The sheer exhaustion of the eight-day march had anchored Henry's soul to the mattress. Even with his Level 10 Foundation, his body had been screaming for a total reset. When the sharp, metallic clang of the morning bell sliced through the air, Henry bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was flooded with sunlight, a sight that sent a jolt of pure panic through him.
'Sunlight? Am I late? Did I fail on day one?'
He scrambled to the dresser, tearing into the new uniform. It was a sharp, crimson-red shirt emblazoned with a crown over a mountain—the crest of Fort Hope. He kicked into the loose-fitting tactical pants and caught sight of a watch on the nightstand. He snapped it onto his wrist, his eyes darting to the hands.
4:33 AM.
Henry let out a long, ragged breath of relief. Dawn arrived earlier at this altitude and longitude than it did back in the Sinclair Barony. "Three minutes from dead sleep to fully dressed," he muttered with a wry smirk, shaking off the last of the adrenaline. "Good to know how long it'll take me from sleep to ready when my mind is gripped by fear."
As he stepped into the hallway, he ran into a sea of disheveled recruits. Uniforms were tucked in haphazardly, and hair was a mess of bedhead. He noticed the color divide immediately: seven of them wore Red, while the other four who were the males who had fell out of the run were a blue shirt that still contained the same design.
They shuffled onto the stone training pad, the air thick with nervous chatter. Recruit 13 sidled up to Henry, his mouth opening to complain about the bell, but Henry gave him a curt nod and fixed his eyes forward. He knew that in the Sinclair barony, formations were no joke and couldn't be spoken in, unless explicitly told otherwise and assumed the kings army was the same if not even more strict.
"Why do you think it is acceptable to treat my formation like a social club?"
The Recruiter's voice didn't come from the front. It came from directly behind them, in the very direction they had just walked. The recruits spun around, eyes wide. How had he gotten there?
"Start sprinting laps around the platform. Now!"
Henry stood still, assuming his silence had spared him. The Recruiter's gaze snapped to him. "You saw them breaking discipline and said nothing. Silence in the face of idiocy is idiocy. Run, Fourteen."
"Fuck," Henry whispered under his breath, falling into a sprint.
For thirty minutes, they were pushed into a high-intensity sprint. To his left, Henry caught a glimpse of the female recruits on the twin pad. Ma'am White was putting them through hell—weighted squats that had Recruit 12's face twisted in a mask of pure, trembling effort. The weights looked massive, designed to find the exact point of muscle failure and stay there. Ma'am white watched them carefully with cold detachment.
Once they returned to formation, gasping for air, the Recruiter divided them.
"Reds, with Sir Red. Blues, stay with Sir Blue."
No one had seen the two knights appear, but decided to ignore the fact as the recruiter had already done something similar earlier.
Sir Red led the seven finishers to the back of the barracks, where a field of training dummies and sparring squares awaited. He turned, his relaxed posture hiding a sharp, observant intensity.
"You seven are the red shirts because you had the grit to stay on your feet," Sir Red began, his voice surprisingly calm. "You've earned the right to skip the preliminary conditioning and move straight into the Lower Regium Style. It's the King's standard—perfectly balanced, designed to be a foundation for any specialty you choose later."
He looked at the three Level 10s who had been tested mentally during the run via sleep deprivation and the unknown of how much longer they would need to run but physically had plenty left in the tank. "You three start the strikes now. The Level 8s and 9s? You'll split your time. Strikes until noon, then back to Sir Blue for physique building. You aren't at the peak yet, so don't act like it."
Sir Red drew his slender saber. The movement was so fluid it looked like flowing water.
"Center-Balanced Strike," he announced. He performed a vertical cut. It was deceptively simple, but Henry noticed the details: the relaxed grip for flow, the blade perfectly bisecting his own centerline. "Relax your hands. Align your soul with your center. If the sword wobbles, you've failed."
He sheathed the blade with a click. "Level 10s: 1,500 perfect reps before the day is out. Others: as many as you can before noon. If I see a lazy swing, I add a hundred. Begin."
"Yes, Sir!"
Henry stepped up to a dummy, his hand gripping the hilt of a practice sword. The weight was familiar, but the intent was new. 1,500 reps seemed like a lot, but for a chance to learn a new sword style? He would have done 5,000. He took a breath, centered his weight, and delivered his first strike.
As the practice sword bit into the dummy, the impact resonated up Henry's arm—not with the jarring clatter of the Sinclair Style, but with a clean, controlled vibration.
He immediately understood the genius of the Lower Regium Style. Where his family's style was built on overwhelming power that often left him overextended, this center-balanced strike felt like a coiled spring. It was compact. It was efficient.
This is it, he realized, his eyes widening.
This was the missing link for his trial. The Wind Wolf's greatest weapon wasn't its strength, but its relentless, high-speed flurries. By staying perfectly aligned with his own center, Henry wouldn't have to fight to regain his balance after every swing. He could transition from a lethal strike to a parry in a fraction of a second, meeting those razor-sharp paws with steel instead of air.
A genuine, hungry smile spread across his face as he reset his stance. The wall that had felt insurmountable for a year didn't seem so high anymore. He could feel the mental stagnation beginning to lift, replaced by the familiar, addictive burn of progress.
Second rep.
The blade whistled through the air, hitting the exact same notch in the wood.
Third rep.
Henry didn't just see a wooden dummy anymore; he saw the white-furred beast in the moonlight. Every strike was a step closer to the end of his trial. 1,500 reps? He'd make every single one of them a masterpiece.
By the time he hit his fiftieth rep, the other recruits saw the burning intensity with which he was training and felt their competitive spirit ignite bringing a different level of focus and pace to the training.
Sir Red watched the ripple effect. He saw the way the collective pace of the group accelerated, driven by the silent challenge radiating from Henry.
He didn't offer a single word of encouragement; in his experience, silence was more evocative than shouting. He simply let the knowing smile linger on his face.
The first real day of training was truly underway.