Gai woke with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs as if jerked from sleep by an unseen force. The dormitory lay quiet except for soft breathing and wooden bedframes occasionally creaking. Something felt wrong—his instincts screamed it. Someone was coming. Straining against the silence, he caught faint footsteps growing louder, more purposeful. He leapt from his narrow cot without thinking, fingers finding the sword beside his bed. The cold hilt steadied him despite his racing pulse.

Before he found his footing, the dormitory door crashed open, slamming against the wooden frame with a boom that startled several boys upright, their faces blank with shock. Oswald dominated the doorframe, military uniform crisp despite the hour, his green cloak marking his rank. His weathered face set in familiar lines of disapproval as he advanced, methodically striking each bedframe with a metal rod, the harsh clanging slicing through lingering drowsiness.

"Wake up, lads!" Oswald bellowed, voice thundering through the room. "You've got ten seconds to get on your feet before I tip you out myself!"

Boys scrambled to comply, limbs tangling in blankets as they fought to rise. Some jumped to attention instantly while others rubbed sleep-crusted eyes, caught between dreams and harsh reality. Gai stood ready, sword gripped tight as Oswald approached. The man paused at his bed just long enough for a curt nod—a recognition without warmth but perhaps a flicker of acknowledgment.

"Get your arses out of bed!" Oswald shouted again, each word sharper than the last. "Bottom bunks, stand at the left of your bed; top bunks, at your right! Move it!"

Chaos erupted as boys stumbled into position, movements clumsy with sleep and fear. The slow learners faced swift consequences—beds upended by Oswald's iron rod, bodies tumbling to hard wood, others yanked upright by calloused hands that could break their necks as easily as they now shattered hopes of more rest. Metal struck wood in rhythmic discipline, playing over rustling blankets and pained groans from those who'd learned too late that in Oswald's world, hesitation brought only suffering.

Gai stood rigid at attention, spine straight, chin high. Around him, others struggled to match the posture Oswald demonstrated—chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. The man stalked between them like a predator, sharp eyes catching every slumped shoulder and misaligned stance. He shoved bodies into proper position and barked corrections until even the groggiest recruits stood straight.

When sunlight finally crept through the high, narrow windows, it felt like ages had passed. Golden rays lit dust motes floating in the air, an oddly peaceful contrast to the room's tension. Just as Gai's legs began to ache from standing so still, another figure entered.

Sir Maric walked in with effortless authority that silenced even Oswald's commands. His uniform gleamed—every clasp polished to perfection—and his boots struck the wooden floor with precise, sharp clicks. His confidence needed no shouting; it radiated from him naturally.

"Recruits," Sir Maric began, his voice calm yet commanding enough to grip every attention without effort. "I am Sir Maric of the Royal Knights of Arieruro." He paused briefly, gaze sweeping the room as his words settled. "I am in charge of this green barracks and hold absolute command."

Though quiet, each word carried weight that seemed to compress the air. Unlike Oswald's thunderous approach, Sir Maric's authority came from something colder, more calculated—the certainty of a man who never questioned whether his orders would be obeyed.

"You will all remain under my charge for half a year," Maric continued evenly, "and you will be tested on your abilities. At the conclusion of your basic training, you will be transferred to other military occupations as deemed fit by your masters." He paused before adding with finality: "Until then, this is your home."

Those words hung heavy. Some recruits exchanged nervous glances; others stared ahead, faces pale but determined. Gai glanced at Louis beside him whose expression flickered between excitement and terror.

"Good luck," Sir Maric said simply, turning and leaving as quickly as he'd arrived.

Oswald resumed command instantly. "Recruits," he growled, "you are no longer seen as children and will be held fully accountable for your actions as men of this army."

The statement hit like a physical blow. Some boys straightened with pride at being called men perhaps for the first time; others looked ready to be sick from anxiety. Gai felt both emotions churning inside him—fear and determination settling into resolve.

"That is all," Oswald declared after what felt like forever under his scrutinizing gaze. "Now follow me—and do not fall behind."

