Aris pushed himself up, his face contorted in a grimace of pain; or at least, that's what he let them see. Every Movement of his was stiff, he reached for the gear beside his wooden bed and began putting it on. Every movement of his was deliberate, his expression carefully controlled.
Seeing Aris in pain a thin, cruel smile tugged at the instructor's lips, his eyes gleaming like a predator savoring its prey, but it wasn't enough, he still felt the boy needed to be taught a proper lesson. The instructor's fingers twitched at his side, as if itching to deliver another blow but he controlled himself.
"I need all of you at the training ground in three minutes. If you're late," he paused, "you'll regret being born." His voice was sharp, carrying an unmistakable warning.
The moment the threatening words left his mouth, the squires jumped into action, as they rushed out of the dormitory and Aris was no exception.
"He's targeting me," Aris thought as he sprinted. The training grounds weren't close—covering that distance in three minutes was a challenge, even for someone who knew the fortress like the back of their hand. For Aris, who was new and malnourished, it was nearly impossible.
The others had a clear advantage. They were fit, strong, and well-trained. Even the weakest among them was leagues ahead of him in terms of physique. Compared to them, Aris was nothing more than a struggling shadow, a deadweight expected to collapse before even reaching the grounds.
But failure wasn't an option. Clenching his jaw, Aris ran with everything he had after one minute, his muscles felt like they were tearing with every step, his lungs screamed for air, but he refused to stop.
The other squires had long since left him behind, their figures swallowed by the darkness of the night. Without them to follow, he quickly lost his sense of direction.
"Damn it." he said as he stilled himself.
After two minutes of running, his breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself forward, every step a struggle against exhaustion.
The fortress grounds were unfamiliar, and the cold night provided no guidance. He had no way of knowing if he was heading in the right direction and he only knew that stopping would mean failure.
Then, just as his body threatened to give out, he stumbled onto the training ground—by sheer luck.
The other squires were already gathered, standing in groups, talking among themselves. Some turned to glance at him.
Moments ago, they had looked at him with something close to awe but now, all that remained was disdain as to who would respect someone weaker than them.
Some squires remained neutral, recalling that they had once been in his position. Others, like Chris, felt a pang of pity. They could guess why the instructor had suddenly ordered them to run, something he had never done before.
Aris sat at the edge of the group, struggling to catch his breath. His legs trembled, his back still ached from the instructor's strike, and his oversized grey shirt clung to his sweat-drenched skin.
Then, as the three minutes ended, the instructor arrived. His gaze immediately locked onto Aris, a cruel satisfaction evident in his eyes.
"You think you can dodge my hit?" the instructor thought, his gaze locked on Aris like a hawk sighting its prey. "But I'll break you in ways you can't even imagine." Here, in this place, he was a god, and Aris was nothing more than an insect beneath his boot.
"Get up!" the instructor barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
Aris forced himself upright, ignoring the ache in his body. His legs felt like lead, his back still stung from the earlier blow, and his breath came in uneven gasps. He barely had time to steady himself before the next command came.
"All of you, ten laps around the training ground!"
Aris kept his face blank, but his thoughts churned. "So this is how he plans to get at me." It was obvious from the faces of the other squires—this wasn't routine training; it was punishment disguised as discipline especially made for Aris and also a lesson to the other squires. What kind of instructor forces recruits to run again right after exhausting them?
The squires didn't hesitate. Without a word, they took off, their strides swift and practiced.
Aris followed, but his body protested with every step. His muscles were already fatigued, and his breath felt shallow. Soon, the gap between him and the others widened.
At first, he managed to keep them in sight, but within minutes, they were lapping him. The first time, he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
The second time, his vision blurred at the edges, and his lungs burned. By the third time, his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, barely responding to his will.
Every instinct screamed at him to stop. His body had reached its limit, and his mind wavered between anger and exhaustion. He could feel the instructor's gaze on him, waiting—hoping—for him to falter. "If I stop now, I'll be giving him exactly what he wants. I can't do that I can't let him win."
The fortress had rules. A recruit couldn't be punished without reason. But disobedience? That reason is enough to warrant punishment. The moment he collapses, the instructor would have his excuse to make an example out of him.
Aris clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep running. His breaths were ragged, and his vision swam, but he refused to stop. He had endured worse than this. He would not break so easily.
After three more minutes, the squires completed their laps and came to a stop, breathing heavily as they took a moment to rest.
