Azyen gave a polite shake of his head. “With all due respect, Commander, I’m here for the experience, nothing more. I’ll be gone in a few months. Being bound to the military is out of the question.”

Commander Starvus’ expression shifted to one of mild disappointment, though he seemed to respect the boy’s choice. Capable individuals were a rare and valuable commodity, especially in these troubled times when corruption slithered through the army’s ranks like a festering wound.

“Who sent you here?” Starvus asked, his tone now edged with curiosity, perhaps even suspicion.

Azyen’s eyes hardened, his posture straightening like a blade being drawn. “That’s not something I can share.” The words were clipped, his voice cool enough to chill the pause that followed.

Starvus studied him for a moment, his piercing gaze searching for cracks in the young man’s composure. Finding none, he relented with a curt nod. “Very well. I won’t pry any further.” Then, with a sharp bark of authority, he turned to the officer standing nearby. “Assign him to the Fifth Legion with the others.”

“Yes, sir!” The officer snapped to attention, then gestured for Azyen and the rest to follow. “This way.”

Inside the base, the newcomers’ path wove through stark reminders of the frontier’s brutality. Massive beast carcasses—flesh torn and steaming, entrails spilling in grotesque patterns—lay heaped near the butchering grounds.

Soldiers, grim-faced and silent, worked to strip the beasts of usable parts. Overhead, strips of meat hung drying on racks, swaying slightly in the wind like ghastly pendulums.

Fortified structures of metal and wood stood alongside rows of canvas tents, their edges reinforced with fungal growths that melded seamlessly into the ground. The base' walls were covered with luminescent moss, its soft glow dispersing light evenly, eliminating sharp shadows that could betray a soldier’s position.

Soldiers in leather and rune-carved plate armor moved along dirt paths illuminated by Glowseed Lanterns. Their voices a constant cycle of commands and reports. Watchtowers loomed at the perimeter, their Shardspire turrets crackling faintly, flux cores primed to unleash devastation on anything foolish enough to approach unbidden.

Inside a repair tent, a team of engineers swarmed over a massive Symbiotic Crawler, its insectoid limbs twitching unnervingly as they replaced a shattered appendage with a fresh one that glistened with strange, organic vitality.

The Southern Base had a typical hierarchy of structures. Closest to the entrance were the barracks of the regular army—solid, imposing, and engraved with protective runes. Beyond them lay the volunteer quarters, a series of large tents that spoke of temporary stays and low expectations.

This was the reality of volunteering—a low-risk investment for the army, and an equally low reward for the recruits. Volunteers received weekly pay, but no further support for injuries or death.

Since a known mercenary, or one belonging to a faction would earn much more for being commissioned, volunteers in the army became only those with nothing better to do or those in training. Between them were the regular humans who either volunteered for love of their country, a steady coin, or for the opportunity to enter the military if they proved themselves.

The officer leading the group halted abruptly, turning on his heel with the arrogance of a king. His gaze swept over the group of newcomers, lingering on each face long enough to make them shift uncomfortably.

He gestured toward the expanse of tents and makeshift lodgings behind him. “This,” he began, “is the camp of the Fifth Legion. From this fence to the outer wall, this is your home. You’ll eat here, train here, sleep here, and, if necessary, die here.”

He paused, waiting, as if daring them to falter under his scrutiny. Finally, he turned back on his heel and lifted the flap of a nearby tent.

“The legion commander will issue your orders and assign you to teams. Your duty is to follow those orders without hesitation, without argument. Discipline is non-negotiable. Obey, comply, and—” his voice hardened, sharp as a whip—“leave your petty squabbles behind. Do I make myself clear?”

A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Some voices carried defiance, others indifference. Azyen remained silent, struggling to suppress a sardonic laugh.

The officer wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, his boots grinding into the dirt with deliberate weight. “One last thing. Under no circumstances are you to harm a member of the Southern Army. Am I understood?”

“Yes!” The word came in a scattered chorus, some shouting with zeal, others mumbling through gritted teeth.

Keep that arrogance to yourself, Azyen mused.

The officer nodded. “Your assignments will be distributed by a superior officer in the morning. Settle in and rest. That's all for today.” Without another word, he turned and strode toward the solitary wooden barrack at the edge of the camp. Every step he took radiated an air of superiority, a presence that irritated the new arrivals.

"He walks like having a stick stuck in his ass," a newcomer remarked.

"More like a pillar, up to his throat," another said.

As the officer disappeared into the barrack, the group’s attention shifted to the structure. Its sturdy wooden frame stood in stark contrast to the sea of weathered tents and barren earth surrounding it. The contrast was jarring, and resentment brewed among the volunteers.

“So, our dear commander gets to sit pretty in a comfy barrack while we shiver in scraps of canvas?” Jarlow muttered, tugging his wide-brimmed hat lower against the bitter chill.

