It was the sixth month of training.
By now, the weak had been weeded out.
What remained were the hungry—the ones with bruised fists, cracked ribs, and eyes that didn't flinch at blood.
Today was different.
There were no drills, no push-ups, no screams.
Instead, the recruits stood in formation, facing a long row of weapon racks under a canvas tent.
Swords, spears, bows, axes, hammers, whips—even things most of them didn't have names for.
Sergeant Garran stepped forward, in his hands behind his back.
"The next phase of your training begins," he announced. "From now on, you train with a weapon of your choice. The weapon that chooses you... or the one you can survive wielding."
The recruits were called by row. Adel stood in the fourth.
Boys rushed the racks like starving dogs—some laughing, some arguing over blades, others swinging them with wild grins. Adel waited patiently, his eyes scanning the weapons from a distance.
Finley returned first, holding a short spear. "Fast, light, and easier to throw," he said proudly. "What about you?"
Adel didn't answer.
Not yet.
When his turn came, he walked slowly to the racks, passing dozens of swords—some polished, some nicked, some plain. But none of them called to him.
Then he saw it.
At the end of the row, partially hidden behind an old cracked shield, was a blade covered in cloth. The other recruits hadn't touched it. Dust clung to it like a curse.
Adel reached out and pulled the cloth away.
It was a sword.
A simple sword.
No elaborate engravings. No magic glow. Just cold metal, balanced and clean. Its weight sat naturally in Adel's hand. Its length—perfect. Its grip—familiar.
It didn't feel like a weapon.
It felt like a part of him.
Adel stared at it, then turned to Finley, voice low.
"A sword," he said quietly, almost reverently.
Finley raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
Suddenly, a taller boy approached them—dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, with a confident grin that could charm lightning out of the sky. Without warning, he flung his arms around both their shoulders.
"Good picks, my brothers!" he said with a dramatic chuckle. "A spear and a sword, huh?"
He looked at Finley. "The spear—that's the weapon of kings and conquerors. Symbol of victory, of striving, of reaching your goals."
Then he glanced at Adel's blade. "The sword, now… that one's tricky. Power and justice, sure—but also violence. Destruction. Even evil. It cuts both ways." He shrugged casually. "But hey, they're just symbolisms. Most soldiers still pick swords."
Finley laughed. "What did you pick, Troy?"
"Huhu…" Troy grinned, stepping back and flexing. "With my build? I went for the axe."
He mimed a massive swing through the air.
"Brutal. Simple. Honest. Like me."
Adel let out a faint smile. The three of them stood in silence for a moment, each holding their weapon of choice.
The afternoon sun bore down like judgment itself, baking the western yard in heat and sweat. The instructors wasted no time.
Groups of three were ordered to spar together—test each other's limits, feel the weight of real combat, and get used to fighting as a unit.
Adel, Finley, and Troy were naturally grouped together. Garran didn't even look surprised.
"Three weapons. Three fighting styles. One team," he said, arms crossed. "You'll live or die together from now on. Figure it out."
"Live or die, huh?" Troy chuckled, twirling his axe effortlessly. "Sounds poetic."
"Sounds terrifying," Finley muttered, adjusting his grip on the spear.
Adel remained silent. He gripped his sword tightly—a simple blade, nothing ornate. But it felt right in his hand. Like it belonged.
Their first exercise was simple: survive.
A group of four older recruits—already trained in the basics—were ordered to attack them. Not to kill, but to hurt. Badly.
"Begin!" shouted Garran.
The first clash was chaos.
One of the enemies lunged at Finley. He froze—until Troy intercepted, blocking the blow with his axe and slamming the attacker with his shoulder.
"Eyes open, spear boy!" Troy shouted.
Another came for Adel. He sidestepped, letting instinct take control. His sword moved fast—almost too fast. A quick slash, clean and efficient, disarmed the opponent in a flash of steel.
"What the hell?" the older recruit muttered, backing away, clutching his wrist.
The final two attackers came together—a flanking move. Smart.
But not smart enough.
Adel turned to Finley. "Line them up."
"Huh?"
"Now!"
Without thinking, Finley stepped forward and jabbed his spear low—forcing the two into a narrow path between him and Troy.
"Clear shot!" Troy bellowed, swinging his axe with brutal strength. The two recruits tumbled backward into the dirt, groaning.
Silence fell.
Then Garran spoke.
"Again."
By the end of the hour, they'd fought three more groups. Won every time.
Bruised, bleeding, and covered in dirt, the three collapsed under the shade of a nearby barrack wall.
"Okay," Finley gasped. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about training. This is hell."
"Huhuhu, this is only the beginning, brother," Troy said, wiping blood from his lip and still smiling like it was all a game.
Adel leaned his head back, staring at the sky. He didn't say a word. His breathing was calm, controlled.
But inside his chest, something stirred.
Not pride.
Not relief.
But a hunger to grow stronger.
He looked at the sword beside him—simple, plain, but now marked by effort and sweat.
And he knew.
This was only the beginning.