The rest of the day mercifully sped by. Whether it was the extra rest time, the point of Strength he had gained, or the rejuvenating hope of a schedule change, the third yard session was not nearly as bad as the first two. As the sun set, the courtyard cooled, and with it, Mana crystals flickered to life across the city. It would have been a pleasant place to read a book, if not for the 200 recruits screaming with every spear thrust in its neighboring yard.

  Grant admittedly had begun putting far less effort when Captain Alaric’s back was turned, but seeing many others do the same blunted the guilt. Four and a half hours of training a day, even with the baths, was far too much. One of the most difficult parts of the rigorous drill work was hiding Siphoning Fang as he Resummoned, Identified, and Dismissed it. He had gradually grown used to Resummoning it on the bottom of his spear’s shaft, and it seemed nobody had taken notice yet.

  His final class, Survival Skills, was taught by an ancient man whom Grant assumed must have been in the Third or Fourth Campaign. He began the lesson by promptly forgetting to introduce himself, or maybe he simply deemed it unnecessary. Mr. Fletcher seemed proof that with age came diminished regard for decorum. Perhaps as far as the professor was concerned, the time it would take to say his name was better spent teaching the material.

  Although he mumbled, interrupting himself every few words with a hacking fit until he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and continued speaking, the content of his lesson was far from useless. Many of Grant’s classmates dozed off, which their instructor either didn't notice or didn't care to notice, but learning how to disinfect a wound without a Healer, navigate using stars, build a fire, and forage for food in an emergency were potentially life-saving skills.

  He would have stayed after as he had with Caitlyn to ask more questions, but the professor was the first out of the room. By the time Grant got to the hallway, he was nowhere to be seen.

  When Grant left the hall to return to his barracks, the sky shone with stars. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t help but take a moment to sit on a bench in the square and gaze up, imagining all the worlds.

  How did their inhabitants feel preparing for their own Campaigns? Before Caitlyn’s class, he had never given it much consideration—he knew that other races were also selected and sent through their own Portals, but the paintings made them so much more real. While the overwhelming majority of Campaign training time had been spent on finding better ways to kill them, they had customs, cultures, histories and stories of their own.

  Grant paused as the reality hit him. He was only seeing half the picture. What kind of person was he going to be beyond the Portal? When he was faced with life or death, what would he turn into? The other races didn’t consider themselves evil. To them, their cause was righteous, and Humans were one of the nameless, faceless savages that stood between them and the Second and Third.

  Once he turned down the path of violence, would there be any turning back?

  “I didn’t think she’d scream like that,” a voice said from behind Grant.

  “Yeah, I’d shriek like a little girl with a roach in her porridge if you laid your grimy hands on me too,” remarked another. Multiple men burst out laughing.

  Grant turned around, then snapped his face away. Col and his crew of sailors had entered the square. Stupid. Roland had given him clear instructions to stay in public areas. Moron. There were several of them, when any one of them could have beaten him until he looked like a squashed tomato. Idiot. And yet here he was caught out, as helpless as a fish on the shore.

  There were only a few scattered recruits still out, and not an officer in sight. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but he was surrounded by nothing other than a clean lawn and backless stone benches. He had nowhere to hide, and if they found him, he would be defenseless.

  He leaned forward with his palm on the side of his face they were heading. Peeking through his fingers, he counted five men. They stumbled, swayed, slurred, and shouted like men who had found a bottle. Grant couldn’t help but wonder how they not only got their hands on alcohol, but how they drank it with a full class and yard schedule.

  Questions aside, drunk was good. Drunk meant dull. Drunk meant slow. He could just wander away as they were preoccupied, and if they caught sight of him, he had a 20-yard head start. All he had to do was look like any other recruit enjoying the brisk evening air.

  Grant stood up and stretched his back. He slowly sauntered towards the nearest hallway, which was lit by bright Mana crystals, trying not to look too eager. Just one foot in front of the other. Don’t stop.

  “Leeman!” The footsteps of five men plodded towards him, but Grant was already sprinting. Why did he call me? He should have snuck up.

  He darted up the ramp into the entrance and turned the first corner, slipping momentarily on the tiled flooring and costing himself valuable seconds. Col and his crew were drunk, but they were in much better shape. His thighs burned and the blisters on the balls of his feet stung, but he pumped his arms, praying for more speed. As if to answer his pleas, a Notification flashed across his Interface.

  [Agility has increased to 10!]

