It was the third week of training. Now, they only ran a few times a week, mostly, it felt, simply to prove to the tallies that they still could. Every single day consisted of hand-to-hand training followed by weapons training, each of which ending in sparring. The round robin and inter squad system had been replaced. By what, Rane didn’t even really care to find out. It seemed that the tallies were just making whatever matchups that they saw fair. Or simply entertaining.

His saving grace, however, was that they had been deemed ready to begin practicing ambient. Ambient control was something to be practiced in a way that was more meditative than active, especially at the dynient class. One could only really begin to learn combat applications of ambient once their control over the force was strong enough for it to be as effective or more than just throwing a rock, or kicking dirt at your opponent.

It was too early for Rane to be excited, though. He had survived the day’s hand-to-hand training with few enough bruises and no broken bones. Now, it was time for weapons training. Today’s weapon of focus was the glaive. Rane felt relief, as he was most familiar with spears anyways.

“We’ve not drilled swords a day since getting here,” whispered a recruit Rane didn’t know.

He didn’t whisper as low as he thought, and caught a glaive haft to the chest as Low Tally Cobble looked them all over with the casual disdain that officers seemed to exude naturally.

“The sword is a peasant weapon, old, and outdated. Its only advantage is its versatility. On the battlefield, you’ll fear not the one using a sword, but the one who has become a weapon themselves. Until you reach such a level, it’s best to focus on staying as far away from your opponent as possible, probing at the edges of their area of direct control. Outside of the battlefield, you’d kill a boar with a spear, and a bird with a bow. And monsters? You’ll wish you’d have been assigned to the archer corp, even from the distance you could throw a javelin. Swords don’t kill monsters,” he said as his lecture concluded.

“Now get familiar with the reach of the blade. If you’re taller or stronger, try one with a longer haft. Reach and space are the basics of all combat,” said the other tally, Low Tally Cord. Were all the tallies here related, or was it just coincidence?

The ranks dispersed as the lines of dregs grabbed, hefted, and swiped with glaives of differing lengths. After the logic of length and space were explained, Rane chose a glaive with a haft that ended slightly above his head, the blade protruding another two heads above that, and made his way to his individual training space where an unadorned wooden stump had been wrapped in straw. The tallies would be walking through, observing technique, balance, and footwork, giving feedback as they deemed necessary. Rane needed to ensure he was familiar with the glaive’s reach before then.

He exhaled and stepped forward towards the post, reaching his glaive out in the simplest of stabbing motions, both hands still on the haft. The blade touched the straw, but was not close enough to penetrate the layer of loose scrap cloth that held the straw in place. He took a step forward and began to pose for swipes at the stationary target. The weapon was much different than a spear. Missing a swipe was easier to off balance yourself, and this one was single edged, meaning he had to pay much closer attention to edge alignment, lest he just slap the target with the flat or dull side of the blade.

“Dreg!”

“Yes, Tally!”

“Walk around the target as you strike. Don’t cross your feet or click your heels.”

Rane began to circle the target as he sent probing jabs and swipes into the tough thatch on the post.

“Take a step back out of your own range,” said Low Tally Cord. “Then tuck the shaft under your right arm, step forward and extend at the same time.”

Rane followed the note of the tally, striking the post, but only avoiding falling because of the blade reaching the post.

“Poor balance,” noted the tally as he turned to walk on to the next dreg.

Rane attempted the strike another time, bending his knees and letting his left arm hang behind for counterweight. His right foot slipped forward a bit, causing another loss of balance. He frowned, resolved himself, and began preparing to try again.

His arms began to tire before he could fully become accustomed to the glaive. It was not as much like the spear as he had originally thought. Now, it was time for individual bouts.

He was still walking back from the training posts when he received his assignment from a messenger. The messenger was shorter than Rane, with a slim build and sharp eyes. He didn’t look like the type to fail basic, but there were other ways to be relegated to non-combat positions.

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“Dreg Rane, ring 7, bout starts in 5,” he said curtly before looking down at his wax tablet and leaving Rane behind.

No rest for the weary, Rane thought as he used the haft of the glaive to stretch his arms, placing it behind his head with both hands clenching wide on the shaft. He was confident that he would do well enough here. A glaive wasn’t a common weapon outside of the Empire’s organized forces. They were more unwieldy than a sword and not as versatile as a spear. If a civilian encountered a monster, or simply someone a class or two above themselves, it wouldn’t matter anyways, so most dynients and even low classients just carried knives and short spears. Both were throwable, as well.

