Overwhelming Firepower

The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time the last recruit staggered across the finish line. What had begun as a mass of hopefuls was now barely half of its former size. The first trial had carved away the unready, leaving only the stubborn and the strong.

Erwin was one of the few who passed the first trial. He was also the one who had the idea of forming a shield wall. It was a trick he heard from one of the mercenaries who came to his forge.

Erwin bent forward, hands braced on his knees, drawing ragged breaths that burned his throat raw and came out in steaming clouds.

Every inhale scraped like sandpaper against his chest, and every exhale trembled, weak, a reminder of how close his body was to simply shutting down. His legs felt like molten lead poured into cracked iron, heavy, unyielding, impossible to lift again without sheer will.

Around him, others collapsed into the snow, gasping, spitting, some groaning as bruises blossomed beneath their armor. A few, though, still stood straight, chests rising steady, eyes sharp. And then there were the four who had finished first.

Unlike the rest of them, the four were not even sweating. The oldest of the four seemed to be a veteran mercenary with a scar on his face and a few on his body.

The other was a young lady with navy blue hair, which was quite rare to see in Norvaegard. Erwin started to wonder if she was a foreigner. She had run like someone born to shield and steel, her composure as unshaken as her pace.

The next one was the youngest of the four, who was simply wearing an animal fur. This one looked like a person from the barbarian tribes, but the overall feeling he was giving was that of a wild animal.

The last one among the four was a man who looked to be around his early twenties. He kept on yawning as though the whole ordeal had been nothing more than a dull inconvenience for him.

His half-lidded eyes barely bothered to scan the crowd, as if he’d stumbled here by accident or boredom rather than will.

Erwin swallowed hard, a sour taste creeping up the back of his throat. It was obvious to him who had seen quite a few people in his time as a blacksmith. Those four were the chosen ones, the ones with true talent and skill.

It wasn’t just him who was looking at the four. Others were doing so as well. Erwin could see complicated emotions in their eyes. Some might feel inadequate compared to them, others might feel a burning sense of rivalry, and then there were some who were simply in awe of their skills.

If it were him from before, seeing these four would have made him quit now, but remembering the knight that would never back down no matter what, Erwin decided he would do the same.

***

The clatter of boots on stone cut through the heavy quiet as the gates of Ironhold opened. A figure stepped forward, cloak trimmed in frost, breath curling white in the cold.

Lucen didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The survivors straightened the moment they saw him, exhaustion falling back beneath a thin layer of discipline and nerves.

”You’ve made it,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. Calm. Precise. Dangerous. ”Barely half of you remain. That’s good. This place does not need numbers. It needs the ones who refuse to fall.”

He let the words settle, eyes sweeping over the recruits, reading not just their faces, but the weight behind their stances: who stood out of habit, who stood because pride demanded it, and who stood because even now, they refused to yield.

”I know there are some of you who have been through true battlefields, and this isn’t much for you, but let me warn you now, skill alone will not determine if you get to be part of Thornefang. You need to show me something more than that. Of course, I won’t tell you what that is, since that too is part of the test.”

Lucen, who had a serious look on his face, suddenly smiled mischievously.

”I imagine,” Lucen said, grin tugging at the edge of his face, ”some of you thought that sprinting across the city under fire was the worst of it.”

A few recruits stiffened. One even let out a faint, nervous laugh, quickly silenced when Lucen’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and amused.

”You’re wrong.”

The courtyard went still. The sound of distant gates creaking under the weight of frost seemed suddenly loud.

”That was simply to see who could move when death was whistling over their heads. To see what you can do under pressure, but moving is easy. Even animals run when threatened.” He spread his hands, slow, casual, like he was explaining a joke to children. ”The real question is... What do you do when the threat doesn’t stop?”

He stepped forward, boots crunching over the snow, eyes never leaving the survivors.

”Tomorrow,” Lucen said softly, almost kindly, ”we shall see who among you can think while faced with the threat of death.”

His grin widened, no warmth in it at all. ”If any of you wish to quit, now’s the time.” Lucen’s eyes surveyed the area. ” So... Will anyone quit now?”

The remaining people did not back down, no one moved, and the resolve in their eyes simply burned brighter.

”Hmph, I guess there is something with you people. We shall see how long you can last.” Lucen turned around and was about to leave, but then he spoke without looking back.

”Eat, sleep, heal your wounds,” Lucen then looked behind his shoulder. ”Pray to your deity if you wish. Because the next dawn won’t be gentle.”

After saying what he wanted to say, Lucen entered back into Ironhold. The gate shut behind him with a heavy, echoing thud, leaving the courtyard full of the survivors, cold and tired.

***

That night, the camp outside Ironhold barely resembled what it had been at dawn. Where once a sprawl of canvas and rope had pulsed with chatter, laughter, the clang of armor, and cheap boasts, now only a scattered handful of tents stood, dark silhouettes hunched against the cold like lonely stones on a frozen plain.

The wind slid between them in thin, whispering drafts, tugging at loose flaps and carrying with it the bitter, metallic tang of blood and oil.

There was no laughter now. No arguments over who had run the fastest, who had been struck the least.

The night held only the muted crackle of low-burning fires and the faint hiss of snow settling into drifts.

They chewed in silence, jaws working like machines too tired to care what they fed. The fires snapped quietly, throwing light that caught the hollows of their cheeks and the tightness in their eyes.

Every so often, someone would look up, glance around the circle, and quickly lower their gaze again. Words felt dangerous now, like speaking them might tempt fate to notice who still breathed.

Even the hopeful youths who survived the first test remained quiet, but the determination in them was burning as brightly as ever.

Bram, the veteran mercenary who had finished first, sat apart, checking the edge of his sword with a slow, practiced rhythm. The rasp of whetstone against steel was the only sound he offered the camp, steady and calm, a heartbeat of iron in the cold night.

A few thought of asking him for advice, but no one did. Something about the way he carried himself, shoulders loose, eyes always watching, felt like an unspoken warning: keep your distance unless you’re ready to prove yourself.

Veronica, the navy-haired young woman, sat near the fire with her spear across her knees and her shield propped beside her. Among those present, she was the only one who felt like a true warrior

She was quite beautiful. She had the kind of beauty that made some glance twice, but the iron in her eyes made them glance away faster.

More than one recruit glanced her way, drawn by beauty as much as presence, but the chill in her gaze sent them looking elsewhere. They didn’t dare approach her, despite wanting to talk since the gaze basically told them she would cut them down if they got close.

Thrall, the wild boy draped in animal fur, crouched on the edge of camp, tearing into half-cooked rabbit with his bare hands. The smell of singed meat and damp fur clung to him like another layer of armor.

He ignored the stares that followed him, eyes fixed instead on the flames as if they held some private challenge. To Thrall, only two here were worth noticing. The two who finished the race faster than him, Bram and Veronica. The rest might as well have been ghosts.

The one who had finished fourth was a man called Daniel. He only ate a bit and quickly went back to his tent to sleep.

Daniel had eaten only a mouthful before rising, movements slow but deliberate, as if every step was calculated to avoid wasting effort. A few recruits called his name. Others tried to draw him into conversation. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at them. He walked back to his tent, pulled the flap down, and left behind a silence heavier than any words.

The others also went to sleep once they were done eating and checking their own equipment. Not knowing what tomorrow would bring, they slept while they could.