Bang! Bang! Bang!
A harsh, hurried pounding crashed against the thick wooden door, shattering the fragile stillness of the early morning. Inside the shabby hut, Strong Man — curled beneath a tattered quilt and an even older leather jacket — jolted awake as though someone had thrown cold water over him. His heart thumped unpleasantly. For a moment, he was not entirely sure where he was.
Then the familiar, drafty scent of the tiny room settled his mind.
Strong Man rubbed his bleary eyes and croaked, "Coming… coming."
It was the middle of Revival Month. Though spring officially approached, the air still held a sharp bite, especially for a pauper's home like his, where wind whistled through every crack as though it owned the place.
Shivering, he threw off the quilt and quickly pulled on his patched clothes. The leather jacket — more hole than jacket by now — had served as a second blanket throughout the cold months. He shrugged into it with practiced movements and pushed open the door.
Outside, Old Roger leaned against the familiar rickety carriage. In one hand he held a long whip, and in the other, he puffed lazily on a short-stemmed pipe. Smoke curled around his grey, unshaven face.
"Hurry it up," Old Roger said without raising his voice, though a hint of urgency colored his tone. "We're running late. If we're tardy again, someone's bound to give us an earful."
"Got it."
Strong Man tugged the door shut behind him and hopped onto the carriage. His expression, however, remained relaxed, even indifferent — clearly, he was not nearly as worried about arriving late as Old Roger was.
Old Roger shot him a side glance but said nothing more. A crack of the whip followed, and the elderly horse snorted, pulling the carriage forward at its usual slow, stubborn pace.
Strong Man leaned against the wooden railing, watching the dim, colorless sky. It was that hour where night and dawn could not quite decide whose kingdom it was. He let his eyelids droop, allowing himself to slip back into light slumber. From experience, he knew it would take half an hour to reach the inner castle of the Iron Throne Territory. Only then would the sun truly rise.
Strong Man had been an orphan for as long as he could remember. His earliest memories were blurry, like fog rolling through a winter morning. According to Old Roger, he had been found on a snow-covered road one bitter evening — a tiny, shivering bundle that should not have survived the cold. Old Roger, who had no children of his own, took him in with a mixture of pity and stubborn resolve.
It was from this aging man, who spent his entire life hauling trash for nobles and throwing it outside the city, that Strong Man received shelter, food, and the closest thing he had ever known to parental love.
Though Strong Man had no blood tie to Old Roger, he understood clearly that the man was his father in every way that mattered. Loyalty and gratitude ran deep in the boy's heart.
Lost in these thoughts, Strong Man didn't notice when the carriage passed through the outer gates into the inner city — but his body did. Habit trained over years made him snap awake instantly whenever they neared the castle's domain.
He sat up straight and looked toward the distance.
There it was: the enormous, gleaming castle that dominated the Iron Throne Territory. Even from afar, its magnificent battlements and tall towers glowed faintly under the awakening sky. The stone seemed to drink in the first hints of dawn and radiate a quiet, commanding power.
Strong Man could not help himself — his breath caught slightly, and longing flickered unmistakably in his eyes.
That castle was where the Lord resided. That castle was where knights trained and nobles feasted. To him, it was the very peak of the world — the place where destiny and glory lived.
He had dreamed countless times of becoming someone capable of stepping inside proudly rather than as a servant: a noble with clean hands, or even a knight with a shining sword. In his imagination, he pictured himself wearing sturdy armor, catching the Lord's attention, and earning a place among the castle's guardians.
But the dream always broke the moment he awoke.
In reality, a pauper like him could never climb such heights. He was grateful simply to be allowed inside to collect the nobles' trash — even that was a privilege granted by necessity, not permission. Without work, his feet would never cross the threshold again.
Old Roger often told him, "When I'm gone, boy, you'll inherit these two wooden houses, this carriage, and this job. It's not much, but it'll feed you."
Strong Man accepted it with a quiet heart. He believed his future was already written. Clear trash, earn a few silver coins, survive day by day — that was probably the life waiting for him.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the castle's outer gate. Strong Man jumped down behind Old Roger and approached the tall guards stationed there. In the past, guards used to bully them often — demanding bribes, stealing items, or creating trouble just to amuse themselves. But after the former Lord was executed and the new Lord appointed a Magus as his advisor, many of the old guards and steward-servants were dismissed.
