Second Life as a Soldier

After lunch, I was assigned to dig two more latrine pits. No break for me today, punishment for finishing in the bottom ten during morning physical conditioning. Apparently, second-to-last was still considered unacceptable.

As I stabbed the shovel into the hard-packed earth, sweat soaking through my shirt, I caught a glimpse of movement at the far end of the training field. Lela was at the archery range again, calmly losing arrows at straw dummies with unshakable focus. Each shot landed with a dull thwack, centered, precise, and utterly unshowy.

Our formal training didn’t allow weapons other than spears, not until the six-month mark. After that, we’d begin rotating between different division tracks, infantry, scouts, cavalry, and logistics, learning their core skills and seeing where we fit best. But during break hours or rest days, the rules loosened. We were free to use the practice grounds however we liked, if we had the time, the stamina, and more importantly, the equipment.

I had none of the above.

The army didn’t provide weapons beyond the basics. No bows, no swords, no personal tools. Unless you brought your own or had prior training to justify it, you were stuck with spears. That meant only recruits from merchant families, or seasoned adventurer lineages got to practice beyond the standard curriculum.

At first, I’d assumed Lela was from a hunter family, maybe a village girl raised on wild game and backwoods survival. But that theory cracked the first time I saw her in the library. She was there on both break days, just for an hour or two, but focused, intentional, and completely at ease. Not the kind of confused, wide-eyed visit most illiterate recruits made when they wandered in for the first time.

In the villages, almost no one could read. Maybe the village head. A priest, if one passed through, often. My father became a scribe only because his father had been one, and the position was more inheritance than merit. I probably would’ve ended up there too, scratching ink into birth records and tax ledgers, if not for his untimely death.

So when I saw Lela flipping through military texts and system guides like someone who’d done it for years, I realized something. She wasn’t from a remote village. She had an education. Opportunity. Access. And based on the way her arrows landed, the precision of her draw, the fluidity of her form, I was almost certain her [Archery] skill had reached the upper limit of Common grade.

And that’s what truly confirmed it. She wasn’t just talented. She was trained.

We’d only spoken a few times, casual exchanges on the road to Stonegate, but on the second break day, I remember venting in the library, grumbling about how confusing the books on the skill system were. I hadn’t expected her to respond. Fifteen minutes later, she casually slid a book across the table.“Try this one. Explains things more clearly.”

She was right.

That book cracked open a whole new layer of understanding.

Until then, I had thought of skills as flat numbers, something that ticked upward with repetition. But I’d been wrong. Skills weren’t just a way to track experience.

They were multipliers.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

If two people practiced the sword the same number of hours under the same instructor, the one with [Basic Swordsmanship] would improve faster. Sharper movements. Cleaner reactions. Fewer mistakes. Because the skill wasn’t just a badge, it was a framework. A lens that shaped how your body absorbed experience.

Skills made training more efficient.

And they weren’t limited to combat.

A [Writing] skill made your letters neater, your copying faster. A [Marching] skill improved posture, step timing, and reduced stamina loss on long walks. Skills weren’t talent, they were the engine that converted effort into growth.

That’s when I understood why so many recruits around me plateaued, while others surged ahead.

The book broke it down further.

Skills had grades. Six of them: Common, Uncommon, Advanced, Rare, Epic, and Legendary.

Most people, especially unawakened ones like me, only had access to Common-grade skills. These could level up to 25. After that, they hit a wall. To grow further, you had to combine two compatible skills or evolve one through mastery into the next grade.

And here was the interesting part: even if someone learned an Uncommon or higher skill before Awakening, it wouldn’t show up on their status sheet. Not until they awakened at sixteen.

That’s why most children of scholars train in [World Lore] without it ever appearing in their stats. But reach Level 5, and that skill unlocks the Scholar class at Awakening. Invisible preparation for visible change.

After Awakening, everything shifts. Each person receives five Class Skills and seven General Skills. Which ones you choose and how they align with your training become the bedrock of your future.

Those class skills don’t just boost your combat style or profession. They shape your class evolution. They help form mana pathways and prepare your body for higher cultivation tiers. Without the right alignment, mana can’t circulate properly. You hit a ceiling.

The book listed common starting class skills by path.

A Soldier typically awakened with [Spear Handling], [Shield Use], [Marching], [Battlefield Awareness], and [Formation Tactics].

A Swordsman often received [Basic Swordsmanship], [Footwork], [Quick Draw], [Situational Awareness], and [Blade Maintenance].

Scribes began with [Writing], [Reading], [Math], [Recordkeeping], and [Logistical Notation].

Scholars were granted skills like [World Lore], [Critical Thinking], [Language Comprehension], [Pattern Recognition], and [Deep Research].

But those were just the common cases. The system wasn’t rigid. Your life experience before Awakening mattered. A street fighter might awaken with [Improvised Weapons] instead of [Footwork]. A merchant’s child might get [Appraisal] in place of [World Lore]. It all depended on what you had lived, practiced, and refined.

And those starting skills didn’t just determine what you were.

They determined what you could become.

A Scholar could evolve into an Alchemist, Engineer, Architect, or Runic Mage. A Swordsman could walk the path of a Knight, or an affinity-based class like Aqua Sentinel or Aquablade, both Expert-tier water-specialized classes.

I’d even seen evolution chains. A skill like [Basic Swordsmanship], when pushed with proper training, could evolve into [Flowing Blade] or [Swordmaster]. These new skills weren’t just stronger, they granted access to an entirely new class tree. Their grades advanced with them: from Common to Uncommon, then to Advanced.

Reaching Adept-tier required at least one Uncommon-grade class skill. Expert-tier demanded an Advanced-grade one. If you didn’t have them, you couldn’t evolve. Your class path is locked.

Among all the examples in the book, one stood out.

Count Petrae. Lord of Stonegate.

His signature ability, Stoneheart Avatar. It was a skill.

An Epic-grade skill.

It allowed him to partially or fully transform into a massive, living stone colossus. Over one hundred feet tall. A walking fortress of earth and magic. And that skill alone was said to be the reason Stonegate had never fallen, even with the wilds pressing in from the north.

He was also a Grandmaster Mage.

But the core of his legend?

A skill.

As I finished digging the last pit and wiped the sweat from my brow, I sat on the edge of the trench, staring up at the pale blue sky.

My status was still laughably empty. Just a handful of basic skills, most of them academic. Nothing that screamed potential.

But now… I understood.

Skills weren’t just tools. They were gateways. Keys. If used right, they could shape not only what I became, but how far I could go.