The long wooden tables, arranged in neat rows under the shade of the pavilion, were now filled with applicants hunched over parchment. The air was thick with the sound of quills scratching furiously and the occasional frustrated sighs from those struggling with their tasks.
I sat down at my assigned spot, the sturdy table bearing signs of countless prior uses—ink stains, shallow knife marks, and faint indentations where others had leaned heavily during their moments of strain. In front of me lay a fresh sheet of parchment and a small inkwell, along with a quill that looked sharper than most of the wooden swords being wielded in the practice area.
An officer stood at the front, his stern voice cutting through the murmurs of the applicants. “This written examination is to test your literacy, comprehension, and reasoning. You will have one hour to complete it. Spelling errors and messy handwriting will cost you points, so write carefully. Begin.”
No fanfare, no encouragement—just the unvarnished expectation that we’d either prove ourselves or fail.
I dipped the quill into the ink, steadying my hand as I began to read the first section. The test was divided into three parts:
1. Reading Comprehension: A short passage describing a historical battle, with questions about strategy, terrain, and the decisions of the commanders involved.
2. Arithmetic Problems: Word problems requiring calculations related to supply chains, troop movements, and provisions for an army on the march.
3. Essay: A short but personal response to the prompt, “Why do you wish to join the Falmuth Military Academy?”
The comprehension passage was familiar territory. The scenario described in the text—a clash between two noble houses over disputed borders—was something I could easily analyze. I remembered similar cases from my past life, where strategy often hinged on exploiting an opponent’s arrogance or underestimating the terrain. My answers came quickly, each word carefully written to avoid costly mistakes.
The arithmetic problems, though tedious, were straightforward. Years of learning to calculate yields and manage provisions as a farmer had honed my skills. Questions about dividing rations among troops or calculating the time needed for reinforcements to arrive were simple enough, but I took care to double-check my work.
Then came the essay.
I paused for a moment, staring at the blank space below the prompt. The question was simple on the surface, but its weight was profound. “Why do you wish to join the Falmuth Military Academy?”
The answer that immediately came to mind wasn’t something I could write: To destroy House Rithane and bring justice to their corruption.
Instead, I took a deep breath and began to write:
“I wish to join the Falmuth Military Academy to serve my kingdom and protect its people. Growing up as a farmer’s son, I have witnessed the sacrifices made by those who work tirelessly to provide for others. I believe that, through service, I can ensure that their efforts are not in vain. The academy offers the training and guidance needed to become a soldier who not only fights with strength but leads with wisdom. My goal is to contribute to a stronger, united Falmuth, where every citizen—noble or commoner—can thrive in peace.”
I crafted the words carefully, each sentence carrying just enough truth to sound genuine. While my ultimate goal remained revenge, I couldn’t afford to let that show.
As the minutes ticked by, the room grew more tense. Some boys around me scribbled furiously, their ink-smeared hands a testament to their frantic efforts. Others stared blankly at their parchment, their quills motionless as if frozen by fear.
A boy across from me, no older than fifteen, muttered curses under his breath as he scratched out yet another failed calculation. Beside him, another applicant—likely from a wealthier family—wrote with a calm, practiced ease, his handwriting as polished as his neatly combed hair.
I glanced at my own work, satisfied that it was legible and concise. Compared to the chaos unfolding around me, I felt a quiet confidence.
“Time’s up!” the officer barked, startling a few boys who had been feverishly writing until the last second.
Quills were set down, and parchments were collected. The scribe who took mine barely glanced at me, his focus on organizing the stack of papers. I resisted the urge to say anything, knowing that my work would either speak for itself or it wouldn’t.
As I rose from my seat, I glanced toward the physical testing area, where the clang of wooden swords echoed through the square. The next challenge awaited, but for now, I took a deep breath, letting the tension of the written examination slip away.
Walking away from the table, I couldn’t help but observe the other applicants. Some were visibly disheartened, their shoulders slumped and expressions grim. Others wore masks of confidence, though their darting eyes betrayed their nerves.
I found Barid waiting near the edge of the square, his arms crossed as he watched the proceedings. “How’d it go?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
“Well enough,” I replied, meeting his gaze.
He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good. Now let’s see how you handle the next part.”