  Their footsteps grew louder as they gained on him. They were men used to hard physical labor and fighting for balance as their ships heaved and rolled in rough seas. Grant hoped that with the alcohol in their blood, they would tire before him, or slip and fall into a big clumsy heap. He ran with horror as their boots kept squeaking on the tile, and their taunts and jeers didn’t stop.

  He saw an exit straight ahead. It led outside to an empty square. There was no way through, so he turned the corner instead. Betrayed by his feet, he teetered and skidded, barely keeping his balance. Another long empty corridor loomed before him. He could hear the men breathing behind him now, and he didn’t dare look back.

  His legs were burning, and every gasp of air was a stab of agony in his ribs. It was little reprieve that the men behind him were breathing just as loudly. Mage or not, he’d need to find a way increase his Vitality.

  Fingers brushed the back of his tunic. A grunt escaped a pursuer’s mouth. Someone cursed—whether it was Grant or one of the sailors, he was not quite sure.

  Just as he lost hope, he found an open doorway on the right.

  His newfound reflexes honed by time in the yard and practice running on the corridor tiles manifested as he slid sideways to correct his course. He bent his knees and, at the last second, dove forward, landing on his belly and knocking the wind out of himself. He gasped and clutched his stomach with one hand, rolling into a ball and covering his face with the other, bracing for pain.

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  There was no pain. Nobody kicked him in the ribs or stomped on his head.

  Long seconds of whimpering on the floor later, he cracked open one eye, and then the other. When he looked up, he found full heads of long hair on slight frames. They were sitting on bunk beds just like Grant’s.

  He lay on the floor sheepishly. Nobody had said a word. The sailors had abandoned their hunt for the night, knowing that pummeling Grant in front of a room full of recruits would see them manacled to a wall until they were shoved through the Portal.

  “Uh, sorry… Wrong dorm?” he tried. It sounded lame in his head, and twice as lame when he said it.

  The women continued gawping at him.

  ***

  The music played, and, just like the day before, Grant’s bunkmate let out a yelp and shot up in his bed, the frame creaking and groaning under his weight. His thick legs swung over the edge, and he jumped down in his undergarments.

  Today, Grant groaned as he lay on his own mattress, fully dressed. Last night, he had made a mistake that could have ended with weeks in the infirmary. Instead, it ended with him being dragged back to the men’s dormitory by his ear by a short-haired, quick-tempered, exceedingly unamused female officer, who informed him in no uncertain terms that intruding upon the women’s dormitory again would see him lashed.

  He shuddered at the memory, slapped his thighs, and pushed himself out of bed.

  Today was going to be a better day. Caitlyn must have recommended him for her other class by now, and so he clung to that hope as he strolled past all the panicking recruits to the mess hall, patting his rumbling stomach.

  Grant was well-acquainted with hunger, but hunger despite eating well was a foreign sensation. It was not nearly as debilitating as the pangs that came with not having eaten for days, of course, but it was still mildly uncomfortable.

  He found his seat, and minutes later, Roland and Lira were in their usual spots. They hung onto Grant’s every word as he recounted the incident with Col and the sailors the previous night in dramatic (and slightly embellished) fashion, ending the story with him lying on the floor of a women’s dormitory. Lira found the situation hilarious, and Roland congratulated him for the quick thinking on his feet.

  What he didn’t say was that it was pure luck that the men were sloppy drunk. He brushed it off to his friends as a minor scuffle, but last night, Grant was terrified.

  A peek toward Col’s table was a stark reminder that things were far from over. The sailor’s sunken, hungover eyes met Grant’s with promises of revenge.

  ***

  An hour later, Grant stood at attention in the yard. Captain Alaric studied the recruits, pacing down the line. The sun was at exactly the right height, the gap in the leaves of a tree in exactly the right angle to blind him, making the captain a towering silhouette.

  “In our great nation, we train our soldiers for a minimum of one year before sending them anywhere near a battle.”

  Feeling another speech coming on, Grant inwardly celebrated the victory. The more the captain talked, the less the recruits would have to move.

  “The brutes in the Gracian Empire,” he said, spitting on the dirt, “or the soldiers from Bruma and Traniel, will only train for three to six months. Why is this?”

  Grant wondered how answering his clearly rhetorical question would play out, entertaining himself with the mental image of a recruit raising his hand with a wildly incorrect answer.

  “They do not know that quality beats quantity. Every time. A single chain will hold truer than a thousand strings.”

  The man stopped in front of Grant, round face and beady eyes boring directly into his. “But even the strongest chain will bend if its links have gaps.”

