Weeks passed in a haze.

  Every morning, music blared, his bunk mate startled awake. Breakfast was followed by spear drills—early on just thrusts, but later parries, blocks, trips, and swipes. Skill Selection and Theory went over Class and Skill synergy with Attribute values. The baths after every yard session made the grueling schedule possible, and at times, almost bearable. The nutritious food and Roland’s instruction bridged the gap the rest of the way.

  On the day of Captain Alaric’s demonstration at Grant’s expense, Caitlyn demanded to know what had happened to his face. He reluctantly told her the truth. She spent the next 20 minutes of class time ranting about military culture, demoralization and humiliation, citing studies about self-worth and confidence directly correlating to improved learning, with every other recruit watching in slack-jawed horror. Grant was convinced that he would have to talk her out of visiting the yard herself and charging Captain Alaric with a spear, and she even threatened to abandon her post and go back to the university. After class, he begged her to stay, as her lectures were one of the few things keeping him sane.

  One morning, he looked at himself in the mirror, and he almost didn’t recognize the person staring back. The pudginess on his face had been carved off, leaving a sharp, angular jaw. His shoulders and chest had filled out, and his waist slimmed down, as if all his fat had hardened into muscle and migrated to other parts of his body. Facial hair had even begun to sprout, and it prickled his fingers to the touch. If he had seen a man like himself in Mr. Fletcher’s inn a month ago, he would have immediately pegged him as a mercenary or soldier.

  It wasn’t as though he felt like one. But his opinions on the topic of Captain Alaric aside, the man’s instruction had sculpted him into something else. And despite the officer’s prior treatment of Grant, he begrudgingly gave him a positive assessment of his skills with a spear in their last session.

  He had Private Ayers to thank for much of that. When they began splitting into pairs for drill practice, the experienced recruit volunteered to be Grant’s partner. Captain Alaric strongly suggested he should choose a more practiced opponent, and Grant initially felt some animosity toward the private, but he eventually realized the man showed great restraint in their first spar.

  Over time, they even became something resembling friends. Private Ayers gave Grant verbal cues to follow during their practice sessions, which benefited him far more than the muscle-memory-through-repetition approach their instructor seemed to favor.

  Seeing them work together, the rest of the men and women even began treating Grant with an air of respect.

  That morning, Grant sat on his bed. He practiced a breathing technique his yard instructor had given him, where he inhaled through his nose and used his throat to pull the air down into his belly, hold it for three heartbeats, and exhale slowly. For the third time that morning, he checked his Interface.

  [The Sixth Campaign will begin in 3 days, 1 hour, 26 minutes, and 39 seconds from the present time.]

  In just over three days, nearly 10 thousand recruits would be ushered through the Athemore Portal. There were three others spread across Evenon, and Grant had heard that in all, nearly 30,000 Evenonians would be sent to another world. The Gracians, too, would enter their own Portals, then Campaigners from the Isles of Blyth, the Clemene, and the Annets too. Evenon was usually the nation that supplied the most Campaigners, but in all, it was estimated that at least 75,000 Humans from Lyria would go.

  Today was the long-awaited Reading Day, where they would visit a Reader to estimate their starting Points. Grant was terrified, as the second most important day of his life had finally come, and the biggest loomed on the horizon. There were no more yard sessions and no more classes. They would have their Points Read, and then the Campaign Festival would begin.

  He Identified his dagger.

  [Wisdom has increased to 18!]

  “Finally!” His heart fluttered, and he couldn’t hold back the word. He clutched Siphoning Fang to his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered to the dagger, tears stinging his eyes.

  The most recent point in Wisdom had taken him four days and thousands of Identify casts to gain. He’d almost lost hope that he would reach 18. But now, there was not a shred of doubt that it was his hard limit; even if he stayed up for three days casting the Spell nonstop, he would never reach 19 before the deadline.

  However, 18 was a vital milestone. Two weeks earlier, Dr. Holt had explained that it was not only the raw scores of your Attributes that mattered, but how they were balanced. Your highest Attribute would gain the most points upon leveling up, followed closely by your second. From your third highest Attribute, the points per level dropped off sharply.

  But there was a caveat: if your second and third highest Attributes were the same value, neither would be considered your second highest. In other words, they would both increase at a glacial pace. Royals and Nobles actively avoided gaining certain Attributes to assure they’d have the perfect balance. Having Attributes with the same values was crippling the speed they would advance.

  Grant had gambled on being able to hit 18 Wisdom. He could have stopped Identifying at 16, allowing his Intelligence to stay ahead, but he suspected the benefits of high Wisdom were marginally greater for a caster than Intelligence, although few Campaigners entered the Portal with higher Wisdom than Intelligence. He tried to glean information about Spells off Doctor Holt’s lectures, even risking an indirect question or two after class, but the man remained tight-lipped about anything involving Magic. Grant checked his final Attribute scores to make sure everything was in order.

  [Displaying Attributes.]

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  Name: Grant Leeman

  Strength: 12

  Vitality: 12

  Dexterity: 16 + 2

  Agility: 13

  Intelligence: 17

  Wisdom: 18+2

  Perception: 22

  He looked over his Attributes, unexpected pride swelling. He never thought his Strength would reach 12, the minimum to wear chain mail armor. Pairing with Private Ayers had also proved a sure—albeit painful—way to increase his Vitality as well, and the regular blows to the head removed any chance of his Intelligence increasing.

  With his Wisdom having grown beyond his wildest expectations, Grant began to fantasize about what Spell he would choose. The Silence Spell the officer had used on the merchant was tempting. He had no way of knowing if the man’s voice had returned yet, as they did not share a mess hall, a dormitory, or a single class, but the Magic must be potent to rob a man of his speech. The Light Skill that Doctor Holt had shown him was still fresh in his mind. My Light Skills are little more than a candle’s flame to a true Light Mage’s Spells, he had said.