“Don't bother. Probably he’s ‘real military,’” another volunteer suggested with a bitter chuckle.

“You might want to watch your tone and manner of speaking when addressing the commander,” came a calm voice from within the tent. Though not loud, it carried a gravity that cut through the simmering complaints and silenced the newcomers.

The group turned as one toward the voice’s source. A man lay sprawled on a cot, a book balanced in his hands. His posture was one of studied ease, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Yet there was something about the deliberate cadence of his words, the controlled stillness in his movements, that commanded respect.

Jarlow snorted, unimpressed. “And why should I? Is this commander some kind of god? We volunteered to help, not to bow and scrape at his feet.”

The man with the book didn’t even glance up, calmly turning a page as if Jarlow’s words were nothing more than background noise. “We’re under the command of a Southern Army officer,” he said simply, “and that means we have to give him respect. Like it or not, we follow their rules. It’s how we stay alive.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

A bark of laughter broke from another cot. “Especially since the commander’s got connections. General’s nephew, they say. Cross him, and your life won’t just be miserable—it’ll be over. Best keep on his good side.”

Jarlow spat into the dirt, his frustration boiling over. “Fuck me,” he muttered, hurling his pack to the ground with a heavy thud.

"Hey, you!" a rugged voice called from the back of the tent. "Choose a bed, lie down, and shut your goddamn mouth. We're trying to get some sleep here."

"Musha's right. You can all argue in the morning," another added.

Without another word, the group of newcomers stepped into the tent, claiming the vacant cots in silence.

. . .

Morning broke over the camp in muted tones of gray and gold, the rising sun casting long shadows over the base. The smell of cooked rations lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp canvas and trampled soil.

After a meager breakfast and quick showers, the volunteers found themselves with little to do, as they weren’t allowed to participate in the army’s group training sessions. They had their individual drills though.

However, even that peaceful time was broken by a voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The words rang out, snapping heads around to find their source. Commander Syphon walked slowly, exuding the effortless dominance of a ruler surveying his domain.

“I hear we received new recruits last night,” he continued.

Before anyone could respond, another voice carried through the camp like the crack of a whip.

“Those who arrived last night, step forward to meet the commander!” barked Faris, one of Syphon’s direct subordinates.

The newcomers scrambled to obey, forming a haphazard line that betrayed their lack of military discipline. There was no thought given to order—height, or age. They simply stood, some shuffling awkwardly, others trying to project confidence they didn’t truly feel.

"What's he doing here?" Darvus, who joined the army as a volunteer just a few days after registering as a mercenary with the other village youths, muttered to himself. The sight of Azyen ruined his mood.

Syphon strode forward, his boots crunching against the dirt as he surveyed the recruits with a calculating gaze. “My name is Syphon Loreus Wallx, Commander of the Fifth Legion." he began. “Those standing beside me are my most trusted officers. Mallu.”

At Syphon's left, Mallu nodded.

"And Faris."

At his right, Faris did the same.

“Good morning, sirs!” a few voices responded, hesitant and scattered.

“Good morning, sirs!” The rest hurriedly echoed, their voices overlapping in a disjointed chorus.

Syphon’s sharp eyes swept over the line, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “What do we have here?” he mused aloud, his tone tinged with wry amusement. “A handful of regulars,” he continued, his words deliberate and cutting, “a couple of Sky One mancers, and—” his eyes landed on Azyen, lingering for a beat longer than necessary, “—a 2nd Sky. Well, aren’t we fortunate?”

He began pacing, left and right.

What do you want, clown? Azyen thought, amused by the charade.

Syphon's eyes never left the recruits, his tone deceptively casual. “Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “do any of you know how to fight? Have you done it al least once in your lives before stepping foot into this camp?”

The question lingered in the air for some time. It was tough for the newcomers to process it as something else than an insult.

“What do you take us for?" Jarlow spat in anger. "Frigid nobles who’ve never dirtied our hands? Of course we know how to fight.”

Another recruit, a wiry young woman with defiance etched into her features, couldn’t hold back. “Is this some kind of test, Commander?” she snapped. “Or do you just enjoy insulting the people who’ve come here to fight for you?”

Syphon halted, displeased by the tone of the answers. His attention however, was picked by another, more pleasant voice—measured, calm, and firm.

“Commander,” said the tallest man in the line, “we’re here because we chose to be. We’ve come to lend our skills, not to endure mockery.”

Syphon’s gaze shifted to the speaker. Slowly, he clasped his hands behind his back and let a heavy silence settle over the group. When he finally spoke, his tone was as cold as winter steel.

