Run. Weapons drill. Run. Formation drill. Run. Strength training. Run.

Every day was endless. Each bled into the next like ink that never dried, his whole life a smudged page.

At least the food was plentiful, if not tasty. They’d run out of seasoning, and more than that, he only cooked one day in five due to the camp chore rotation, which meant that most of his meals were either burned or undercooked. But he ate them like a starving wolf. He needed his strength if he wanted to avoid collapsing halfway through the morning.

And they were getting worse. His shakes and the fears that came with them. Even his mucus had a black tinge.

Whatever that serpent had done to him was spreading, and the Blood Cleaning Wheel wasn’t strong enough to hold it back. It never would be unless he earned cultivation training. Then his trainers might be able to help. To qualify for training, he had to form a core. The only way he knew to do that was with the aid of a natural treasure. Something like the spirit pills being offered as a reward for distinguished performance in the placement trials at the end of the month.

He had no chance.

Something had shifted in the past few days, like that black poison had finally made it to the center of his being, like it was weighing down his very soul. Pulling it apart. Every day, it was harder to get out of his bedroll.

And the cold didn’t help. The crispy coating of frost that greeted him every morning. At least he could pretend like his shakes were just shivers.

He had to keep going, had to make this work. The butterfly pin he kept in his pocket at all times was a reminder of why.

“Watch where you’re running cadet!”

Ren came back to his senses with just enough time to see the medic in all white robes hauling an armful of soiled sheets from the recovery tent. But he didn’t have enough time to prevent himself from crashing into her.

They fell in a tangle of limbs and linen and long black hair.

“I’m so so sorry,” he said between heaving breaths, as much from the crash as from exhaustion. Ren jumped to his feet and hauled her up to hers before bending over to collect her spilled load.

Damn his shakes were bad. He could barely hold onto a sheet.

As he bundled up the laundry and handed it back to her she paused and placed a hand on his.

“Are you okay?”

He met her eyes reluctantly. They were warm like melted chocolate. And her skin was cool on his.

His cheeks heated and he looked away. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t let go of his hand. “No really. You should come back to the medical tent with me. This shaking could be a symptom of something bad.”

He shook his head and opened his mouth to decline. Nobody could help, and if they knew how bad it really was he’d probably get kicked out.

“Cadet, get your ass back on the track or I’ll tie you to the back of my horse and drag you!”

He bowed quickly and hid a growing smile. He’d never been so happy to be threatened. “I’ve really got to go. I’m really sorry for running into you.”

She gave him a skeptical look but relaxed her grip on his shaking hand.

He took his chance and tore free, running back to catch up with the cohort. It was unlikely that they’d actually drag him behind a horse, but extra laps were a definite possibility he wanted to avoid.

Weapons practice was even worse.

His training partner was built like an ox, with dark stubble that refused to leave his face clean for longer than a few hours after a shave and a puckered scar on his cheek. Rumal. He’d apparently been a mercenary before he enlisted, but Ren had yet to see any of the honor he’d encountered from the caravanahri he’d traveled with.

The man sliced at him. Side guard!

A thrust. Low guard!

His whole arm shook under the force of the impact.

Ren pushed his practice sword into high guard just in time as Rumal’s weapon slammed downward. His wrist screamed with the effort and the wooden blade tilted under the blow slapping him across the face and guiding the attack onto his—lightly—padded shoulder.

“Gaaahh!” he cried out, knees buckling beneath him.

Rumal spat at the dirt before him and sneered. “Pathetic,” he said, turning away. “How am I supposed to prove myself fighting against you. There is no honor in kicking a scared dog.”

A boot impacted his back pushing him the rest of the way to the ground.

“Recruit, where is your weapon.” The drill sergeant’s words were clipped with anger.

“Sorry sir.” Ren wheezed. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped it. He tried to stand, while groping around for the missing practice sword but the sergeant’s foot pushed him back to the sand.

