The darkness still wrapped around the recruits' sleeping quarters like a cold, heavy blanket, pierced only by the whistling of the northern winds battering the stone walls. Inside the barracks, the air was saturated with the smell of sweat and dried blood. The rough snoring of the mercenaries filled the space, mingling with the faint groans of pain from their torn muscles and ligaments exhausted in Sir Vance's grueling training.
In an isolated, dark corner of the barracks, Baren sat on the edge of his rough wooden bed, wrapping a frayed bandage around his swollen, dark blue ankle. He raised his eyes with difficulty toward the opposite bed, where Arian sat with his back leaning against the cold wall. The small boy's body was completely still, his eyes closed, and his chest rising and falling in a very slow, regular rhythm, as if he were a stone statue carved in the dark.
Baren could not endure that long, intimidating silence, so he stopped bandaging his ankle and whispered in a low voice, careful not to wake the sleeping beasts around them:
"Young Master... do you never sleep? Since we came here, I have not seen you lie down like the rest of humans."
Arian slowly opened one eye, catching the glimmer of moonlight seeping through the narrow window, and looked at Baren.
"Deep sleep is a luxury I cannot afford in a place that reeks of malice," Arian answered in a calm, cold tone. "Half-consciousness is enough to rest a weary body, and to keep me alive if someone decides to visit my bed with a dagger."
Baren fell silent for a moment, feeling the weight of those words. Then he sighed deeply, leaned forward with his head in his hands, and spoke in a voice bordering on a desperate plea:
"This place... this is a true hell on earth, not knight's training. Every day I see grown men, mercenaries, crying in the corners like infants from the sheer pain. And you... you are barely nine years old. What brought you here?"
Arian did not answer immediately. He was studying the young man's exhausted features in the dark. Baren decided to break the silence himself, and began speaking with his gaze fixed on the floor, recalling memories he had tried to bury:
"My life was happy at first... my father was one of the knights of this castle. A brave warrior and a hero to me. But before I reached the age of seven, a bloody demon raid launched from that cursed island. My father died there, consumed by black flames while defending the borders. Since that day, our happiness evaporated and the suffering began. We could barely afford our daily bread, and I had to work at whatever was available, from cleaning horse stables to digging trenches in the mud. And now, I am trying to find a place among the knights, hoping to protect what remains of my family and restore the honor of my father's name."
Baren raised his head and looked directly into Arian's dark eyes, searching for a shred of sympathy:
"But you? You are a son of Lord Maegor. You could have lived in the upper castle, eating roasted meat and training in warm courtyards. What is a son of the great Oswald family doing in a place like the bottom of hell?"
Arian closed his eye again, and answered in his usual icy tone, as if the tragedy he had just heard hadn't moved a single hair:
"There is no particular reason."
Arian ignored the look of disappointment in Baren's eyes and suddenly asked him, completely changing the subject:
"Since you have lived in the province for a long time... do you know anything about the 'Rite of Adulthood'?"
Baren was surprised by the question, and sat up straight, forgetting the pain in his ankle:
"You mean the bloody ceremony your family holds in the arena? Yes, I've watched it several times when I worked in the lower city."
"Tell me the details," Arian demanded in a commanding voice that brooked no refusal.
Baren's eyes widened in genuine astonishment:
"Are you truly of the Oswald family and do not know this?... Well. When any son of the Lord reaches the age of fifteen, a massive ceremony is held in the great arena in the center of Northgard Province. Most of the population, the nobility, and the army commanders attend to watch. The heir stands in the center alone, and he must face three elite professional knights... in three duels. There is no mercy there. If he wins, or manages to hold out until the Lord is satisfied, he secures his official place in the succession race, and is granted the right to command his own army."
"And if he loses?" Arian asked without any change in his tone.
Baren swallowed hard and spoke in a low voice, as if afraid someone might hear him:
"He is stripped of his name. He is denied belonging to the Oswald family and any privilege or anything related to it. His sword is taken away and he is thrown into the streets like any outcast commoner... and sometimes, he doesn't even make it out of that arena alive. But don't worry, Young Master, you are still nine. You have six full years to prepare."
"Six years..." Arian repeated the word in his mind. The mind of the Supreme Commander within him began analyzing the data at lightning speed. For the cruel Lord Maegor, and for Lady Morgana who wished to kill him, waiting six years was merely a luxury. Arian thought coldly: *"In a family that worships absolute power, rules are just ink on paper. If I show my weakness, I will be killed in the dark, and if I show my strength, they will not let me reach fifteen in peace. Therefore... I will not wait until they force this test upon me. I will be the one to decide when I enter that arena."*
Just before dawn the following day...
Suddenly, a booming shout shook the barracks.
"Wake up, you bastards! Are you going to keep sleeping like sick pigs?!"
Sir Vance was violently banging on the wooden door of the barracks with the hilt of his iron sword. The recruits bolted awake and began stumbling in the dark, cursing their luck and groaning from their aching joints. They hastily put on their rough clothes and ate a bland breakfast of stale bread and a watery soup that neither nourished nor satisfied.
