanted to absorb the Hallik territory.
Her father had been executed. Her mother had died shortly after from grief or poison, depending on which rumor you believed.
Serra had been stripped of her title, her inheritance seized, left with nothing except her name and her magical talent.
That's why she's here. Military Academy doesn't care about political scandals. They care about Mana Heart stages and combat capability.
In the game version, players had tried to romance her. Every single route ended in failure. She'd been too damaged, too isolated, too wrapped up in her quest to clear her father's name.
By the second semester of the first year, she'd transferred to Imperial Academy—someone there had offered her resources to investigate her family's downfall.
But she never found justice. In every route Arden could remember, Serra Hallik remained a tragic figure who either died during her investigation or simply faded from the story, her quest unresolved.
A losing heroine in every sense of the word.
And I almost forgot she started here. At Northern Military Academy.
Because she was so minor in the overall plot that I barely gave her story any depth.
He looked at Serra's distant figure—standing alone even now, maintaining space between herself and the others despite having just fought alongside them.
She's twelve years old. Same age as me. And she's already carrying the weight of her family's destruction.
That ice magic isn't just talent. It's the result of someone who has nothing else to focus on except getting stronger. No family. No friends. Just training and survival.
And in the original timeline, even with all that strength, she still loses.
Arden felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. Guilt? Responsibility?
I wrote her that way. I made her a losing heroine whose story never got resolution.
Imperial Academy will probably offer her a transfer spot in the second semester, just like in the original timeline. They'll dangle resources and connections, promise to help her investigate.
And she'll take it, because what else can she do?
He watched Serra walk into the barracks ahead, her shoulders straight despite exhaustion.
For now though, she's in Group 1-A.
Maybe things can be different this time. Maybe the losing heroine doesn't have to lose.