6^th Jan 933 - Seventh Age

The last vestiges of pre-dawn indigo clung to the barracks, fading slowly as a new day threatened to break. Yet, the training grounds pulsed with life, the rhythmic clang of steel against wood a relentless assault on the lingering quiet. A tall figure, his boots crunching with purposeful force, entered the dim space, heading towards a lone youth whose blade danced with furious precision against a battered training dummy, its surface a tapestry of scars.

“Henry, for pity’s sake, give the poor thing a rest. It’s practically begging for mercy,” the newcomer’s voice rumbled, a blend of weary authority and dry amusement.

“Morning, Captain,” Henry grunted, his breath misting in the cool air, a flicker of pride momentarily softening his sweat-slicked face. “It yielded a bit earlier than usual. Progress, you see. Just forty more strikes.”

“Fancy a quick spar to shake off those last vestiges of sleep?” the Captain’s tone held a playful challenge.

“Gladly. Fifteen minutes, then the world.” Henry’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, a spark of untamed energy. He completed his drill, collapsing moments later, his body slick with perspiration, lungs burning for air. Yet, with surprising speed, his breathing evened, and a faint, ethereal steam curled from his sweat-soaked skin, a testament to the strange energies that flowed within him.

Nearby stood Captain Jacobs, a man built like a weathered oak, his features rough-hewn but his mind sharp as a honed axe, a sardonic wit always lurking beneath the surface of his gruff exterior. Precisely fifteen minutes ticked by, an unspoken ritual, before he hefted an iron sword and stepped into the training yard.

“Let’s see if I can’t finally put you out of commission for a week,” Jacobs chuckled, settling into his guard stance, his eyes twinkling with a mix of challenge and amusement.

The training ground fell into an expectant hush, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the brittle leaves that clung stubbornly to the ancient trees bordering the yard. Then, a blur of motion - Henry lunged, a predator unleashed, his thrust aimed with blinding speed at Jacobs’s heart.

Despite his bulk, Jacobs reacted with lightning reflexes. A swift step back created the necessary distance, the lethal point whistling past his chest, a hair's breadth from his ribs. As Henry’s momentum faltered, Jacobs retaliated with a sweeping, enchantment-infused slash - his blade momentarily blazing with a silver light, a visible manifestation of the arcane energies he wielded.

Undaunted, Henry channeled his own nascent enchantment, a faint blue aura flickering around his blade as his sword met the devastating blow with a resounding CLANG! The impact forced him to one knee, the weight immense, but he held his ground, muscles screaming in protest.

Before he could fully recover, Jacobs followed with a brutal knee strike aimed squarely at his face. Instinctively, Henry raised both elbows in a desperate block. The blow, though not fatal, sent him hurtling backwards over five meters, skidding across the packed earth.

Jacobs pressed his advantage, charging forward, his sword arcing down in a vicious, killing stroke. This time, Henry was ready. He angled his blade, the parry echoing through the quiet yard with a sharp CRACK. Then, spinning on his heel, he countered with a swift slash aimed at Jacobs’s exposed flank.

THUD! Henry was slammed backwards again, another five meters, not by the Captain’s sword, but by the brutal force of Jacobs’s fist connecting with his jaw mid-counter. A shallow cut opened on Jacobs’s side, a testament to Henry's skill, but the punch had served its purpose, sending Henry sprawling and protecting his superior.

“Don’t overextend like that, kid. Every strike you throw leaves you wide open.” Jacobs’s voice, though stern, held a hint of grudging respect.

“Guess I need a few more beatings to really drill it in,” Henry replied, a bloody grin splitting his face, his eyes gleaming with a strange mix of pain and exhilaration.

“Care for a few more reminders?” Jacobs smirked, his sword held ready, but the fight already draining from his posture.

The crisp morning air soon filled with the clang of steel and the gruff laughter of men pushing their limits, a familiar symphony of combat. At the precise chime of six o’clock, the church bell resonated across the training grounds, signaling the end of their brutal dance.

Jacobs stood, his broken sword resting casually across his broad shoulders, his chest heaving with exertion. Henry, still in a combat stance, held his battered weapon forward, his body trembling slightly with fatigue.

“That’s enough for today. Can’t believe you held out again - and broke my damn sword in the process.” Jacobs muttered, a grudging amusement in his tone. “These fifteen minutes always feel like the longest damn part of the week.”

Henry groaned, collapsing onto the hard earth, his cracked sword clattering beside him, utterly spent but a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You’re a lunatic, kid. Strength training, sword drills, then missions, then more night shifts. Don’t let a few lucky blocks go to your head just because you’re young.” Jacobs chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

Henry offered no verbal reply, simply picking up his broken sword and tossing it towards Jacobs’s feet, a silent challenge for the next encounter.