Rane’s confidence took a small blow as he got close enough to the ring to see his opponent. It was another member of his squad. Not only did this mean that they knew his strengths and weaknesses better, but most of his squad also fell under the Ben camp, this one no different.

“Nice weather, yeah, Jester,” Rane said as he stepped casually into the circle, not going to let it show that he was unnerved at the sight of his opponent. Jester was shorter than Rane by a head, and had long, flowing, dark red hair that covered his bright green eyes. His uniform was a bit too big for him, and he was constantly hyper, which the squad found funny, giving him his name. None of this made Rane nervous. What shook Rane was that the small boy was a fiend in their daily spars, having made quite the name for himself. Underneath his poorly fit uniform, he was equipped with a chest that looked like it belonged to a man of 28 winters.

“Yeah I've had fun - are you ready,” Jester responded quickly. There seemed to be barely any pause between his sentences.

Rane looked around the ring. There was a small group of spectators. People liked to see Jester fight. Ben was there as well. Rane flashed him a defiant smile. Ben pretended not to notice the gesture.

Tally Cord stepped into the ring with a few thick leather scabbards, fitted for the glaives. He took his time ensuring that their weapons were safe and secure. As safe and secure as they could be, anyways. Being hit with a large stick wasn’t exactly safe, but it wasn’t a naked blade either.

The tally took a large step backwards, and let out a sharp bark, “BEGIN.”

Jester had been bouncing up and down, waiting for the moment anyways. He nearly sprinted forward, opening with a low sweep with his short glaive, making full use of its length, not even bothering to hold it with two hands for his opening blow.

Rane tucked his glaive beneath his arm and lifted his left leg, hopping a bit to make certain that the wild strike didn’t connect.

It did not, and the momentum of Jester's unwieldy strike sent him into a controlled tumble. Despite the boy getting up from the acrobatic roll fairly quickly, it wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid Rane’s counter. As soon as Rane’s left foot was planted back on the ground, he stepped forward, swinging the glaive still tucked underneath his arm, striking Jester square in the back, sending him stumbling out of the ring, back arched and wincing in pain.

“Ring out. Round one goes to Dreg Rane,” cried the tally.

Jester turned swiftly, a look of anger and confusion in his eyes. The small crowd spawned no cheers for the ring-out. It wasn’t an impressive way to win a round, and Rane had no fans anyways. He heard but paid little attention to the cacophony of voices saying things like, fluke, lucky, and ditch dreg. Rane was sure that the last one had nothing to do with their military assigned ranks. Somewhere during the first round, Ben had appeared among the small crowd as well. Perhaps he had been one of the many displeased voices.

None of that mattered. Jester stood before him once more, this time not bouncing up and down in agitation. Instead, he kept the point of his glaive moving in different patterns. His hands flexed and loosened their grip on the haft of the weapon.

“Round two, BEGIN!”

Rane moved forward this time, meeting Jester’s confidence with his own. Rane sent a sharp strike towards Jester’s left leg. Jester’s glaive caught Rane's just under the blade, and as if it had fingers of its own, pulled backwards, bringing Rane in significantly closer as he attempted to retain both his balance and his weapon. In a grand feat, he accomplished both, however, neither of those things were the actual goal of the red haired menace. He had only needed to close the distance, nullifying any innate advantage Rane held in height and reach.

Several rapid jabs from Jester’s glaive followed shortly, and Rane moved to his right and backwards, choking up on his glaive and trying his best to avoid another cracked rib.

Jester moved his right hand up his glaive, and suddenly the haft of the weapon was sailing through the air. Rane heard the whistle of air being moved as he turned his head, hoping to avoid the worst of the blow. His world exploded into a myriad of dark stars across his vision, and he didn’t notice that he was lying on the ground of the ring until enough of the stars had faded for him to make out the gray color of the dirt.

“Round two, win by incapacitation, Dreg Jester takes the bout. You are both dismissed. The next bout begins in 5 minutes.” Tally Cord’s words sounded far away, and Rane sat up, but didn’t move until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You did well enough to take a round off of Jester,” said Puddles. Rane shrugged off his hand and sat forward before picking himself up. Before he was able to stand fully, he lost his balance, falling back to one knee.

“You ok? He rang your bell pretty good, I think.”

“I’m fine, just need…” Rane trailed off. He didn’t know what he needed; he simply wanted to make it to this afternoon’s ambient training.

“Mess hall?” asked Puddles.

“Mess hall sounds good, actually,” echoed Rane. The tallies hadn’t been vocal about any rankings lately, but with this result, Rane was sure that he was at the bottom of his squad.