“Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!”

  Grant’s footing was shaky, and his arms trembled under the weight of his spear.

  “Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!”

  He wondered if they would teach him how to use his knife if he showed it to them. He had an Epic Bound Item—surely they would make allowances, right?

  “Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!”

  And training with the spear was obviously a waste of both his and his yard instructor’s time. He had four Strength. His first thrust would immediately be deflected by any competent opponent.

  “Rest!”

  After hundreds of “Thrust!” commands, Grant nearly cried out in relief.

  The recruits stood at attention, their spear-butts on the ground at their sides, shoulder blades back and chins high. Grant gulped air as quietly as he could, a pool of sweat collected under his feet. His chest was on fire, legs cramped and shoulders screamed, but he didn’t dare move an inch.

  Captain Alaric stood in front of the 200 recruits, scanning them slowly. His voice boomed over the class.

  “Long ago, the four continents of Lyria were isolated from one another. Separated by thousands of miles of vast seas. We did not know they existed, and they did not know we existed.”

  He paced down the front row, gently correcting recruits’ stances when he found flaws. The morning sun peeked from over the wall, stabbing at Grant’s eyes, but he forced them open.

  “Well before the First Campaign, our ancestors set sail over the horizon. They explored the unknown with no sight of land for months, and with them they brought the greatest weapon at their disposal.” He beat his spear on the ground.

  “When they washed ashore the Isles of Bryth, discovered the continents of Clemene and the Annet, they found the barest hints of civilization—tribes at best, who foraged and hunted, not yet relishing the abundance of agriculture. We were centuries ahead of them in technology, yet these primitive barbarians approached those brave men and women with their own weapons.” Again, his spear drummed against the ground.

  “Our ancestors navigated the globe. They brought home stories of false Gods and falser Kings. They spoke of savage cultures and customs beyond the depths of your wildest nightmares. And yet wherever they found people, they found one common weapon. Without even a word of contact throughout our histories, humans from every corner of the Four came to the same conclusion.” He lifted his spear in the air.

  He turned around, pacing back. “It is little mystery why. The spear is effective even in the hands of a novice. Unlike most other weapons, it is inexpensive to produce. It can thrust, swipe, trip, parry, block, and bludgeon.” He demonstrated each move as he listed it with grace and fluidity Grant would not expect of a man his size. “With a Spearman Class, it can do even more.” He spun, and with a bottom-to-top slicing motion faster than Grant could follow, fired a blade of wind across the grounds, decimating a target dummy.

  All 200 recruits gasped.

  Grant was more impressed at how the target dummy reformed itself from its tattered remains.

  The instructor looked back over them. “It is said that the Master Swordsman fears most the Mage. The Grandmaster Swordsman fears most the Spearman.”

  Grant sneaked a look at his classmates’ faces. There was not a glint of doubt in a single eye. Had he not been directed by Mr. Nerelot, he would have believed the captain too. There must be wisdom in his words—he was a man who had survived the horrors of the Fifth Campaign and returned. But one question lingered at the edge of his mind: What does the Spearman most fear?

  He wasn’t given much time to consider it.

  “Positions!”

  Grant spread his feet and gripped his spear, knuckles turning white.

  “Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!”

  ***

  Skill Selection and Theory was packed when Grant arrived. His arms and legs screamed and joints cracked with every step from the morning yard session, and he suspected Captain Alaric wouldn’t be any gentler in the next one. He lowered himself onto one of the few empty chairs, wincing when his sore backside sank into the unpadded seat.

  Despite the grueling yard session, he found excitement rising in his belly. This was the class he looked forward to most.

  The instructor stood at the front of the class. He was a man of average height and weight, and his well-kept beard was speckled with gray hair. Like most other men of authority on base, his dark hair was short and combed back.

  He began speaking the second the clock struck 8:30.

  “This is Skill Selection and Theory. I am Doctor Holt.” Grant took note of him not identifying himself by military rank, but educational background. The class hushed, clinging to every word that he had to say.

  “I am certain you have heard stories of the Store bestowing magical abilities upon Campaigners. Giant fireballs. Flooding waters. Avalanches. Mountain-like walls of earth.” He waved his hand with each example, his harsh eyes piercing the recruits as he surveyed the lecture hall.

  He shook his head. “Abandon such delusions. A cart horse mastering Saboteurs and Guardians is more likely than you becoming proficient in a magical discipline.”

  Nobody moved a finger, but an air of disappointment rippled through the lecture hall.

  The man smiled tightly. “I understand this is disappointing. Every child dreams of casting Magic. But believe me when I say that this is for your own good.” His voice rose. “A minimum of 14 Intelligence is mandatory for any Magic user, on top of a Perception of at least the same.”

  Check and check, Grant thought to himself, scratching his cheek to conceal a smirk.

  “And remember that these are absolute minimums,” he continued, with a drawn-out emphasis on minimums. “But they are not even the greatest hurdle! The problem isn’t Intelligence or Perception, which can be increased with training accessible to anyone with a book.” He spread his hands out. “It’s Wisdom.”