“Stay down. ‘Sorry’ might as well be your name with how much you say it, recruit. What kind of soldier is so frightened he shakes before he even touches steel. What am I to do with you? You can’t even hold onto your weapon in drill.” His voice steadily rose in pitch and volume as he worked himself up into a rage. “Even the noncombatants need basic weapons training. This is the bleeding military”

Ren bit his tongue to hold in another “sorry”.

“Go back to your bivvy recruit and take the rest of the day to get yourself together. And don’t you dare apologize to me again. ‘Sorry’ is a coward’s word with no other purpose than to garner pity. Do better, and thank me for my radiant patience. Normally even the worst improve each day, but you somehow get worse. If you can’t do better tomorrow I’m taking you to command for dismissal. I can mould clay into a warrior, dung even, but you’re not much better than a dysentery puddle.”

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Ren was glad that his face was still pressed into the ground as deep hurt and anger warred for control. He couldn’t let them see him cry.

Rising shakily to his feet, he bowed to the sergeant. “Sir, thank you for your patience. I will… do better. Can I borrow a training sword to practice with at camp?”

The man stroked his smooth chin. “Fine. Make sure to sign it out and don’t you dare walk back to camp. While you are a recruit you run everywhere. If I see your stride so much as falter, so help me…”

He didn’t need to finish the threat.

Ren bowed deeper. “Thank you sir.”

His shoulder stung with every step and every breath, but he made it back to camp and set the wooden short sword down carefully before collapsing in a heap.

His hands were shaking too badly to even hold a cup of water so he just lay there for a while breathing slow and deep, and pushing his muddy Qi around his body in the Blood Cleansing Wheel. He tried to draw on the Wind Tickles the Leaves to take the edge off, but it had been harder and harder to do with each passing day. He couldn’t feel anything past the pain and sick sludge that clogged his body.

After an hour of focusing on nothing but the cycling of his Qi, the torment abated a little and his shakes were back down to the usual tremor.

Aziroth’s flaming- he gave up, not even finishing the thought. What was he going to do? He couldn’t go home. Not alone. Not like this. But the sergeant was right, he was useless. Weak.

Pathetic. The word echoed in his mind. He focused back on the wheel of Qi. At least he’d gotten better at feeling it.

Ren chugged some water, took a piss, and picked up the practice sword. The grip was worn smooth by the countless hands that had wielded it before him. The blade itself was nicked along its length. That big dent was surely from that last blow he’d tried and failed to parry.

No matter. He spread his legs and sunk into a fighting stance.

He started out slow, transitioning from one guard to another, before transitioning into the nine basic attacks, all the while keeping his focus on his Qi, on the Blood Cleansing Wheel. It was awkward at first, splitting his attention like that. But the movements were less painful than when he did it without the technique.

Sweat stung his eyes and he removed his tunic after it began to cling to him.

Eventually he started noticing how the balance of Qi shifted to each limb as he maneuvered.

He sped up.

An idea occurred to him and he tried to push extra Qi into his sword arm as he moved through his strikes. At first he couldn’t tell if it it was working, but then the air whistled as it was cut with a high slash.

Pain bit into him again. Shit. He’d lost hold of his Qi circulation.

Getting his Qi back in order, he wondered if he could use this technique to help him parry one of Rumal’s heavy chopping blows.

“What are you doing here?”

Ren tripped over himself and nearly tumbled to the ground.

Hamsa approached, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “That last strike was half-decent. But I’m confused. To my knowledge only endorsed recruits get time to train solo.”

“I… got dismissed early from training.”

“Just you?”

“Ya, I think the lieutenant got sick of watching me drop my sword.” He forced a laugh.

“That bad eh? Well your last strike was actually okay. I was surprised after seeing the way you were waving that thing around.”

“How long were you watching?” Ren grimaced.

“Not long. It’s not like I was just standing here staring.” Hamsa paused. “Is it the shakes? I’ve been noticing they’re getting worse.”

“You have?”

“Ya. You said it’s some kind of poison or sickness or something?”

He nodded.

“Want some pointers? It’s not like I can heal you, but better technique won’t hurt.”

“Yes!” Ren hadn’t meant to yell. “Gratitude.”

