By the dawn of the eighth day, the carriage was no longer a symbol of shame but a necessary vessel for the broken. Five recruits now occupied the benches, with Recruit 13 staring blankly at his knees, his lanky frame folded in defeat.
Six hours into the final leg, right before the midday sun could reach its peak, Henry forced his head up. The sight that met his salt-crusty eyes snatched his breath away. Stretching across the horizon was a fortification that made his family's garrison look like a child's sandcastle. The walls of Fort Hope loomed nearly a hundred feet high, constructed from a dark, dense material that radiated a heavy, almost physical pressure. Towers pierced the sky, competing with the jagged peaks of the Willder Mountains in the background.
At the massive iron-bound gates, ten knights stood in a formation so perfect they looked like statues carved from steel. One knight, encased in head-to-toe plate armor with a closed visor, stepped forward.
"I see you're still torturing your recruits, old friend!" the knight boomed.
He greeted the recruiter with a familiar jab and gave a respectful nod to Sir Red and Sir Blue, acknowledging their pseudonyms, clearly familiar with the recruiters training style. Interestingly, both Red and Blue snapped into sharp salutes—this man clearly outranked them.
"What works doesn't need to be adjusted," Sir Recruiter laughed.
As they spoke, the recruits collapsed into a ragged huddle, taking the brief reprieve to let their burning lungs settle. Once the gates swung open with a thunderous groan, the atmosphere changed.
"Welcome to Fort Hope," Sir Recruiter announced. "Most of you will call this home until your contracts expire. You've completed your first army task. Get in the carriage. We're heading to the barracks."
As Henry climbed into the carriage, he was immediately met by Recruit 12. Her face, now cleaner and rested, lit up with a brilliant smile. "You actually did it! Congratulations, Fourteen," she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration.
"Thank you," Henry replied, offering a tired but steady smile.
The other recruits shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flashing with annoyance that her praise was singular. Henry's gaze drifted to Recruit 13, who sat nearby. For a fleeting second, Henry caught a flicker of malice in the boy's eyes—a toxic mix of envy for Henry's physical superiority and the fact that he'd clearly lost the girl's attention. But the look vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a mask of humility.
"Congratulations to you too, Fourteen," Recruit 13 said, his voice smooth. "And to the rest of you as well."
The others smiled, the tension breaking as they began to trade stories. Henry, however, turned his attention outward.
Fort Hope wasn't just a military outpost; it was a sprawling, high-tier city. Thousands of soldiers and civilians moved with purpose through the streets. The buildings were a marvel—where the Sinclair Garrison was built for grim efficiency, every structure here was built for permanence. The stone used was the same pressure-radiating material as the walls, suggesting that even the common barracks were built to withstand a siege.
He saw specialized shops—blacksmiths with enchanted forges, general stores stocked with high-grade mana-potions, and even high-end wardrobe boutiques that far outclassed the ones in his barony. The sheer wealth and resource density of the Crown were on full display.
Henry leaned his head back against the carriage frame. The standard here was terrifyingly high, and the air hummed with the presence of powerful knights. But instead of fear, a familiar spark of ambition ignited in his chest. A place this vast, this well-funded, and this dangerous had to have the sword style he was destined for. The three years ahead weren't just a term of service—they were his hunting grounds.
The sight of two identical looking barracks next to each other offered a brief reprieve from the overwhelming scale of Fort Hope. These buildings were modest compared to the looming structures of the inner fort, yet the twin stone training fields flanking them were immaculate—wide, flat, and ready for the sweat of a hundred soldiers.
"Dismount!" Sir Recruiter commanded.
As the recruits filed out of the carriage, the old man paced in front of them, his voice echoing off the stone. "You are a rare bunch. Normally, I sweep through all the border baronies at once, bringing in classes of a hundred and fifty. But I acted on a whim in the Sinclair Barony. You fourteen are it. Consider yourselves lucky—or cursed. Smaller groups mean there's nowhere for the weak to hide."
Mid-sentence, the recruiter leaned back and whispered to Sir Red. Without a word of acknowledgement, the unarmored knight vanished. He didn't just run; he became a blur of motion, his speed rivaling Camden's—a C-rank mage—yet powered entirely by physical force. Henry watched the dust settle where the knight had stood, his mind reeling. To move like that without mana enhancement... what rank of Knight do you need to achieve?
The recruiter snapped his fingers to regain their attention. "Your dorm rooms correspond to your recruit numbers. Inside, you'll find your uniforms, toiletries, and bedding. You are restricted to these barracks. Curfew is 9:30 PM. Wake-up is 4:30 AM. Be outside in a row in number order. If you're late, you pay. Any questions?"
Silence met him.
"Good. Get to your rooms. You have the rest of the day to recover."
Before they could disperse, Sir Red returned as quickly as he had left. Following him was a woman who radiated the same predatory grace. She was tall—standing level with Henry at six feet—with hair as dark as a moonless night. She wore no armor, and her face was a masterpiece of cold, feminine distance.
"This is Ma'am White," the recruiter announced. "She will be in charge of the female recruits. Ladies, follow her."
Henry didn't linger to watch the introductions. He made his way to Room 14 at the end of the male dormitory. Expecting a cramped, drafty cell, he was stunned to find a spacious room that, while not as grand as his quarters in the Sinclair estate, far exceeded the standard for a common soldier. The King clearly invested in the comfort of those guarding the most dangerous border in the realm.
The room featured a sturdy dresser, a nightstand, and a full-size bed that looked like a cloud to his weary eyes. Henry barely noted the crisp uniforms or the fresh linens waiting for him. The eight-day run had finally caught up. His vision tunneled, the world narrowing down to the soft press of the mattress.
He didn't even bother to take off his boots. He collapsed onto the bed, and before his head fully hit the pillow, his consciousness was claimed by a deep, dreamless sleep.