With a nod, I straightened my back and turned toward the training grounds. The day was far from over, and the hardest trials still lay ahead. But for the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope. Step by step, I was moving closer to my goal.
**
The Physical Test
The training field was a stark contrast to the quiet tension of the written examination. Wooden training dummies stood in a neat line, their battered surfaces marked with countless blows from previous tests. Nearby, a long track circled the area, ready for the stamina trials. Applicants lined up, some nervously shifting their weight while others whispered strategies or tried to psych themselves up.
This was where raw talent and determination would be tested. Strength, agility, endurance, and swordsmanship—all were on display, and any weakness would be noted by the officers.
The tension in the air was palpable as the line of applicants shuffled forward, each gripping a wooden training sword. The officer in charge stood at the front, his expression as hard as the stone walls of the academy. His booming voice carried across the field.
“Three strikes! Show us control, strength, and precision. This isn’t about brute force or theatrics—demonstrate that you can wield a blade with purpose!”
The line shifted, and one by one, the applicants stepped forward to face the dummies. Each had three attempts to showcase their skills, their strikes meant to convey not just power but also their understanding of technique and form.
Ahead of me, a tall boy with broad shoulders approached the dummy. His confidence was evident in his stride as he hefted the wooden sword, adjusting his grip. With a loud grunt, he swung the blade down with all his might. The impact was deafening, the dummy shuddering under the force as splinters flew from its arm.
“Strength is good,” one officer muttered to his companion, though his tone was skeptical.
“Good for splitting logs, maybe,” the other replied with a smirk. “No finesse at all.”
The boy, oblivious to their critique, continued his demonstration, his strikes powerful but wild.
Next, a wiry youth with sharp eyes stepped forward. His movements were quick and deliberate, a stark contrast to the previous display of raw power. He danced around the dummy, delivering a series of rapid, flashy cuts. The crowd murmured in approval, but the lead officer shook his head.
“Too showy,” he remarked. “He’s playing to the audience, not the battlefield. There’s potential, but he’s lacking focus.”
I watched each attempt closely, analyzing what worked and what didn’t. This wasn’t just a test—it was a rare opportunity to gauge my competition and learn from their successes and mistakes.
Finally, my turn came. I stepped forward, my grip firm on the wooden sword, its weight familiar yet not quite like the steel I had wielded in my past life. The officer overseeing the test gave me a curt nod, his eyes scrutinizing every detail.
“Show us what you’ve got,” he said, his tone challenging but neutral.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. I knew I couldn’t rely on brute strength or flashy maneuvers—I wasn’t the strongest or the fastest here. What I had, however, was knowledge, honed through years of experience in a life that only I remembered.
Raising the sword, I adjusted my stance slightly, ensuring my footing was firm. My first strike was deliberate, aimed at the dummy’s midsection—a clean, horizontal cut that demonstrated control and precision.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The second strike followed naturally, a diagonal slash that flowed smoothly from the first. I could feel the weight of the sword, the strain in my arms, but I pushed through it, focusing on the technique.
For the final strike, I shifted my stance, stepping into the blow to deliver a decisive downward cut to the dummy’s head.
The strikes weren’t perfect. My movements lacked the fluidity and polish of a seasoned soldier, and I knew my body wasn’t yet strong enough to fully execute the techniques I remembered. But they were controlled, purposeful—far better than what anyone would expect from a farmer’s son.
There was a brief silence as I lowered the sword, stepping back from the dummy. I could feel the officers’ eyes on me, their expressions unreadable. Finally, the lead officer stepped forward, his gaze appraising.
“Not bad,” he said gruffly, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “Your strikes have purpose. The form needs work, and you’re not there yet in terms of strength, but the fundamentals are solid. Better than most here.”
He looked down at his clipboard, then back up at me. “Where’d you learn to handle a blade like that?”
The question caught me off guard, but I answered steadily. “I practiced on my own, sir. My father’s a farmer, and I help him in the fields. I trained when I could.”
The officer’s eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “A farmer’s son, eh?” He looked at me more closely, as if trying to reconcile my background with what he had just witnessed. “You’ve already got a grasp of the basics, and you’ve done it on your own? Impressive. Most boys your age don’t even know how to hold a sword properly.”