After changing and strapping on their gear, breakfast was the usual Spartan fare: dense bread, a watery chicken stew, and bland potatoes - fuel over flavor, sustenance over satisfaction. Jacobs joined his usual companions, exchanging boisterous greetings, while Henry piled an oversized portion onto his plate, his movements economical and efficient.

“Still eating enough for two? Doesn’t that ever get old?” Torsan, the youngest of their group, asked, his eyes wide with disbelief at the sheer volume of food Henry consumed.

“Dry bread and stew’s fine by me. Could eat it for decades,” Henry mumbled, his gaze fixed intently on his food, a strange intensity in his voice that belied his simple words.

“Eight years of that kind of training and you still push yourself this hard. You deserve a damn medal for that, Henry.” Daniel, a quiet mage, offered his rare praise, his voice soft but sincere.

“You’re a mage, Daniel. If you ate like me, you’d probably spontaneously combust.” Henry grinned, finally looking up, a flicker of warmth in his eyes.

“I’m doing strength training too, and I still can’t stomach that much.” Lumos, a hulking youth who bore a striking resemblance to a younger, less weathered Jacobs, chimed in, shaking his head in awe.

“None of you are working day and night like this maniac. The kid needs fuel, not fancy flavors.” Jacobs laughed, ruffling Henry’s hair affectionately.

The group chuckled, their teasing banter a familiar comfort, a bond forged in shared hardship, as Henry continued his silent war with his mountain of food, devouring it with focused determination.

By seven, Henry and his breakfast companions emerged from the mess hall, heading towards the city gates, their figures silhouetted against the growing light. A moment later, two figures in uniform approached, their voices bright with morning energy.

“Over here, Sophia, Melly!” Torsan waved enthusiastically, his youthful exuberance a stark contrast to the weariness etched on some of their faces.

Melly, with vibrant red hair that bounced to her shoulders, possessed a fiery glint in her eyes that matched her hair, a passionate spirit barely contained. Sophia was more reserved, her neatly tied brown hair framing a face that held a thoughtful warmth, an air of quiet intelligence radiating from her.

“With the whole team assembled, this has got to be a big mission, right?” Melly chirped, her energy infectious, her curiosity piqued.

“Captain’s muttering about D-rank, or worse.” Daniel replied calmly, his usual stoicism unwavering, but a hint of concern flickering in his eyes.

“For seven of us, even a D-rank feels like tempting fate. Anything worse is practically a death wish.” Henry added, a sliver of genuine concern beneath his half-joking tone, a shadow passing over his face.

“Maybe it’ll just be a routine patrol?” Torsan asked, a hopeful note in his voice, clinging to the possibility of an easy day.

“No chance, kid. The Captain’s got that twitch in his eye. He’s gunning for those promotions.” Lumos gently knocked Torsan’s head, his voice laced with experience.

“It’s Friday, isn’t it? So, Henry, did you manage to survive your usual fifteen-minute death match?” Sophia asked, a slight tilt to her head and a knowing glint in her warm eyes, a hint of amusement playing on her lips.

“Survived - with minor fractures, internal bruising, a near-broken neck, and a cracked jaw. Otherwise, all good.” Henry replied with a grim smile, a thin trickle of blood still visible near his lip, a testament to the ferocity of his training.

“Fighting a higher-ranked officer and lasting that long? Not bad at all, Henry.” Daniel noted, a rare hint of admiration in his voice, acknowledging Henry's tenacity.

“Torsan, think you could manage that?” Melly challenged, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful dare in her tone.

“Over five hundred soldiers here, and only Henry’s insane enough for weekly death matches with the Captain. No way in hell.” Torsan shook his head emphatically, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Listen, kid. I challenged the Captain three times. Spent over two months in the infirmary. That guy never holds back.” Lumos added, a weary respect in his tone. “He’s… a different breed. Not everyone’s got that kind of crazy.”

Sophia smiled softly, a hint of something deeper than mere camaraderie in her gaze, a flicker of concern and perhaps something more.

The group shared a laugh, the tension easing, the camaraderie a comforting shield against the uncertainties of their profession, until Jacobs finally appeared, his usual jovial expression replaced by a serious, almost grim countenance.

“Over twenty scout missions have been posted. Three-quarters are missing persons cases. Two to seven people per case. That’s over sixty disappearances in just a few days.” He reported, the weight of the numbers heavy in the morning air, a palpable sense of unease settling over the group.

“I’ve picked a D-rank recon mission nearby. Good leads, should be… doable.” Jacobs said, his voice lacking its usual confidence, a hint of hesitation betraying his inner turmoil.