Since then, no one extorted them again.
For that alone, Strong Man held deep, grateful respect for the new leadership — though he had never even seen the Magus in person.
The gate guards recognized them and conducted only a brief inspection before letting them pass.
It took nearly the entire morning for Old Roger and Strong Man to make their rounds. They shoveled piles of discarded scraps, broken furniture, rotten leftovers, old parchment — anything thrown out by the castle's tenants — and loaded it onto the carriage until it reached its limit. Then they prepared to transport everything outside the city, as usual.
Just as they were about to leave, one of the guards called out,
"Oi, Strong Man! Come here."
The boy turned in surprise.
The guard looked him up and down and asked, "How old are you this year?"
"Twelve," Strong Man replied honestly.
"You can read, right?"
Strong Man nodded. It was unusual for someone of his background, but Old Roger had once trained as an accountant's apprentice in his youth, before the shop he worked for collapsed. He had kept his basic literacy and later taught Strong Man everything he knew.
When the guard saw him nod, a faint smile appeared on his face.
"That's good. The Magus recently issued a decree across the Iron Throne Territory. All youths between twelve and fifteen — boys and girls, noble or commoner — as long as they can read, must go to the testing center. You should go too."
"A… a test? What kind of test?" Strong Man asked, confused.
Before he could say more, Old Roger rushed forward in a panic.
"Sir, Strong Man is well-behaved! He's never committed any wrongdoing!"
The guard laughed and waved him off.
"No need to look so scared! This is a good thing. The Magus is recruiting apprentices. Anyone who passes the test will become his disciple — with a monthly stipend of one gold coin."
Old Roger and Strong Man froze. Their mouths fell open simultaneously.
One gold coin a month? For them, such a thing was unthinkable. They worked an entire month hauling trash under the sun and rain and earned less than ten silver coins combined.
For a moment, both of them wondered if this was a cruel joke.
Old Roger, always wary, felt his heart clench.
Could someone be luring children away for something sinister?
But the guard understood immediately and chuckled. "Relax. The decree was issued by the Lord himself and approved by the Magus. Do you think two such men would bother setting up a scheme to trick a poor boy like you?"
He sighed. "If Strong Man weren't such an obedient lad, I wouldn't have bothered reminding you."
Old Roger bowed repeatedly in gratitude. When he thought about it more carefully, he realized the guard was right. Nobles had no reason to deceive trash collectors.
After thanking the guard again, Old Roger pulled Strong Man back onto the carriage.
On the ride home, Old Roger looked serious, thoughtful. Finally, he said, "After we haul the trash out and come back, you go wash up, change into your best clothes, and head for the testing center."
Strong Man nodded with determination. His heart was beating so fast he felt light-headed. If he really became an apprentice to the Magus… then in a year or two, with one gold coin a month, he could save enough money to move Old Roger into the inner city. They could open a shop. They could live comfortably for the first time in their lives.
Maybe he could even see the inside of that castle someday not as a servant — but as a person of worth.
The thought filled him with such fierce hope that he felt he could burst from excitement.
After returning from outside the city, Strong Man rushed home, washed thoroughly, and put on the cleanest clothes he owned — which were still modest, but at least not patched all over. Then, without hesitation, he ran toward the location the guard had described.
The testing center had been set up on the border between the inner and outer city. A temporary wooden shed stood there, and a staggeringly long line stretched before it. Hundreds of boys and girls Strong Man's age stood waiting — some fidgeting with excitement, others whispering nervously, many craning their necks to look ahead.
Strong Man noticed that most were dressed far better than he was. Even the poorest among them wore clean garments. He alone looked like he had stepped straight out of the slums — because he had.
Literacy was a luxury reserved for those with decent family lives. The fact that he could read was almost an accident of fate.
"Hey! You there. Get to the end of the line. Don't wander."
A nearby soldier spotted him and gave the instruction in a stern but not unfriendly tone.
Strong Man obeyed quietly, joining the very end of the queue.
As he stood there, feeling the eyes of others briefly flick over him before they turned away, he inhaled deeply and steadied his heart.
This might be the moment that changed his entire life.
And he would not let it slip away.
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