  But in his heart, Grant knew he had made up his mind weeks ago. When lightning struck in the Stormplains, every bone in Grant’s body screamed at him to hide. It was primal and uncontrollable, like wrath from the heavens themselves.

  He put a lot of logical thought into the decision, too. Lightning burned hotter and traveled faster than fire. It was almost impossible to defend against and was highly effective against both organic and inorganic creatures. Castle walls would crumble to its power, foes could be deafened by its sound alone.

  And on a personal level, Grant considered nothing more awe-inspiring than using a force of nature against an enemy.

  Waiting until the last minute before breakfast, he sat on his bed and smiled at his fingertips, imagining tendrils of lightning darting between them.

  ***

  Lira, Roland, Grant and Ayers sat in the mess hall. The experienced recruit occasionally joined their group, but never gave Grant his first name, preferring to be referred to as Ayers even in casual situations.

  Naturally, Roland and Ayers became friends instantly. They were both fiercely competitive in everything from who could eat faster to arm wrestling. Half the recruits from Grant’s yard group turned out for their inevitable sparring session in the yard, and his eyes could barely follow their movements. Ayers flowed, his movements more a choreographed dance than an attack against a foe. Roland, on the other hand, had no such grace or agility. Grant dared say he looked almost clumsy at first.

  His assumption was proved wrong the first time Ayers thrust his spear at Roland. The massive man contemptuously grabbed it with his bare hand, pulled Ayers in by its shaft, and headbutted him in the face, sending him sprawling to his back. Blood spurt from the private’s nose, then laughter burst from his throat.

  Grant gawked, hoping he’d be sent through the Portal with them, though it was unlikely. Roland was going through with a minor Royal, Ayers with a group of Evenonian soldiers to secure a city on the other side.

  After their first bout, Grant never saw Ayers land a single strike on Roland, but the private never held it against the mercenary.

  Today, Captain Alaric stood at the front of the mess hall to address the recruits, his hands clasped behind his back and a rare smile on his face. Everyone had long grown used to the early rising time, and not a single person had been late in weeks.

  “Congratulations on completing your basic training. Today, you will be free until two o’clock.” The recruits cheered.

  The captain chuckled in return. “Spend this time as you wish. Spend time with your friends, read, or sleep, although I would suggest you train, especially if your Attributes are not in order.”

  Of course you would, thought Grant.

  “After lunch, you will find formal clothes on your bunk. Wear them before you enter the Shrine of the Goddess. Your seats will be sent to your Interface.”

  A Notification flashed.

  [Seat: Block Three, Row 93, X]

  A murmur of confusion rolled over the hall. Reading was a private ceremony. A Campaigner could invite family or trusted friends into the room with him or her, but as Rott had explained, Points were kept secret for a reason. Would they be called in individually?

  Captain Alaric hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He blew out his breath slowly and closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was flat and cold. “His Eminence, Emperor Genus, has astutely observed that a Campaigner’s strength lay not only in his or her individual power, but in the sum of the members on his or her team. It is only natural that Campaigners cannot excel without knowing their teammates. This morning, His Eminence announced that Readings this year would be public.”

  A gasp rippled through the hall. Grant’s mouth went dry, and Ayers started to choke on his own spit. Then, a moment of silence. The next thing he heard was dozens jumping to their feet and shouting over each other.

  He shook his head in disbelief. This had never happened before. Rott said it back in Iori: having high Points alone was enough to put a target on your back. Grant was friendly with most of the recruits, but how long would allegiances last when their lives were on the line? He set his jaw against the wave of misery and looked over at his friends.

  Roland sat next to him unfazed.

  “What are your thoughts on this?” Grant asked him.

  “Smart. Emperor’s got two brats going in. Son and a daughter. We know that parents who got high Points make kids with high Points. They’ll have a Royal Guard to keep them safe either way. Royal Cabal of Mages, too.”

  “Makes perfect sense,” said Lira. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Mark some high-Point targets early. A few deaths will hardly be noticed in the confusion.”

  They had come to the same conclusion as Grant. Ayers just leaned forward, clasped hands covering most of his unreadable face.

  “I don’t get it,” Grant eventually said. “Why would an Anomaly need more Points? With hundreds of thousands, they can buy almost anything on the Store. His eyes darted between his friends’ faces.

  “Right?”

  “Lad,” said Roland piteously. He began to explain, but let the next words die on his tongue. He shook his head instead.

  “So, what do we do?” asked Grant over the commotion. “What even can be done?”

  Ayers leaned over slightly to whisper in Grant’s ear. “Keep in mind that this is a direct order from His Majesty. Insubordination is treason.”

  “So we go,” Grant murmured, still in disbelief. Announcing the Points of every recruit was unprecedented.

  Captain Alaric raised his palm, and the noise gradually died down.

  “I understand that this was unexpected, but Emperor Genus must make difficult decisions every day,” Captain Alaric continued. “Whether you like it or not, it is out of our hands. I will pray to the Goddess for your good fortune.” As usual, upon finishing his speech, he left through two large swinging doors.

  The moment he left, the room erupted again.

  Grant found his eyes staring in the direction of the nobles’ barracks. He gripped his pant legs with frustration, callused hands turning white. Being given every advantage wasn’t enough for them, and so they colluded with the Crown to give themselves yet another.

  Their instructors had yelled into their ears again and again the dangers of foreign races. They told stories about savage creatures who would slit your throat for your blood-stained tunic. He could not deny that Orcs, Elves, Dwarves, Goblins, Trolls and Giants scared him. The Demon and Undead races haunted his nightmares.

  But he would rather have a horde of enemies pointing blades at his chest than one at his back.