  Grant stared forward. The spit pooled in his mouth, and his stomach sent threats of losing his breakfast on the officer’s feet. He half expected a fist to land in his gut at any time, but forced himself to stay as still as possible.

  “I would like to begin today’s yard with a demonstration. Private Leeman, to the front. Private Ayers, to the front.”

  Grant gripped his spear, trembling in fear as he trudged forward. The other man walked like he was on a stroll through a quiet forest. He was a few inches shorter than Grant, but lean muscle rippled in his forearms and neck. His shoulder-length hair was a deep shade of brown, and his face had the slimness of an athlete.

  A young boy approached Grant with a spear with a soft cushion. He handed it over, retrieved Grant’s bladed spear, and gave Private Ayers a similar one. Private Ayers never took his gaze off Grant.

  “Private Leeman is a former inn worker from Iori. If you haven’t heard of it, I assure you that you are in good company. Private Ayers, on the other hand, has completed eleven months of training. He is exceptional with the spear.”

  The captain faced Grant. “Private Leeman, show me what you learned from yesterday’s lessons. I would like you to try and impale Private Ayers.” He looked Ayers up and down. “Do not hold back.”

  Grant set his feet exactly how he had been instructed. His knuckles turned white from his grip on the shaft, and with all his might, he thrust at the man’s chest, taking a step forward.

  It was a pitiful attempt. Private Ayers could’ve dodged it in any direction, but he ducked low. The spear missed his head by a full foot, and Grant was thrown off balance with nothing to stop his forward momentum. Using Grant’s own weight against him, Private Ayers slammed his elbow into the side of his head, connecting with his cheekbone under his eye.

  “I have taken time from my busy schedule to instruct you.”

  Grant could gather two things. The first was that he was on the ground. The second was that Captain Alaric was addressing the class again. Through the spinning smear that filled his eyes, he saw Private Ayers standing at attention, the butt of his spear on the ground with its cushioned tip toward the sky.

  “So imagine my disappointment when I hear that one of you has requested less time in yard—time that very well may save his life.” The captain wore an incredulous sneer as he scowled down at Grant. “You expect concepts like culture and customs of foreign races to save you? Will you invite them to tea and biscuits and skip merrily to the Third hand in hand, the power of friendship guiding you past the hordes of monstrosities?”

  The recruits laughed, but it was cut short by a glare from the captain.

  “To your feet, Private Leeman.”

  Whether it was fear, anger, embarrassment, or pride that drove Grant, he did not know. Still unsteady, he stood up, re-squared his feet, and tightly gripped his spear.

  “Again.”

  Grant didn’t wait. He thrust, aiming lower. Better than the first, but far from enough. This time, Private Ayers sidestepped his strike. He executed a sharp 180-degree turn, and his spear flowed behind him. Grant had overextended his thrust again. Before he could recover, the Private’s haft struck him in the side of the head, and blood erupted from his ear. As he lay on the ground, he nearly sobbed from the pain. He choked back his tears and tried to scramble to his feet.

  He got to his knees before dizziness overcame him, sending him back to his stomach. He wiped his dusty, sweat-beaded brow and squinted up at Private Ayers, who stood at attention, pose perfectly maintained down to the inch.

  Grant stumbled again finding his feet, eventually regaining some semblance of balance. He could hear nothing from his left ear, which throbbed and itched with the sticky wetness of blood. His vision was still blurry on and face tender on the right side where the first strike had landed. He was not entirely sure if he was even facing the class, Captain Alaric, or was still on his back, staring up at the sky.

  But he felt Captain Alaric glowering down at him. “Private Leeman, please explain to your fellow recruits what you learned from this experience.”

  The heat rose in his face. This was not meant to be a demonstration of spear skills. There was no instructional value to be had in showcasing a recruit with eleven months of training outmaneuvering a recruit with one day. It was not even a warning to those who may challenge an officer’s authority.

  It was unbridled pettiness from a fragile ego. It was self-satisfaction, as the man who stood over him reveled in the pain and embarrassment he made Grant feel. It was punishment no better than what Col wanted to force on Grant, masquerading as instruction. And so he said what he wanted.

  “The strong prey on the weak.” His voice was thick with unveiled indignance, and he spat the words out with no regard for consequences.

  Captain Alaric stared at Grant, two dark, stern eyes fixed on his face in the stunned silence. Grant kept his eyes forward and his jaw locked, waiting for the sting of a backhand or a fist to his stomach, refusing to blink or swallow the coppery spit sloshing in his mouth.

  “There is hope for you yet, Private Leeman. Back in line."