“Gentlemen—and ladies—I mean no harm to your fragile egos. But I’ve buried enough untrained fools to last a lifetime. You may think you know how to fight, but out there”—he gestured beyond the base, toward the towering trees of the forest—“the battlefield doesn’t care about your pride, your intentions, or your potential.”

The recruits listened, their chests swelling with barely concealed mockery. Syphon was young—he looked to be less than thirty. While some of them bore the scars of battles fought long before he was old enough to hold his first blade.

“So, I ask again: Should I prepare for a victory party—or a funeral?” Syphon waited, his presence a looming challenge, daring anyone to speak.

“The Commander’s right,” Mallu, another of Syphon's direct subordinates, added with a nod. He crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the recruits with quiet judgment. “Do you even understand the burden of trust? Out there, your comrades depend on you to guard their backs. If you can’t even protect yourselves, you’re not just useless—you’re a liability.”

Jarlow’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding in silent frustration. Do you think we don't know that, punk?

“We’ve passed every inspection to get here,” he said firmly. “If we weren’t capable, we wouldn’t have been allowed through.”

Syphon’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “You’d be surprised how many slip through the cracks.” His piercing gaze shifted, zeroing in on Azyen's figure like a hawk spotting prey. “Now, who among you is the 2nd Sky mancer I’ve heard of?”

All eyes fell on Azyen as he stepped forward. His eyes locked on Syphon’s with unflinching resolve. “I am."

Syphon raised a brow, unimpressed. “Another privileged youth running from the comforts of home, I presume,” he said. “Tell me, boy, have you ever killed? Have you stood amidst blood and carnage, with the screams of dying comrades ringing in your ears? Or are you just another fledgling who thinks that sparring matches are enough to survive a battlefield?”

Azyen was about to crack a joke, but he held it back. When he opened his mouth, his words came out like a cold shower of unspoken truths. “I have killed. I have faced death. I have felt the weight of loss and borne its scars. My comrades need not fear me faltering when the time comes.”

You clown, he continued in his mind.

Syphon studied him with an intensity that could peel away facades. Then, with the cold detachment of a commander who had seen much but not enough, he said, “Bold words for one so young. We’ll see soon enough if your actions align with your claims.”

We'll see soon enough if you're qualified to command me, Azyen thought, remaining silent.

Syphon, mistaking the silence for submission, turned sharply on his heel. “You’ll all be tested in combat,” he announced, addressing the group. “It’s the only way to measure your worth. After the test, you will be assigned to reinforce depleted teams. If you’ve settled your affairs, gather at the wall. If not, finish quickly. There’s no time to waste here.”

He then strode toward the base' wall with the confidence of someone who knew they’d be followed, his subordinates trailing behind like arrogant ducks. The volunteers moved after him, grateful for the opportunity to bet.

In the middle of the camp, Mallu’s voice rang out, commanding and authoritative. “Gather round, everyone! We test the new recruits today. Teams lacking members, pay attention—you’ll get to choose right after. Rank determines pick order.”

Azyen went inside the tent to leave his towel. When he came back out, a voice called him from behind.

“Hey!”

He turned sharply, his reflexes halting a hand mid-reach before it could touch his shoulder. He locked eyes with a boy who recoiled slightly.

“Don’t be so familiar,” Azyen said coolly, his tone a dagger wrapped in silk. “We don’t know each other.”

The boy, Darien, faltered, his hand retreating awkwardly as he scratched the back of his head.

“Ah, yeah, you’re right,” he muttered timidly. "I just wanted to apologize."

Azyen’s eyes narrowed, sharp and probing. "Apologize? For what?" he demanded.

Darien hesitated. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away before he finally spoke. "For the commander’s words. It’s... it’s because of me. On my first battle, I froze after… after killing someone. It’s like my body rebels every time I try to take a human's life. Because of that, the commander has become more cautious with newcomers, especially those under twenty. So, he’ll keep an eye on you, and will treat you badly. All because of me."

The sincerity in Darien’s tone might have moved another, might have sparked some measure of empathy or understanding for his good intentions. But not in Azyen. His expression remained as blank as stone, his gaze piercing through Darien’s confession with unwavering indifference.

"Like I care," Azyen snapped, his words dripping with scorn. He turned his back on Darien. "Those are your issues, not mine. Don’t waste time with stupid apologies when it's not the case. This isn’t a playground for regret and lame excuses. It’s a battlefield." He walked away.

Darien opened his mouth to respond, his fists clenched tight, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. But he couldn't retort.

"What’s his problem?" Darien muttered in bewilderment.

"Why didn’t you respond with something mean at my address?" Azyen asked, returning to face the boy.

There was not a single trace of the sharpness and animosity he had displayed just a second ago. His eyebrows arched slightly in genuine curiosity, and his gaze was now clear, and gentle.

Darien met his eyes, caught off guard by the sudden shift in demeanor, unsure how to respond.