He turned to his fellow officers, muttering something under his breath before nodding in my direction. “Mark him down for the next round.”
As I stepped back into the line, a sense of satisfaction settled over me. It wasn’t pride—I knew I had a long way to go before I could consider myself truly skilled—but the acknowledgment of my efforts was a small victory. One step closer to rewriting my future.
From the corner of my eye, I saw my father watching from the sidelines, his expression unreadable but his stance steady. I could only hope that he, too, felt a flicker of pride.
**
Next Stage
The next stage of the evaluation loomed ahead: the stamina test. The officers led us to a large open field encircled by tall wooden stakes. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, causing beads of sweat to form on my brow before the test had even begun.
“Stamina is as vital as skill,” one of the officers barked, his voice carrying over the assembled applicants. “A soldier who can’t endure is no soldier at all. You’ll run laps around this field until we say stop. If you fall behind or collapse, you’re out.”
The instructions were simple enough, but the weight of what lay ahead settled heavily on the group. Many of the applicants, already tired from the swordsmanship test, shifted uneasily, their nerves palpable.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, and we were off. The group surged forward, the sound of pounding feet and labored breaths filling the field. Some sprinted ahead, eager to impress, while others hung back, pacing themselves.
I chose the latter approach, settling into a steady rhythm. This wasn’t a sprint—it was a test of endurance. The lessons I had learned from years of toil in the fields guided me. Farming had been grueling, often requiring long hours under the sun with little rest. That strength and resilience, hard-earned through countless seasons, were my hidden advantage.
As the laps stretched on, the strain began to show. The initial burst of energy that propelled many of the applicants forward waned, and their steps faltered. Some stumbled to a stop, collapsing in exhaustion as the officers blew whistles to signal their elimination.
I kept my gaze forward, but I couldn’t help noticing the variety of responses around me. The tall boy who had earlier shattered the dummy’s arm struggled to keep pace, his strength doing little to carry him through the grueling run. His breath came in ragged gasps as he slowed, eventually stumbling to his knees.
The wiry youth, however, maintained a steady pace, his lithe frame seemingly built for endurance. He ran with a smooth, practiced ease that suggested prior experience.
I focused on my own rhythm, tuning out the distractions. My legs burned with exertion, but I pushed through it, drawing on the grit that had carried me through harder days. The memory of my past life—of betrayal and loss—burned in my chest, fueling me with a determination that outweighed the physical pain.
By the sixth lap, nearly half of the applicants had dropped out. Some limped off the field, heads hanging low, while others were carried away by academy aides. The officers, stationed at intervals around the field, took notes, their expressions neutral but their sharp eyes missing nothing.
I could feel their gazes on me as I continued, my pace consistent despite the growing fatigue. My breaths were deep and measured, each step deliberate. Farming had not only strengthened my body but also instilled in me a mental resilience—an ability to push through discomfort and keep going when others faltered.
One officer muttered to his colleague as I passed by, “Look at that one. Still going strong. Bet it’s all that fieldwork.”
The other officer nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Resilient, that’s for sure. Could be worth keeping an eye on.”
As we neared what felt like the end of the test, the group had thinned considerably. Those who remained were the ones with true stamina, their determination etched on their faces. My shirt clung to my back, soaked with sweat, and my legs screamed for rest, but I refused to give in.
“Keep going! One more lap!” the lead officer shouted, his voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion.
I gritted my teeth, focusing on the finish line. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I forced myself to maintain my pace. As I rounded the final corner, the sight of the officers waiting at the end gave me a surge of energy.
Crossing the line, I slowed to a stop, my chest heaving as I caught my breath. Around me, the remaining applicants staggered in, their faces flushed and their bodies trembling with fatigue.
The lead officer stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the group. “If you’re still standing, congratulations. You’ve proven you’ve got the endurance needed for this line of work.”
He paused, his eyes landing on me briefly before moving on. “But don’t get comfortable. There’s one more test ahead.”
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t help the small flicker of pride that lit within me. I had made it through another stage, inching closer to my goal.
As I moved to the side to rest and rehydrate, I caught sight of my father watching from the edge of the grounds. His expression was hard to read, but there was a subtle shift in his posture—a slight straightening, a hint of pride. It was enough to strengthen my resolve for the challenges ahead.
