Henry's practice sword whistled through the air for the 1,500th time, hitting the center of the dummy his proficiency climbing with each strike.
It was 3:00 PM—two full hours ahead of the deadline. Most would have collapsed in relief, but Henry's mind was already racing toward the system test. He needed to know if this new style was the key to clearing his trial.
He reset his stance, intent on pushing through extra reps, but a voice cut through the rhythm of his strikes.
"That's enough, Fourteen."
Sir Red stood nearby, his eyes tracking Henry with a knowing clarity. "And don't bother with the system test tonight. You haven't mastered the basics of the Lower Regium yet. Testing now would be a waste of your time and mine."
Henry blinked, stunned. Sir Red had read his internal monologue like an open book. "Yes, sir," he managed, stowing his practice weapon.
"Wait on the bench for the others," Sir Red gestured toward a long wooden bench on the edge of the yard.
Henry sat and watched the other two Level 10s struggle. Recruit 7 was a short, young looking boy with long brown hair and a large nose that gave him a nearly comical, clown-like appearance—though his expression was anything but funny. He was seething with frustration. Beside him, recruit 4, had a much more mature apearance, short neat black hair to go along with clear blue eyes and standing at about Henry's height. He moved with calm deliberation, prioritizing form over the raw speed Henry had displayed.
Thirty minutes later, Recruit 7 finished. He wiped his brow with a smug grin of self-satisfaction—until he saw Henry already sitting on the bench. The grin died instantly. He stomped over, his face flushed with irritation.
"Don't get arrogant, Fourteen," the short boy spat. "I'll surpass you before the week is out."
Henry, having spent most of his life without peers, tried for a friendly, competitive jab. "You can try."
"Don't you look down on me!" the boy yelled, his face turning red. Henry sighed and looked away, hoping silence would de-escalate the situation, but that only made it worse. "Now you're ignoring me? Answer me, you bastard!"
"Shut the fuck up, Seven!" Sir Red's voice thundered across the yard. The knight walked over, his eyes cold. "Since both of you have so much energy, get into a deep squat. Now."
They dropped into the position as fast as possible. Sir Red walked to a nearby rack and returned with two standard-looking longswords. He held them out. "If you drop these, you don't eat tonight."
Henry reached out with both hands. The moment the hilt touched his palms, his spine nearly snapped. The sword didn't feel like steel; it felt like a thousand-pound boulder. He lurched forward, barely stabilizing himself. Recruit 7 was caught even worse—he tried to take it with one hand and was instantly slammed into the dirt.
Sir Red laughed, a dry, mocking sound. "I expected you both to starve. Get up, Seven. Hold the squat."
It was minutes before dinner when Recruit 4 finally finished. "Done!" he yelled, rushing over to apologize for his pace. As the two let the swords drop, the impact shook the very ground beneath them.
"It's not your fault," they said simultaneously.
"Stop copying me! I said it first!" Recruit 7 barked. Before he could continue his one-sided feud, Sir Red gave him a look that promised a very long night, and the boy finally went quiet.
They followed the knight to a rectangular building with darkened windows—the cafeteria. Inside, the recruits were already fracturing into cliques. The Level 8s and 9s were huddled together, while Recruit 1 stayed to herself at the edge of the long cafeteria table.
The moment Henry walked in, recruit 12 leaped up. She intercepted him before he could even find a seat. "How was it? Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes searching his face.
Henry noticed recruit 13's jaw tighten, a flash of envy crossing his face before he forced a smile and invited Henry to join them. Henry sat, immediately peppered with questions from the blonde girl. As he answered, he watched Recruit 13 struggle to find a gap in the conversation, lingering on the outskirts.
When Henry asked about her day, Recruit 12 beamed. She spoke about Ma'am White's sadistic physical conditioning and mentioned how Recruit 1 had been taken away for a separate, private training session.
The silence of the room was restored when the Recruiter walked in. "Front counter. Get your food."
The cafateria workers were serving large amounts of chicken curry, vegetables, and milk.
"This is the most food I've ever seen," recruit 12 whispered, her eyes wide as she held out her plate.
Recruit 7 sat frozen at the long wooden table, the only one without a plate. The savory, spicy aroma of the chicken curry wafted through the air, thick enough to taste, but he could only swallow his own dry saliva. Around him, the room was filled with the rhythmic sounds of clinking silverware and heavy chewing.
He watched as Recruit 12 laughed at something Henry said, her fork halfway to her mouth. He saw Recruit 13 tearing into a piece of bread, and even the stoic Recruit 1 eating with a mechanical, focused hunger. To Seven, every bite they took felt like a personal taunt.
His stomach let out a low, betraying growl. He stared at the empty space in front of him, his mind looping back to the moment his hand had buckled under the weight of that massive sword. The shame of being the only one without food knawed at him even more then the hunger he was feeling.
Sir Red lingered near the door, leaning back with his arms crossed, his eyes occasionally drifting toward the boy with the large nose. He was a silent sentinel, ensuring the price of failure was paid in full.
As dinner ended, Sir Red addressed the room."Supplemental workouts for the carriage-riders. Anyone else who wants to join is welcome."
Henry's mind was screaming for sleep. He was mentally fried from the focus required for the Regium strikes. But then he felt Recruit 12's eyes on him—expectant, hopeful. He had made a promise.
With a silent groan, he pushed back his chair. To his surprise, Recruit 1 also stood up, following the group without saying a word.
The next three hours were a blur of deep grunts and burning lungs, with exercises tailored to push each person to their absolute breaking point. By the time they finished, no one had the energy to speak. They limped back to the barracks in a shared, exhausted silence, Henry barely making it to his bed, his last thought being that tomorrow at 4:30 AM, he had to do it all over again.