  Grant recalled his Wisdom starting at a pitiful three and his bout with Mana Depletion.

  “Most of you received a Spell upon selection. A Fire Bolt, an Ice Spear, or Identify. The first thing every selected does is try casting the Spell they received, fancying themselves the next Kalur the Barmaid. Outside, if they’re smart. The second is experience their first bout with Mana Depletion.”

  Several of the recruits winced.

  “I knew there’d be a few. Hope none of you burned down half the city.” Doctor Holt smiled tightly and pointed in the direction of another hall. “Those noble shits—”

  A chuckle echoed in the hall, interrupting his train of thought and breaking the tension.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Smart. He’s disassociating himself from the nobles to gain our trust.

  He gave another grin before repeating himself. “Those noble shits have Inherited Classes that bolster their Wisdom. From the day they’re born, they’re exposed to Magic, in a painstaking and tedious process that requires untold resources. Even then, they’re considered prodigies if they have half their age in Wisdom by their 18th birthdays.”

  Grant checked his Wisdom. It had reached 10 in the yard, after only four days of work.

  Just what had Mr. Nerelot given me?

  But there was no way a Blacksmith in a mid-sized town was the only person who knew about the Identify loophole, was there? Either the professor was lying, or it was a bigger secret than Grant knew.

  They want you to be strong, not powerful. His words came rushing back, and Grant bit his lip to push back a scowl.

  “For us?” Dr. Holt asked. “What good is a Fireball if you collapse with it still in your hand? What good is a Dig spell if you’re only plowing a grave for yourself? And yes, it is true that Magic-based Attributes have many advantages, even for non-casters. But you need to focus on what’s going to get you to the Third.”

  The recruits nodded along, and Grant did too, pretending to agree.

  “Strength is by far the most important Attribute for any non-caster. It dictates what armors you can wear, what weapons you can wield, and the power of your ranged and melee attacks. Who was in the yard this morning?”

  Half of the class’s hands shot up. Grant was too exhausted to raise his.

  Their professor nodded with understanding. “You have my sympathy. But know that there’s a method to the madness of your yard instructors. You will not only gain proficiency with the spear under their tutelage, but you will squeeze every possible point of Strength out of your training. Base Attributes gained before entry to the Portal are worth multitudes of those gained from levels. Every Level that you gain beyond it will reward Attributes based on your Base values. But I get ahead of myself.”

  Grant wished he would continue, as if what Mr. Nerelot said was true, he was going to enter the Portal with high base Attributes.

  “Between Classes, Skills, and Items, the Store has hundreds of thousands of choices. It would take a learned man or woman weeks to pore over all of them.”

  The man began writing on the blackboard behind him.

  “Fortunately, tens of thousands have entered, and tens of thousands returned.”

  He slapped the board, and half the class jumped in their seats. “And through their trial and error, we have found one common denominator.”

  The words Body Enhancement were written in large block letters.

  “This Skill costs 10,000 Points. If you begin the Campaign with exactly 10,000 Points, it is what you shall buy,” he said, gesturing back at his words on the blackboard.

  “Body Enhancement makes you resilient to Diseases, Curses, and Poisons. It increases your Elemental Magic Resistances to the point that a base of 12 Wisdom would. It increases your base Strength, Vitality, Agility, and Dexterity, which are the four cornerstones of survival.”

  Grant leaned forward and exhaled through his nose. Mr. Nerelot had called Body Enhancement a “bird-shit Skill.” But as far as he could see, it was a steal. Virtually everyone could afford it, and it would synergize with any physical damage-based Class or Skill perfectly.

  “There is a catch, however.”

  Ah. Here it comes.

  “Body Enhancement makes your maximum Wisdom zero and removes all Mana. You cannot cast even Force Shield after taking it.”

  And there it is.

  “Luckily for you, Spells and Skills are different. Many classes rely on Skills, not Spells, and those can be used without Wisdom or Mana. Behold.”

  The light emitted by the Mana crystals on the walls and ceiling flickered, and a miniature sun flared to life over the professor’s palm. It shone over the class, casting no warmth but bathing them in searing luminescence. Within seconds, every recruit was squirming in their seats, eyelids clenched shut with their palms clamped over their faces. Grant braced himself against the blaze, paralyzed by panic as his heart pounded. Some cried out in agony, and Grant’s mouth opened, but all that came out was a gasp.

  Just when Grant felt his eyes would burst in their sockets, the light vanished to cries of relief. All that remained were blue spots and a smear of colors where the world had been. He blinked away the haze, and those around him rubbed their faces.

  As Grant’s vision returned to normal, the professor continued his lecture. “I have the Body Enhancement Skill, an Uncommon Swordsman Class, and an Uncommon Lightweaver Class. My Light Skills are little more than a candle’s flame to a true Light Mage’s Spells, but as you can see, they’re effective.”

