As I stood in the stadium, surrounded by my reborn brothers and sisters, I faced forward as the High Priest once again came before us. His voice carried over the gathered crowd:
"My dear children. You are no longer mere lambs; you are the wrath of God incarnate. You are the swords that shall purge this land of evil and bring about peace. Under our Lord's banner, let your faith shine brighter than ever. He has given you flesh. He has given you blood. Now give Him your undying devotion and let your roar echo through the sky.
Choose your path. Choose a house to serve under, and dedicate your blood, sweat, and tears to the Almighty."
Veteran Paladins came forward, each holding their house banners high. I saw names that carried weight: House Dragnear, House Camelot… but the one that drew my gaze was House Crusader. Sir Zantos Crus, the man who had saved my life, stood proudly with the banner. Our eyes met, and he gave me a knowing smile. A rush of memories hit me, but I pushed them aside.
Once all the houses had assembled, we were given our choice. There had been a thousand children that day, but now only a hundred stood here—not children anymore, but manifestations of divine wrath. I walked toward the banner of the House of Crusaders, joining others who shared my resolve. Each glance around me was filled with determination; all of us were ready to die for the purpose. I was ready too.
As the ceremony concluded, Sir Zantos stepped forward:
"Fellow warriors, you have survived the trials set by our Savior Himself. That you stand here now marks you as chosen. You are the hand of God, a member of this house. I commend the will and faith you have shown, but this is but a small victory. The war has only just begun. Pray for His grace. Burn your body and soul; sacrifice is the path to salvation."
He turned to me, smiling gently:
Zantos: "You've grown since I last saw you."
Kortwil: Memories surged, and I nodded. "I am grateful for what you did for me that day. No words can describe the debt I owe, nor the grace of the Almighty."
Zantos: "You're still angry, aren't you? I see it in your eyes—the same hatred I saw when I brought you in."
Kortwil: I remained silent, letting the words settle. "I never forgot."
Zantos: "Good. Hate gives purpose, hate gives power. But remember, you are no longer a child. You are a Paladin. Hate is no longer your purpose—sacrifice is. You are special, graced beyond what others could ever ask for. I look forward to your future, Kortwil… or rather, Sir Kortwil."
I clenched the wooden pendant hanging from my neck, letting his words settle. My hatred had not faded, but it now mingled with resolve.
After the ceremony, we were loaded into armored, weaponized trucks—the same type used to transport us as children, only now more fit for the weapons we had become. As we exited the gates, hundreds of trucks arrived behind us, carrying thousands of new orphans. The heretics were unrelenting; they had to be stopped.
We reached the outskirts of the city of Search, home to the Crusaders. We were not allowed inside immediately but were stationed at a camp beyond the city walls. Before us lay vast, scorched lands, unclaimed and filled with danger. The High Priest and Captain Zantos welcomed us, emphasizing that the path to greatness required not just power but unwavering faith and will.
The following day, training began. The regimen was brutal—testing body, mind, and faith. My muscles ached, but the pain was fleeting in the presence of divine purpose. Months passed before we were allowed to spar, a trial to see the fruits of our labors.
My first match was against a fellow Paladin. They felt small, insignificant even. A single strike was enough to win. One by one, I defeated others, each encounter a testament to training, strength, and faith.
Then I met him, Oser. He was different. He smiled, sizing me up:
"You're tall, intimidating even. But what you've shown is nothing more than brute strength. That alone will not win this fight."
His childish form of provocation was amusing to say the least.
We clashed. Victory seemed near, then vanished—the lesson already clear. He was fast, precise, unyielding. My sword struck the ground; I was stunned.
"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "Brute strength alone won't win. Let's try again."
We fought again. This time, neither could gain the upper hand. Blows were exchanged, parries measured, muscles burned. In the end, both of us were battered and bruised, chests heaving. Yet, amid exhaustion, we laughed.
And in the very next second we got up and rushed towards each other, but before our blade could clash again.
"Halt"
we both froze, it was an overseer, he looked at both of us.
"I am pleased to see your devotion towards improvement, but it is way beyond the allowed time of sparing. Go quick to your rooms."
He spoke with authority and left.
We froze for a bit and then shared a small laugh.
"That was a great spar, brother. Let's do it again sometime," I said.
"Agreed," he replied, extending his hand. "It was an honor to fight. I am Oser."
"I am kotwal." I spoke.
I will remember you