He began to bow but Hamsa stopped him with a gesture. “None of that. There is no place for bowing on a battlefield. Leave that for the princes and politicians. Now, show me what you’ve got.”

As an Asbar in training, he carried around his sword at all times. A real sword. Thankfully he kept the scabbard on as he removed it from his belt and secured the sheath, looping a string around the guard.

The blows came one at a time. Testing each of Ren’s guards over and over, pushing his feet into position, commanding him to freeze in place for a minor adjustment to his wrist or the angle of his practice blade. Ren managed to keep up his Blood Cleansing Wheel throughout the exercise.

“You’re favoring your right side,” his pod-mate said after a time. “Did you injure yourself?”

Ren explained what had happened when he’d failed to block Rumal’s last stroke.

“That’s a bad matchup for learning, to be sure. It’s a shame they still do that. My dad used to talk about this kind of thing.”

Ren finally noticed that the usual lines of intensity that punctuated the other boy’s face were gone. Hamsa rarely mentioned his father. He hadn’t realized how tense the knight in training had been all the other times he’d talked with him, but now it was clear as day. It had to be exhausting to always be performing like that.

The regal boy took his own meaning from the look on Ren’s face and elaborated. “The sad reality is that a lot of the old guard in the army isn’t too happy when skilled warriors from other backgrounds, especially mercenaries, enlist and move up the ranks without putting in their time. I bet it’s even worse now with the incentive of cultivation resources for the top recruits. Your match-up with Ramul is likely an attempt to stifle his advancement and he knows it. You just happen to be the meat bag in front of him who he gets to take it out on.

“If you’re serious about becoming a warrior, then you need to find a way to get the most out of opportunities like this. Learn from him. Let his superior strength push you.”

That explained a lot. Hamsa’s passion for the ways of the warrior bled from his words, and Ren often found himself daydreaming about toasting victory as a martial hero. But he couldn’t afford to be a common footsoldier working his way up from base pay. He couldn’t leave his family to their fate for that long. He’d been thinking about this a lot. There was no way he’d be an Asbar but he needed to jump up a few pay grades fast. Norn was right, and his constant failure to measure up in training had only solidified his resolve. “I… don’t want to be a warrior. I’m still aiming for medic.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“I just need to be able to hold onto my sword long enough to make it through basic till the exam.”

“I think I can help you out. I’m going to hit you with one of those downward strikes, but hold it in the position I showed you.”

The scabbarded sword descended toward his head like a diving hawk and Ren raised his own to meet it, angling slightly rather than taking the strike head on. The flat of his own blade pressed down into his own shoulder rather than slapping him in the face and Hamsa’s blow slid off harmlessly to the side.

“Very good!” Hamsa smiled. “You’ve come a long way in just the time it takes to cook a stew.”

“It’s all thanks to you. You’re an amazing teacher.”

Hamsa broke eye contact and reddened a bit under the praise. Was the mighty son of swords embarrassed by a compliment? Ren filed that away for later.

More importantly, he’d done it!

“The last thing I’ll tell you is that you have too much tension in your movements. I’m betting it makes the shaking worse. Try relaxing your body more.”

Relaxing while fighting?

“Give this a shot.” Hamsa returned his weapon to his belt and started bouncing from his ankles, letting his arms hop and flail around. It looked… ridiculous.

“You’re shining a light up my ass aren’t you?” He tried out one of the more crass sayings he’d heard used by soldiers loyal to the Temple of Light.

Hamsa shook his head, chuckling. “If you don’t want to learn I’ll save my sage wisdom for someone else.”

Ren sighed and began his own goofy bouncing, following the other boy’s movements. Gradually, Hamsa started flowing with his bounces, body undulating with a wave that grew bigger and bigger till his arms flowed out and up with each bounce. Ren copied him, finally starting to feel the way the movement naturally shifted his Qi all the way from his toes up to his fingers.

“Okay. That’s enough for today. I’ve got to get to my own training.”

Ren picked up his weapon again, and set about trying to put together all he’d learned. This might just work.