They sat on the ground, some stretching their legs, others simply catching their breath. In the midst of their exhaustion, their attention turned to Aris.
Unlike them, he still had three laps left to go.
The squires watched as he struggled, his pace unsteady, his movements sluggish. Every step looked like it might be his last, yet he forced himself forward.
The minutes dragged on, and by the time he finally completed his final lap, his body gave out.
He collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving violently, each breath a desperate gasp for air. His heart pounded so fiercely it felt as though it might break free from his ribs.
Sweat drenched his oversized uniform again, his limbs trembled from exhaustion, but through it all, Aris didn't utter a single complaint.
Although the instructor wanted to push Aris beyond his limits, to deny him even a moment of rest, he was bound by the fortress's rules.
He couldn't drive him to death through sheer exhaustion because these squires were future soldiers, tools meant to serve the nobles, with some destined to replenish the kingdom's army in the ongoing wars. Their lives held value, at least until they were thrown onto the battlefield.
At the end of the day, he was just an instructor, a mere trainer paid a few silver coins to train these recruits into soldiers.
He had no authority, no real power, he was just someone who failed to become a knight, someone bitterly clinging to whatever control he could exert over those weaker than him.
After two minutes of rest, the instructor's voice rang once again. "Stand up!" The squires quickly rose to their feet, still exhausted but obedient.
"Go get the swords from the armory."
The squires, without hesitation, made their way toward the armory. Located to the south of the training ground, near the fortress wall.
Inside, they each took their swords, Aris followed along with the others, though the weight of exhaustion was on his face.
Inside the armory, the squires took their swords. Aris picked a standard sword, one he could manage to carry despite his weariness. He thought to himself, "ItwouldhavebeenbettertotrainwithawoodensworduntilI'mstrongenoughtousearealone."
His face showed the toll of exhaustion, but his thoughts were clear. He knew the instructors wouldn't listen to such a suggestion. Even if he had the energy to offer it, he wouldn't. Survival was his only goal now.
The squires returned to the training ground, each one falling into position with military precision. They stood two meters apart, their swords securely fastened to their belts.
Aris watched carefully, mirroring their movements as best as he could, despite the exhaustion still lingering in his muscles.
The instructor, sword in hand, stood at the front, his stance sharp and ready for action. His eyes scanned the group, ensuring every squire was paying attention.
"Draw your swords," he commanded.
The squires reacted instantly, their blades coming free from their belts with swift precision. Aris, though slower, followed the motion, his grip tightening around the sword.
The instructor's voice rang out clearly, "When I say one, you cut horizontally. When I say two, you cut vertically. Three, you stab. Four, you defend."
He moved fluidly through each action, his sword gliding effortlessly through the air. With every command, he showcased the precise form, the sharpness of his technique impossible to overlook.
"Watch closely," he said, his eyes narrowing. "This is the foundation. If you cannot master these simple moves, you have no business holding a sword. These basic strikes will be the difference between life and death on the battlefield."
The instructor's tone was cold and direct, his gaze unflinching. "When I say we move on, we move on, but only after you've proven you can do this right."
He paused, allowing the words to linger in the air before continuing. "If you master these, we can move on to the next step."
"One!" the instructor barked, and the squires immediately executed a sharp horizontal cut in unison.
"Two!" he barked, and they transitioned smoothly to vertical cuts. The sound of their swords slicing through the air echoed across the training ground.
As the minutes passed, Aris struggled not with the technique but with the weight of the sword. Though it was the lightest one he could find in the armory, it still felt unbearably heavy after repeated use.
His arms were growing sore, and the strain only intensified with each swing.
Horizontal, vertical, stab. Horizontal, vertical. Defend. The movements became a blur of repetition. His hands began to tremble, his grip weakening with each move. The fatigue was wearing him down.
The worst part of it all was that there was no rest. "235, 236, 237," Aris counted the horizontal cuts, each one dragging his tired body further into the abyss of exhaustion. "Howmuchlonger?" he thought, his mind barely able to focus through the haze of fatigue.
He was too tired to even keep track anymore, but the instructor's words echoed relentlessly in his head. A thousand moves of each type. No breaks. No pauses. The promise of an endless cycle felt like a cruel joke, and Aris couldn't escape it.
His muscles burned, but he kept swinging the sword—because stopping wasn't an option. If he did, the consequences would be far worse. So, despite the growing exhaustion, he continued, pushing his body beyond its limits.