Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Before the true trial of selection could even begin, the chaff had to be stripped from the wheat.

Edric knew well that before he could mold soldiers, he had to first make sure he wasn’t wasting time on cripples, sick men, and runts better suited for mucking stables than holding a line.

The first step was brutal in its simplicity: height.If a recruit stood shorter than 160 centimeters — out he went. No apologies, no second chances. A sword-arm needed reach, after all, not prayers.

Next came the inspection for disease.Eyes, tongue, skin — every inch was checked. Any sign of sickness was an immediate death sentence for their dreams of glory.After that, the teeth: a mouthful of rot meant a man would not last a campaign, much less a war.

Finally, their chests.

The inspectors wrapped measuring cords around the recruits’ ribs and judged.A broad chest often meant good lungs and strong heart — the kind of man who could march for days, hold a shield in a siege, or shout orders over the clamor of a battlefield.

By the time the first cull was done, out of the two thousand hopefuls who had presented themselves with shining eyes and puffed chests, only about 1,250 remained.

Edric stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.Inside, though, he grunted in thought.

Hmph. Expected to toss out more of the bastards... Guess we can move along to the second phase, then.

He let hisgaze sweep over the survivors, most of them now standing awkwardly in the late summer sun, looking nervous but still proud to have made it past the first hurdle.With a small, curt nod toward his subordinates, he gave the silent signal.

They understood immediately.

A chorus of barked orders rose up as the soldiers, grizzled veterans all, stepped forward.Their voices cracked like whips as they shouted the next commands.

”Move it, you lot! Follow me! Form up by fives!”

”Hands off your hips, head up! You’re not sheep at market!”

”Follow the banners! March or get the boot up your arse!”

The recruits, startled into motion, stumbled to obey, following the soldiers toward the next part of the ordeal — where the real blood, sweat, and broken pride would begin.

Watching the recruits shuffle toward the first trial, Sir Edric found himself quietly doubting that they’d manage to fill all the open positions by day’s end.

The standards for joining the Royal Army were not just a matter of swinging a sword and shouting loudly; no, they demanded strength, endurance, spirit — the kind of man who could be trusted to stand his ground when everything around him turned to blood and fire.

Still, he wasn’t overly concerned.

The White Army — His Majesty’s Honorable and Applauded — had a magnetic pull few could resist.Becoming a soldier under the Prince’s banner was not just a career; it was a ticket to a better life.Every man in the princedom knew the rewards:

Families of Royal soldiers were exempt from paying land taxes.

Each soldier received five silverii a month .

And if they survived fifteen years of hard service, the retirement bonus they earned would make them like knights among peasants.

Money was an excellent lure, but Edric knew it wasn’t just silver that drew these men like moths to flame.It was the name.The Black Stripes — the elite of the White Army — carried with them an aura of invincibility.

Their victories were sung by bards, their glories toasted in every tavern.Their Prince, Alpheo, was whispered to be the man who had never tasted defeat.To serve under him was to be set for life — to grasp not just survival, but real power and prosperity.

For all these reasons, Edric had no worries about finding enough good men.If today’s batch turned out to be disappointing, so be it.There were at least five more groups lined up for their chance, waiting patiently for the call.After all, today’s recruitment had only drawn from a small swath of land near the capital.

If they needed more, the Crownlands still stretched wide and fertile, brimming with young fools eager for a taste of glory.

With a short grunt that might have been a laugh, Edric adjusted his belt and set off after the recruits.Today would be long, yes, but it would hardly be the last.

The first test was simple in theory and actually also easy in execution: running.

Each recruit was ordered to run without pause for thirty minutes straight.No slowing, no stopping, no mercy.

It was a test with a dual purpose — to weed out those with weak lungs, and perhaps more importantly, to measure their willpower.After all, if a man couldn’t force himself to keep running for half an hour, sweating and gasping under the summer sun, how could he ever be trusted to stand his ground on a battlefield when death came roaring at him?

And so Edric stood at the edge of the training field, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes scanning the line of recruits beginning to trot forward.He watched them in silence, his face carved from stone — but inwardly, he almost pitied the poor bastards.

They had no idea what they were walking into.

As the second-in-command of Jarza’s division and since he was at the head of their recruitment process, Edric was privy to the full scope of the new recruitment protocols, and he knew one thing for certain:This was no longer the quick and easy selection of years past.

Back when Prince Alpheo had first risen to power, the recruitment had been... lenient.A few days of tests, some rough sparring, and by the end of the week, you were either in or out.

Now?

Now the Prince had updated the process — and ”updated” was putting it lightly.What used to take three days would now stretch into a full month.A month of drills, and very ugly test which Edric’spine shuddered at the thought of enduring, along with inspections so thorough that even a single missing tooth could see you tossed out like garbage.

It wasn’t just about building an army anymore; it was about forging a force that could crush any foe underfoot, a force worthy of the Prince’s rising ambition.

The result of course would be a new White Army, even stronger than the one before.

As Edric watched the river of bodies pushing forward, he shook his head ever so slightly.Already some were beginning to lag, chests heaving, legs wobbling like newborn calves.He gave it another ten minutes before the first ones collapsed in the dust.

’Poor devils,’ Edric thought, not unkindly.’They think today is hard. Wait until they see what’s waiting for them at the end of the month.’

And with that, he turned and began pacing alongside the struggling line, his sharp gaze marking down the first signs of weakness — the first cracks where the White Army would either find stone... or discard the clay.

It didn’t take long for the first cracks to show.

Barely twelve minutes into the run, one of the recruits — a big fellow with shoulders like barrels and legs like sticks — stumbled sideways and dropped into the dirt like a sack of flour.A soldier standing nearby didn’t even flinch. He just yanked the man up by the collar, dusted him off with a slap, and pointed toward the line of rejects already forming like a funeral procession near the shade of the oaks.

Edric barely glanced at the scene.If the man couldn’t hold up his own weight for thirty minutes, he wasn’t worth the effort it would take to teach him how to carry a shield.

Another few minutes later, two boys barely old enough to shave staggered to a halt, clutching their sides and wheezing like bellows with holes in them.One tried to push on, taking three heroic steps before collapsing face-first into the dirt.The other simply sat down, stared blankly ahead, and refused to move.

One of Edric’s assistants — a scar-faced decurio who looked personally offended at displays of weakness — barked a single word:”OUT!”

The two were quickly hauled away like refuse, their dreams of glory evaporating in the heat of the day, as after all, who knew when the next round of recruitment would come?

Edric watched the scene unfold with the patience of a hawk watching field mice from above.For every dozen who pushed grimly forward, there were always two or three who peeled off, defeated by their own bodies or spirits.And each one made him feel — oddly enough — a twinge of grim satisfaction.

It wasn’t cruelty.It was necessity.

’Better they fall now,’ he thought, hands clasped behind his back, ’than fall in battle and drag their comrades down with them.’

As Edric watched them crumble — one by one like brittle reeds in a storm — he couldn’t help but let his mind wander away from the present slaughter.It was better that way.

Better to think of anything else than what was waiting for them at the end of this cursed month.

The final test.

The thought alone made a bead of cold sweat roll down the back of his neck, despite the summer heat still pounding down like a hammer.He forced himself to stare impassively at the scene before him, but inside, some small, honest part of him shuddered.

And he thanked every god, saint, and ancestor he could name that he had enlisted before these new methods had been introduced.

Nothing like what was to come.

He almost pitied them.

Almost.

Because what waited beyond these easy days of running and drills was not just a test of strength, or skill, or discipline.

It was a trial by fire, designed by a prince who had never once accepted defeat — and who believed that to serve him, you first had to learn to survive hell itself.