  Grant sat up in his seat. That was a weak Skill?

  A hand shot up from a young woman in the front row.

  He winced, but Doctor Holt seemed open to questions. “Yes?”

  She stood up and flattened her skirts. “If Skills cost no Mana, what do their casters use to cast them?”

  The professor smiled. “First, Skills are used, not cast. Second, Skills are limited by what is called a cooldown; every time you use any given Skill, there is a time until it can be used again. The more powerful the Skill, the longer the cooldown tends to be. Spells can have cooldowns as well, but usually their caster can continue casting them as his or her Mana allows.”

  Seeing as the young woman’s question was answered, other recruits became emboldened, raising their own hands. The professor signaled for them to put them down and continued his lecture.

  ***

  Grant shifted uncomfortably in the yard. His spear was in his hand, its tip pointed towards the sky and its butt rested on the ground. It stung against the blisters that had begun to form.

  Captain Alaric’s voice thundered. “For most of you, this is your second yard session of the day. For a few, this is your second consecutive yard session of the day.”

  Poor bastards, thought Grant.

  “Your schedule has been arranged to suit your Attributes, your combat experience, your physical fitness, and your age. Soldiers may have up to three yard sessions in a row, while a scribe may have one. However, have you noticed something about how you feel?”

  The recruits did not react.

  “You’re sore, but you can still move. You hurt, but you’re not hurt. There is a world of difference between soreness and pain. Yet while there’s plenty of the former to go around, it’s not debilitating, is it?”

  Grant disagreed with that last comment, but he kept his mouth shut and eyes fixed ahead.

  “Have you thought about why that is?”

  There was a long pause.

  “It’s the baths,” he said, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “Under normal circumstances, we would spend a year ironing out any deficiencies in a soldier’s form and physique. We would train you for an hour a day, and then two, and then three. However, the baths do not only have body-cleaning properties; they assist in recovery and cleansing imperfections. Such comes at no small expense to the empire, I can assure you.”

  The hot sun bore down on the recruits. A man in the back row coughed, and Captain Alaric stared over the group. He shook his head.

  “I watch you slouch when you believe I’m not watching. You thrust limply, you daydream as you listen, and it becomes clear. You are still not comfortable being uncomfortable. You yet cling to your old lives. You dream of life after the Portal. Many of you will go in and never leave—the only remaining evidence you even existed the memories of those you once knew, and most will forget you in years. You would be lucky if they told their children about you.”

  His neck bulged and face twisted in anger. A cold bead of sweat dipped down Grant’s torso as their instructor’s voice rose.

  “You may be complicit in your own deaths, but I refuse to allow it! Every proper spear thrust is another day you can survive! Every indolent movement in this yard is another step towards your graves! We must weed the weakness out of you, one thrust at a time!” His voice rose in volume with each declaration, shaking Grant’s eardrums.

  “Positions!”

  The sound of hundreds of feet shuffling echoed in the yard.

  ***

  Grant limped into the mess hall. Every step burned, and his muscles protested as if they had been stretched to the verge of tearing. The tables were packed, but an uneasy silence lay over the recruits. Unlike breakfast, where they chatted, cracked jokes, laughed, and introduced themselves to others, only a few mumbled quietly. Most sat staring despondently into nothing, while some rested their heads on the table. He waited for his lunch to be served, starving like he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

  It was a different kind of hunger from what he was used to. It was not based in his stomach, but in his arms, legs, back and chest. His body craved nutrition, and its way of telling him was a high-pitched shriek.

  Grant sank into his seat as Roland settled into his spot next to him. The energy from the morning had been drained out of the giant man. He absently combed his fingers through his beard.

  “Yard that tough?” Grant asked.

  “Hmmm? Haven’t had yard. I got an exception.”

  Grant began to speak, but the words died on his tongue. An exception? Does he mean an exemption?

  He squinted and tilted his head. “What are you doing instead?”

  Roland continued staring ahead. “They got me working with nobles on formations. Geography and scouting too. Bodyguarding some princeling after we go in.” He shrugged, as if he had only half-listened to the instructions.

  “Must be better than yard, right? I’ve been there twice.”

  The man’s eyes glimmered. “Wanna trade?”

  Grant thought hard about the hypothetical, remembering the noble boy from his cart, and came to a firm conclusion. He’d rather deal with the blisters on his hands and feet and the constant aches from yard than with them all day.

  “Come to think of it, no.”

  With a clattering sound their plates were dropped in front of them, and Grant immediately leaned over, saying a short prayer to the Goddess as he scooped meat and vegetables into a piece of flatbread. Roland watched and nodded with approval. “Good lad.”

  Even Lira began stuffing her face with no regard for table manners, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s.

  Roland grabbed the sleeve of a servant carrying two trays. “I’m going to need two more plates like this.” He paused and looked Grant up and down. “And one more for him too.”

  The servant nodded with a glint of urgency in her eye, hurrying off to do as the giant man said.