When they stepped out into the large muddy courtyard, the icy winds whipped their faces like sharp blades, bringing tears to their eyes. As soon as they lined up in crooked rows, the blood froze in the mercenaries' veins.
There, right in front of them, stood the same massive carts loaded with those loathsome leather bags, filled with iron and wet sand.
Grumbling spread like wildfire, and whispers turned into shouts of anger.
"No... not again!" the huge mercenary yelled in complete breakdown, clutching his head. "I haven't felt my knees since yesterday! If I climb that cursed mountain again, I'll be crippled for the rest of my life!"
"This is a slow execution!" another shouted.
Sir Vance smiled his crooked, malicious smile, and said with deadly coldness as he swept the courtyard with a look of contempt:
"On the battlefield, the enemy doesn't ask if your knees hurt. I will not explain again. Hurry up! Whoever is late climbing today will not taste tonight's food."
While hesitation and despair still paralyzed the grown men, the ranks parted once more. Arian stepped forward with steady steps that held not a shred of hesitation. With a casual motion devoid of any complaint, he picked up the heavy bags. The muscles in his arms flexed, he lifted the immense weight, and secured it to his back alongside his greatsword, which was almost as long as he was. Then he began walking toward the gate leading to the frozen mountain.
Behind him, the mercenaries' eyes gleamed. They were not looks of contempt like those they had directed at him on the first day. The hatred had not vanished, but it had mutated. They no longer saw him as "that little bastard" or the "spoiled son." In their eyes, he had transformed into a terrifying little monster, a machine that never tired and never complained. Seeing a child carry that weight and lead them every morning shredded their pride to pieces. They looked at him with a mixture of deep-seated malice and absolute awe, then swallowed their complaints and rushed to shoulder their weights to catch up with him, driven by shame.
Eight months.
Eight grueling months passed like an eternity. It was a period sufficient to change much. Eight months of running, ascending and descending the icy mountains of Northgard, of shattering bones and rebuilding them in the mud of the open courtyard.
In this time, Arian reached the age of ten.
The muddy courtyard bore witness to this radical transformation. Arian was no longer that frail child whose life was nearly ended by black poison in his bed. His body was now taller, cloaked in perfectly proportioned, sculpted muscles; dense and strong, but without any exaggeration that would hinder his speed or flexibility. His black eyes had become deeper, colder, concealing a pure killing intent possessed only by one who has seen death thousands of times.
In the center of the courtyard, under a pale sun that barely warmed the air, Arian was sparring with Baren.
The sound of clashing heavy wooden swords echoed with terrifying speed, like a maddened war drum. Arian's attacks were precise as a scalpel, fast as lightning, leaving no room to breathe. He was applying advanced military breathing techniques from his past life, his wooden sword attacking from impossible angles, obliterating all of Baren's defenses.
Although Baren's body had also developed remarkably over these months, acquiring the physique of a true warrior, he could barely keep up with this rhythm. He retreated step by step, sweat pouring from his forehead.
In an instant, Baren opened his defense for a single second, attempting a counterattack.
*BAM!*
Arian did not hesitate. He delivered a powerful, precisely aimed strike at Baren's wrist, knocking the wooden sword from his hand with a stinging pain. This was followed by fluid footwork and a swift kick to the back of the knee, sending Baren crashing hard into the mud, face first.
Before Baren could process what had happened or attempt to rise, he found the tip of Arian's wooden sword resting exactly one inch from the center of his forehead.
Baren's chest rose and fell rapidly as he gasped for air. He raised his hands in surrender, a tired, frustrated smile forming on his mud-streaked face:
"Come on... let me go. Show some mercy for once, Young Master."
Arian's cold features did not change, nor did his eyes blink. He slowly withdrew his wooden sword and extended his hand to Baren.
As he pulled him up forcefully to his feet, he spoke in his usual military tone—strict, accepting no debate or justification:
"Mercy only breeds the weak. Hesitating for a single second to seek mercy in your opponent's eyes will cost you your head in a real battle. Remember that well."
At that moment, the sound of faint but slow, provoking applause rang out.
Sir Vance was approaching the center of the courtyard with calm steps. He looked at the recruits scattered around, whose numbers had dwindled over the eight months from fifty to half that; only the strongest, the fiercest, and the most resilient remained. The physical and muscular development was evident on every single one of them. The faces of random peasants and mercenaries had vanished; they now resembled a pack of starving wolves ready to tear apart any prey.
Sir Vance stopped in the center, raised his hand, and called out in a loud, firm voice:
"Assemble!"
Everyone immediately abandoned their training, lining up in perfect military formation in absolute silence.
Vance swept the courtyard with a scrutinizing, evaluative look. His eyes lingered slightly on Arian before his usual provoking smile, which hid so much behind it, appeared.
Vance spoke in a calm voice, yet it carried a weight that made everyone hold their breath:
"You finally look like soldiers. You have broken your bones, bled until you nearly died, and survived the hell I created for you. But... the physical training is over."
He paused slightly, letting the impact of his words echo in their ears, then added, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous glint:
"Tomorrow... will be your final test in this camp. Tomorrow, you will bear the true sword of Northgard... and be titled a knight."