The clock tower cast its shadow over half the courtyard, providing a brief but necessary relief for the poor souls toiling away under the scorching afternoon sun. The heat from the cemented ground could be felt through the leather boots, all the while radiating through the sweltering air. Not even a single chirp from a sparrow could be heard, presumably all hiding in a shade somewhere.

The insides of his nostrils were drying up, much like the mudcracks in his garden. With every breath he could feel his windpipe clogging up, causing his lungs to suspect if it was oxygen they just breathed in. It is times like this when you would begin questioning your decisions in life.

Perhaps I should have stayed home today, relaxing on the porch of my house.

Perhaps I should have gone to the lake for a quick dip, and catch some fish for dinner while at it.

Perhaps, I should not have enlisted in the dead of summer.

The thoughts darted through his mind, rapidly bouncing off the edges of his sanity. Just how long has it been? Thirty minutes, one hour? Pretty sure most people would’ve lost track of time by the first ten minutes or so. The fact that they were back facing the clock tower was not helping either. Who knew standing still in the sun could be such a chore? The tight-fitting leather armor effectively prevented any form of ventilation. His undershirt has long been soaked in sweat, slightly translucent in the daylight.

From the corner of his jet black eyes, he could only catch a glimpse of the other end of the courtyard. It was still a monotonous shade of grey, similar to that before him. Even so, he could not wait for something to happen. Something to keep his brain functioning.

The long-awaited sound of boots clacking in the distance was a welcomed change. It definitely came from a pair of military boots, and he would know. After all, marching non-stop for an hour on the day of enlistment was nothing less than memorable. Immediately he straightened his sight, staring only at the front.

Instead of appearing in his view, the owner of the boots took a right. He could hear them clacking in the distance, gradually creeping up behind him along those standing beside him. The clacking stopped without any warning and for the next couple of seconds, the silence was almost deafening. He instinctively held his breath, as would those beside him.

Eventually, the majority of the clacking switched from his left ear to the right, proceeding down the row. His tensed up muscles began to relax, sensing the passing danger. Before he could catch his breath, a crisp voice halted all forms of motion.

“Forty-five minutes,” the owner of the boots said, in a crisp and nonchalant voice. “That is the amount of time you stood here in the sun, and the amount of time you have to stay still for a Crawler to leave you alone.”

Crawler. He knew that name.

A humanoid beast with greenish skin, roughly the size of a full-grown hound. Known for attacking miners that trespass on their territory, the Crawlers were mainly a nuisance than a real threat. However, deeper into the mines the crawlers tend to band together, perhaps a change brought about by the constant human invasion of their territories. Of course, this was but a theory. However, one would assume a theory by the famous researcher Rowan must have been based on credible data.

“I know what you all are thinking,” the voice continued as the boots clacked, finally appearing before everyone’s eyes. “Crawlers are weak, they are a little less intelligent than a dog.”

“But I will have you know that this here is done by a crawler,” the owner of the voice stood before everyone, towering over most of the recruits. A long and deep scar ran across the man’s forehead, ending only at the left side of his left eye. His black hair was barely an inch from the top of his head, as if it was a deliberate attempt to showcase his scar.

His steel plate armor did not glisten in the sunlight like one would expect. It was dull and worn out, decorated by what seems to be claw and bite marks. The war hammer in his right hand seemed to be dwarfed by his incredible build.

“The name is Bryce, Staff Sergeant Bryce,” the voice continued, “you may refer to me as Staff Bryce.”

With that, Staff Bryce’s burly palm releases the war hammer slightly, pivoting it before him.

“And I am here to make sure the same does not happen to any of you.”