Training blurred into monotony—shouts, mud, bruises, and the dull throb of half-rusted weapons smashing against bone and wood. Bright stayed in the middle ranks as always—never first, never last. Being noticed, in this place, was almost always fatal.
They broke formation only when the instructors barked for latrine shifts or meal lines. Food was a watery stew of root paste and shredded fungus, but it kept your legs moving. Recruits huddled in circles, swapping rumors, comparisons of scars, or prayers to gods that hadn't answered in years.
That was when he appeared.
A lanky boy with straw-colored hair and hopeful eyes plopped down beside Bright like they'd agreed on it beforehand. His armband was unevenly tied, and he carried his wooden training spear like someone who tried to imitate confidence instead of owning it.
"Tobin Hale," he said, sticking out a hand as though they were meeting at a friendly tavern instead of a prelude to slaughter.
Bright eyed the hand, then the face. "Why."
Tobin blinked. "Why what?"
"Why introduce yourself? You planning to survive long enough to need friends?"
Tobin grinned. "If I die, I die. Might as well not do it standing alone."
Bright didn't shake the hand, but Tobin took the silence as permission and sat down cross-legged. He unlatched a dented metal tin and pulled out a strip of dried meat—rare, hoarded food. He snapped it in half and held a piece out.
Bright stared. "Bribery?"
"Hospitality," Tobin said. "You look like someone who forgets to eat when thinking."
"I don't think that much."
"And yet," Tobin said, gesturing with the meat, "you talk like a man who does."
Bright took the strip. It was tough, salty, and leagues better than root paste. He didn't thank him. Tobin didn't ask for it.
They ate in strained peace until the next drill. But the damage was done—Tobin gravitated toward him after that like a burr to cloth.
Over the next day, Tobin spoke more than the rest of the company combined. He wasn't loud, just persistent—like rain leaking through cracks.
"You hear about the serum reserves? They say upper ranks get double doses and don't even bleed when they're cut."
Bright grunted.
"I'm thinking that if we get through the first campaign, we might get a decent core. Maybe even a low-tier one, just for the shot at a title."
Bright didn't bother correcting him. The only thing low-tier recruits got after their first mission was trauma or a shallow trench.
During sparring drills, Tobin ended up paired with a brick-armed woman who nearly broke his nose twice. He kept laughing between blows.
"You know," he wheezed, "this isn't the worst first week I've had."
Bright parried an overhead strike from his own partner and muttered, "What was worse?"
"I once fell through a roof running from a debt collector. Landed in a latrine pit."
"Fortunate."
"Oh, I know. But this is worse in smell."
Bright snorted despite himself.
It wasn't until the second night that Tobin brought up soul talents. They were sitting by a firepit that smoked more than it burned, boots off, mud drying on their shins.
"I've got a talent, you know," Tobin said casually, picking at his bootlace.
Bright didn't look up from cleaning his blade. "Most do."
"Nah, I mean a real one. Manifested at sixteen."
Bright shrugged.
Tobin puffed up a bit, then exhaled. "Minor Reinforcement."
Bright paused mid-polish. "That's it?"
"It's better than nothing!" Tobin insisted, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "I can harden a limb for a bit. Makes my arm like iron for maybe a breath or two. Good for blocking, maybe smashing something."
"It'll get you killed," Bright said.
Tobin blinked. "You don't think I can make it work?"
"I think it'll make you think you can."
Tobin chewed on that, unoffended. "What about you?"
Bright resumed cleaning. "Fusion."
Tobin whistled low. "Sounds big."
"It isn't. Not yet."
"Still better than Minor Reinforcement."
"I'll outlive you either way."
Tobin laughed, bright and unburdened. "Maybe! But if I don't, remember me as a visionary."
"You'll be bones picked clean in a ditch. There won't be enough left to remember."
Tobin grinned. "Then think of me as decorative ditch garnish."
Bright gave him a long, unamused stare. Tobin took that as bonding.
On the third day, their company captain, Roegan, visited the training grounds personally. He stood in the murk like a statue carved from old granite.
"You'll be on patrol rotation soon," he announced. "Outer ring, three-day sweep. Any of you thinking of running, don't. You won't make it a mile before something burrows into your spine."
Someone dry-heaved. No one laughed.
Roegan's gaze swept over them, pausing briefly when it passed Bright and Tobin. "Survive long enough, you might earn a title. Or a core. Or a bed with a blanket. Die early, and no one will bother with your name."
Tobin leaned toward Bright and whispered, "He definitely knows how to inspire the troops."
Bright didn't respond.
They were issued their first packs that evening—rolls of binding cloth, a ration tin, and one vial of healing serum per recruit. The vials glowed faintly, like captured moonlight.
Tobin rolled his between his palms as though warming his hope with it. "Imagine if this stuff could fix more than holes in our bodies."
"It can," Bright said. "It fixes the army's numbers every time we don't die immediately."
Tobin chuckled, then glanced sideways. "Hey. If I get torn open out there, and you're near me… don't let them strip my corpse before I'm cold, yeah?"
Bright exhaled slowly. "Don't make me promises I won't keep."
"That's fair," Tobin said brightly. And somehow, he looked… grateful.
Night fell like a curtain over a corpse. The fires guttered. The sounds of monsters beyond the wall thrummed like distant thunder.
Bright lay awake in his cot, staring at the tent roof.
He didn't know why Tobin bothered getting close. He didn't know why he didn't push him away.
All he knew was that the world would kill him soon.
And maybe—just maybe—that made someone like Tobin both the stupidest and bravest man in the dark.
"If you enjoyed it, please add to your library—it helps a lot!"