**
Final Test
The final test loomed, casting an almost tangible tension over the remaining applicants. This wasn’t about brute strength or endurance—it was about control, technique, and composure under pressure. The officers gathered us near an open sparring ring, where several of their peers stood waiting, wooden swords in hand. Their expressions were calm but authoritative, their postures exuding confidence earned from years of experience.
“The rules are simple,” announced the lead officer, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “This is not about winning or losing. We are here to evaluate your technique, your adaptability, and how you handle yourself in combat. You’ll each face one of us in a sparring match. Show us what you’ve got.”
A ripple of apprehension spread among the applicants. Some fidgeted nervously, their earlier confidence replaced by unease. For many, this was the first time they would face an opponent who wasn’t a fellow farmhand or a village rival.
As the matches began, I stood off to the side, observing carefully. One by one, applicants stepped into the ring. A stout boy with a broad chest charged at his opponent with wild swings, his lack of discipline evident. The officer easily sidestepped each attack, tapping him on the shoulder with his sword to signify the end of the match.
A girl with braided hair moved with surprising agility, dodging the officer’s strikes and landing a clean hit on his arm. The officer nodded approvingly, making a note on his clipboard.
Every sparring match was a lesson. I watched how the officers tested the applicants, probing their weaknesses while gauging their strengths. Some applicants crumbled under the pressure, their nerves overtaking their skill. Others fought with a raw determination that earned nods of respect.
Finally, my name was called. My heart pounded as I stepped into the ring, gripping the wooden sword firmly in my hand. The officer assigned to me was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sharp gaze. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Garven, his voice steady and commanding.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, boy,” he said, lowering into a ready stance.
I mirrored his posture, recalling the techniques I had drilled over the past weeks. My body felt light, my mind focused. Though my frame was smaller and less developed than it had been in my previous life, the muscle memory from years of battle was still there, guiding my movements.
Garven moved first, testing me with a quick strike aimed at my side. I parried instinctively, the wooden swords clacking together. The force of his strike sent a jolt up my arm, reminding me of the strength gap between us.
He pressed forward with a series of controlled attacks, each one calculated to probe my defenses. I responded as best as I could, deflecting and sidestepping his strikes. My movements were far from perfect—my footwork was still clumsy, and my counters lacked precision—but I held my ground.
“Not bad,” Garven said, his tone laced with curiosity. “You’ve got the basics down. Where’d you learn?”
I didn’t answer, too focused on the match to spare any words. Garven seemed to take that as a challenge, upping the intensity of his attacks. He came at me with a sudden feint, his sword arcing toward my shoulder. I barely managed to block in time, the impact reverberating through my arm.
Despite the pressure, I kept my composure. Each clash of our swords was a battle in itself, a test of my ability to adapt and endure. The officers watching from the sidelines murmured among themselves, their expressions ranging from interest to mild surprise.
As the match wore on, I spotted an opening—a brief hesitation in Garven’s stance as he shifted his weight. Without thinking, I lunged forward, aiming for his exposed side. My strike was quick and clean, but Garven was quicker. He twisted at the last second, deflecting my sword and countering with a swift tap to my ribs.
The match was over.
Garven stepped back, lowering his sword as he regarded me with a mix of appraisal and approval. “Impressive,” he said, loud enough for the other officers to hear. “You’ve got a good foundation. A bit rough around the edges, but that’s to be expected. With proper training, you could go far.”
I bowed my head respectfully, my chest swelling with a mix of relief and pride. His words were a small victory, a confirmation that my efforts were paying off.
The lead officer stepped forward, his clipboard in hand. “Illiad, son of Barid, you’ve passed this final round. Congratulations.”
As I left the ring, my legs trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the adrenaline coursing through me. I glanced at my father, who stood near the edge of the grounds, watching with a solemn expression. His arms were crossed, his stance steady, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that spoke of quiet pride.
For the first time, I allowed myself a small smile. The path ahead was still long and uncertain, but I had taken another step forward. The thought of what lay ahead filled me with a renewed determination.
The future I sought—a future of strength, vengeance, and redemption—felt just a little closer.