Not just instructions but a clear threat that sent every recruit hurrying to keep pace as they filed from the dormitory into cool stone corridors. Torchlight cast shifting shadows on damp walls, and chill air bit at skin beneath thin tunics.

They emerged into a sunlit courtyard, squinting against brightness that felt like an assault after days of dim interiors. Gai drank it all in—this new world with its raw edges and brutal clarity. The morning air bit his lungs with each breath, carrying the scent of sweat-soaked earth. Officers barked commands across the grounds while recruits scrambled to obey, their boots pounding rhythmically against packed dirt. Metal struck metal nearby as training swords clashed, the sound carrying clearly across the yard. This place had one purpose: to strip away weakness.

"Keep your eyes open," Gai murmured to Louis, voice barely audible. His gaze never stopped moving, assessing everything. "We're just getting started."

Louis managed a quick nod, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. "I can handle it," he whispered back, but the slight waver in his voice said otherwise. Gai noticed but offered only a short nod. His father would say that some lessons couldn't be taught—only survived.

They fell into formation with the others, lines forming with growing precision. Gai set his jaw and squared his shoulders against the heat bearing down on them, sun reflecting harshly off the stones beneath their feet.

"Move out!" Oswald's command sliced through the murmurs. He pivoted sharply and set off at a punishing pace along the well worn track. Behind him, dozens of boots thundered against stone as the recruits followed.

The track revealed itself as no mere path but a testament to countless drills before theirs—hard-packed and smooth from years of relentless use. As he ran, Gai took in the layout he hadn't noticed before: twelve barracks forming a half-circle around the massive training grounds, each topped with a different coloured pennant snapping in the breeze. Everywhere he looked, recruits were training—running in tight formations, navigating obstacles, or locked in sparring matches that echoed with grunts and sharp commands.

Oswald set a merciless pace, his movements economical and tireless. Gai matched him stride for stride, breathing controlled despite the exertion. Around him, others weren't faring as well—faces reddening, breath coming in harsh gasps.

"Come on!" Oswald shouted without looking back or slowing. "This will feel like a leisurely walk compared to what's coming!"

The threat only hardened Gai's resolve. He pushed harder, jaw clenched tight. Behind him, Louis stumbled, caught himself, and pushed on, his breathing ragged but determined.

By the time they completed the circuit and Oswald led them toward a large building at the compound's center, every recruit was drenched in sweat. The wide doors of the hall stood open, revealing rows of tables and benches waiting inside.

"This," Oswald announced without preamble once they'd entered, "is the green mess hall. Your meals will be taken here." His instructions came rapid-fire, brooking no questions. "From dormitory three, use the unmarked door between dormitories four and five. Or exit through your dormitory's rear onto the training field."

Without another word, he strode to a large table at the front where other officers sat talking quietly. The table's size and craftsmanship stood in stark contrast to the plain furnishings that filled the rest of the hall.

"He's not much for conversation, is he?" Sorren appeared beside Gai, grinning despite the sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead.

"Man of few words. Mostly the shouted kind," Gai replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Behind them, Mack and Louis staggered forward, leaning on each other. Mack's face was bright red under his blond mop, while Louis looked one step away from collapse.

"I could eat a horse," Sorren announced cheerfully as they approached the serving line where a bored-looking boy barely older than themselves stood behind a trough of food.

"Here," the server muttered, handing each of them a platter with watery porridge, water, and bread that looked hard enough to serve as a weapon.

Mack stared at his meal in disbelief. "Incredible," he said, holding up the bread. "I've seen better food in pig troughs."

The server flicked his eyes toward a bin of scraps. "Don't want it? Dump it there. No one's forcing you to eat."

Mack opened his mouth for a retort until Sorren shot him a warning look. With a mutter about "gourmet slop," he followed the others to an empty bench near the back.

The hall filled quickly with noise—excited chatter from some corners, nervous silence from others. Guards stationed at each door intercepted the few recruits who tried to leave early, sending them back with curt orders and stern glares.