The train screeched to a halt at Mostauk station, sending up a cloud of dust and grit. Galahad stepped out onto the platform, squinting against the harsh sunlight as he surveyed the scene before him. The place was teeming with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, each bearing the sinister insignia of Lord Mortis's army.

"Look at that," one of the lowlifes whispered in awe, pointing at a hulking machine, similar to a big motorbike with a massive cannon mounted on top. "I'd give anything to pilot the Bonegrinder, Ragnar's vehicle."

Galahad's lips tightened beneath his mask as he walked among the desperate men, all seeking entry into the recruitment center. Guards stood watch at the entrance, assessing each arrival's worthiness. Most were afflicted by the Withering, their bodies ravaged, weak, and skeletal. Yet they were allowed inside, their desperation outweighing their physical limitations.

Galahad and Mimi approached the guards. As Mimi passed by, they snickered at his name. One of them pointed at him, barking, "Remember what happened on the train?".

The guards looked down their noses in contempt, warning that Galahad wouldn't be able to avoid his predicament if anything bad happened to Mimi.

"We can't guarantee someone won't stab you in the back," one of them jeered.

"Understood," Galahad replied tersely, his protective instincts flaring. "And I can't guarantee the safety of your life."

As they entered the recruitment center, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation and dread. A tall, black man covered in scars stood before the assembled recruits. His muscular face bore a tapestry of healed wounds, telling a story of pain and survival. He wore a simple vest of fake leather and camo pants, with his right arm enveloped in a strange black sleeve.

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"My name is Draug. And all of you are scumbag to me," he screamed. "Look at you! You lot think you've seen pain? Think you've felt true suffering? Let me tell you about pain!"

He pulled up his torn sleeve, revealing a cybernetic arm, covered with dents and battle scars. The mechanical fingers twitched with unnatural precision.

"This arm? Lost it in the Battle of Riven's End! We fought mutants back in the day! A plasma grenade took it clean off, but I took down ten of those bastards with my bare hand as it bled!"

He pointed to his now glowing cybernetic eye.

"This eye? It's not some cosmetic choice, it's a damn reminder! I stared down a Red Plasma blast, and it took my vision. But it also gave me clarity! With this, I see the cowards among you! Like YOU!"

He suddenly points at a scrawny recruit in the back who instinctively flinches.

"Do you think you can hide? I've faced beasts in the night deserts that can hear your heartbeat from a mile away. Your trembling means nothing to me!"

He leaned into the faces of the recruits, some could smell the mix of metal and blood from his breath.

"You see this jaw? A warlord's blade tried to take my voice, but I bit down, took his knife, and ended his reign! I've swallowed sandstorms, choked on poison, and had my own bones pierce my flesh!"

His voice became a growl, the intensity growing with every word.

"Every scar, every wound, every piece of metal that replaces what was once flesh, is a testament to my will! My resolve! My refusal to DIE!"

Suddenly, he grabs one of the bigger recruits by the collar, pulling him close.

"Do you want to survive in this hellscape? DO YOU?!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

"Then you better be prepared to endure more pain than you could ever imagine! To bear wounds that would break any ordinary man! Because this world, THIS DESERTED HELL, won't give you mercy! And neither will I!" He released the recruit and raised his fist. "Long live Lord Mortis!"

Most of them imitated his gesture, yelling the same sentence.

"If you make it through my training, if you can bear the agony, the torment, the relentless storm of chaos I will unleash upon you... Then, and only then, will you be worthy of being called a soldier in my army!" His voice turned into an aggressive bark.

"Prove me wrong, scumbags. PROVE. ME. WRONG!"