Second Life as a Soldier

By the time the quartermaster finished describing the army divisions and answering a few half-hearted questions from the braver recruits, I found myself with a heavy head and too many thoughts. There was a lot to consider. I wasn’t sure about my talent, but if nothing else, I might be able to meet the standards for the Intelligence Division. My academic skills, reading, writing, and math, are already up to par with the requirements.

But once again, my lack of understanding about this world hit me like a slap. I knew nothing about how combat classes progressed. I’d read that scribes could reach Tier 3, but those were royal court scribes, the top 0.1%. My childhood dream had been modest: to become a Tier 2 scribe by the age of 40, just like my father. Now, everything had changed. Sergeant David mentioned that in elite divisions like the Vanguard, soldiers could reach Tier 3 by the end of their ten-year service. That meant achieving it by age 26.

In Oxspell, the mayor once held a celebration when his father reached Tier 3, at the age of 85. Clearly, I was out of my depth.

All these thoughts churned as I finished my lunch, simple army fare, mostly boiled grains and tough meat. I had an hour before afternoon drills, and I wasn’t one to waste time. If I wanted to survive here, I needed to understand this world better. Maybe there was somewhere I could learn about combat classes, tier progression, something, anything.

After poking around near the supply office, I finally got a word in with one of the workers. At first, he brushed me off, probably assuming I was wasting his time. But eventually, he shared a nugget of information. Apparently, the city library was already open to trainees. The quartermaster would only be teaching reading and writing classes for the first three months. Literate recruits like me were free to start using the library immediately. For those who couldn’t read or write, the quartermaster’s classes were meant to help them catch up, and once those classes ended, even illiterate recruits would be encouraged to study at the library on their own.

No one had mentioned this. Then again, 60–70% of recruits here were illiterate. Most of the literate ones were from noble or wealthy merchant families and probably didn’t need to be told. It was just assumed they’d figure it out.

Today, I didn’t have time to explore the library, not really. Survival and terrain drills were scheduled within the hour. Still, I made a mental note and, just to be sure, checked with the guards at the barracks gate. The library wasn’t far, about a twenty-minute walk, located in the heart of the Commoner’s District, just like the barracks themselves.

I returned just in time for the start of drills.

Sergeant David took over, barking orders in his usual no-nonsense tone. The afternoon session was focused on survival basics, things you needed to know if you ever found yourself deployed to a forest outpost or marching across uncharted lands.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author’s consent. Report any sightings.We began with a demonstration of tent setup, showing how to pitch one with minimal tools. Then we were taught to start fires using flint and steel, or mana stones if attuned. This was followed by a practical session on field hygiene: proper latrine use, hand washing, and safe waste disposal methods.

After a short break, we dove into night formation and sentry rotation drills. We practiced forming lines while blindfolded in five-man squads, learning to rely on sound and spatial memory. Then came voice recognition games, where we had to identify squadmates by call signs in the dark. The day ended with our first hour-long sentry simulation, a trial run of what would become a weekly routine.

By the time we stumbled into the reading class, most of us were too drained to care. The quartermaster began by asking everyone who knew how to read and write to come forward and demonstrate. A few did, awkward and embarrassed, but he seemed satisfied.

He then simply said, “Those who wish to learn, stay. The rest of you, off to your tents.”

I stayed a bit longer, but I already knew how to read and write, so I used the last forty-five minutes before lights out to squeeze in some agility training. The day hadn’t been as exhausting as the march, so I still had some energy left.

After dinner, I collapsed onto my bedroll, barely able to keep my eyes open.

The next morning came abruptly, a splash of cold water across my face.

“Up, recruit!” someone barked. My eyes flew open. The stars were still out.

It wasn’t even 4:30 yet, but that didn’t matter.

We assembled quickly, groggy and stiff from the previous day. The air was cold and the sun had yet to rise, casting the entire training yard in hues of dark blue and gray. Our physical conditioning began with a 2 km run, timed to the minute. Rope climbs came next, 5 meters high, and we were allowed a boost from squadmates if we struggled. Then came burpees, push-ups, and finally, group stretching and breathing exercises that reminded me of meditation poses.

After a quick water break, we moved straight into marching and formations. We completed a 3 km loaded march carrying 10 kg packs, learning basic commands like Halt, Advance, Form Line, and Form Column. Our instructors drilled us in call-and-response formats until we could shout the words in unison without pause.

Then came weapons training. We were introduced to the basics of spear combat, how to hold the weapon, proper stance, footwork. We took turns thrusting at straw dummies, repeating the movements again and again until our shoulders screamed.

When chores came, they weren’t a relief. I ended up reinforcing tent lines and oiling blades to keep them from rusting, while others swept walkways, hauled water, or dug latrines. Some poor souls had to wash pots and cooking utensils, tasks no one envied.

Lunch was a blessing. Simple, hot, and filling. The one-hour break that followed was a welcome reprieve. Before long, it was time for the afternoon session again, survival drills followed by night formation and sentry training. My legs were sore, my hands blistered, but I managed to push through. We set up makeshift tents, repeated our fire-starting drills, and rotated through sentry simulations in small squads. Today, I didn’t have the energy for agility training, so I sat quietly and meditated, focusing on my breath and allowing my body to recover, though I couldn’t shake the thought that I was still weaker than half the recruits, who somehow still had the energy to attend reading class or joke around with their friends.

Dinner came. I barely remember eating. The last thing I recall before sleep claimed me was the distant sound of someone snoring and the soft rustle of the wind outside our tent.

Tomorrow, we will begin again.