Chương 7: First Day

I made my way to the training field just as the sky burned orange with the rising sun. The city guard trainees had already begun to gather, some standing in loose groups, others warming up. Among them stood Sergeant Cole, inspecting them like a hawk. He spotted me and barked.

"Kid! You here for training?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. He frowned.

"That's not how you greet your superior." Then he marched up, back straight like a steel rod, and demonstrated.

"Keep your back straight. Raise your right hand sharply, fingers extended and joined, palm facing down. Tip of your index finger should touch the rim of your visor, or your eyebrow, if you don't have one, slightly to the right of your eyes. Like this." He performed a crisp, razor-sharp salute.

"UNDERSTAND?"

"YES SIR!" I replied, imitating his gesture as best I could.

"Better. Again!"

"YES SIR!" I repeated, saluting again, this time a little sharper.

"Good. At ease." He stepped back and nodded.

"Maintain your salute until a senior officer returns it or says 'at ease.'""Yes, sir." He studied me for a moment.

"You look a little nervous." I hesitated.

"Yes, sir. My stats aren't very impressive. And… Ben told me about the recruits and the frontlines."

"Hmph." He folded his arms.

"Don't compare yourself with them. They're militia at best. You? You're being trained as a proper soldier in a battalion. With some luck, and if you're smart, you'll survive." He paused, glancing toward the eastern wall.

"I started like you. Pulled off the streets, no backing, no talent. But with discipline, I reached low Tier 3. I will retire in a few years. After that, I could walk into any decent town and become their guard captain." I stared at him. I hadn't expected a personal story from Cole.

"As for casualties," he added, his voice colder now, "your condition yesterday told me you already know what happens to the weak and careless, even in town." I swallowed hard. He was right. The bruises on my ribs still ached. Fear of the streets was a big part of why I joined the army.

"Yes, sir."

"This town's training isn't army standard, but it's a good starting point." He began listing the program.

"Physical Conditioning: You'll be drilled in endurance, strength, dexterity, and basic fighting. That means running, lifting, balancing, and sparring, until you drop."

"In Stonegate, you'll learn real military standards. Weapon Proficiency: Spear first. Then short sword. Formation, combat, and stances. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Archery: After you pass the three-month stats evaluation exam. Drawing a bow of regulation weight. Hitting targets at range. We train fighters, not thugs. You want to live? Take this seriously." He turned and pointed toward the forming group.

"Now go. Join the trainees."

"Yes, sir!" I saluted him and jogged off to join the others. The morning training began with lifting logs, carrying barrels, and long, punishing laps around the yard. Just a few minutes in, I realized something: My body was pitiful. By the one-hour mark, I was wheezing, soaked in sweat, legs trembling. Some of the other recruits, especially the hardened ones, were doing extra reps just to show off. At around one and a half hours, my vision blurred, and I collapsed.

A pair of guards dragged me to the shaded side of the yard.

"Rest," one of them muttered.

"You'll be no good if you die on day one." It took me nearly three hours to stop trembling from the morning session. Lunch helped, hot stew, eggs, and fresh bread, but my limbs still ached like someone had pounded them with a hammer. I found a quiet corner near the edge of the barracks, shaded by a low wall, and sat down to breathe.

From new memories, I remembered something meditation and rhythmic breathing, tools used by runners, fighters, and martial artists to recover faster, control stress, and sharpen the mind. Maybe it could give me even a small edge. I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and inhaled slowly through my nose. Four seconds in. Hold for four. Exhale for six. Repeat. My heartbeat gradually steadied. The burning in my legs dulled.

I focused on the rhythm, the cadence of my breathing, the subtle sensations in my limbs as oxygen flowed and muscles unwound. Breathe in strength. Breathe out pain. Breathe in focus. Breathe out fear. After ten minutes, I felt clearer. More lighter. More grounded. I glanced at the sun. Midday. Evening training wouldn't begin for another six hours. And I had nothing to do until then. After recovering a little, I began thinking, if I'm serious about surviving the army, I need more than just raw strength.

I needed coordination. Reflexes. Speed. Good hand-eye coordination could make the difference between dodging a blow and taking it head-on. And thankfully, my new memories helped in that regard as well. I remembered a few simple exercises that could build those skills. Drills to sharpen reaction time, balance, and awareness. Things even my tired, bruised body might be able to handle. The sunlight shifted. A shaft of light passed through a gap in the barrack wall and fell on my outstretched hand.

I stared at the glow across my skin, the warmth soaking into the cracks of my knuckles. There was something honest in it. Something real. My body was weak. But my will didn't have to be. I stood. But because I refused to quit. I picked up a fallen broom handle someone had left leaning against a wall. Stick Drill. I held the stick upright, then pushed it forward slightly and let it fall. Turning my back to it, I tried to spin around and catch it before it hit the ground. Miss. Miss. Catch, barely. Again.

Over and over, I practiced, challenging my timing, sharpening my awareness. Next, I found a loose leather pouch in the trash pile and filled it with cloth scraps. I tossed it against the wall of the barracks, catching it as it rebounded. Wall Toss. I started slow, then added angles, distance, speed. Misses were common, but each catch improved my reaction time. I could almost feel my body rewiring itself. Finally, I gathered a few smooth pebbles. Small, palm-sized. Juggling. I started with one, then two. Catch.

Toss. Swap. My coordination was a joke, but I kept at it. By the end of the hour, I could keep two pebbles in motion for a few seconds at a time. Evening training began sharply at 6 p. m. We returned to strength drills, sparring stances, and weapon-handling basics, mostly wooden sticks for now. After another ninety minutes, my body gave out again. The guards let me retire early. My bones felt like sandbags. My hands were blistered. My shoulders ached. And the worst part? Bathing. There was no running water.

I had to fetch buckets from the well, lug them back to the washing station, and scrub myself clean. Every motion burned. But clean and fed, I finally returned to my tent. That night, after dinner and the hellish bath, I returned to the same shaded wall and resumed the breathing while lying on a straw mat. This time, for recovery as well as peace. In a world where I had nothing, I still had this. My mind. My will. Someday, this breathing exercise might be more than just recovery. Someday, it might become power.

And as the rhythm carried me into sleep, I believed it.