The clang of steel against steel was relentless, echoing through the training grounds like the tolling of a war drum. Agan’s vision blurred, sweat streaming down his face as he struggled to keep his footing. The wooden practice weapon in his hands felt heavier with each strike, his muscles aching with every forced movement.

“Pathetic!” the instructor’s voice bellowed, his tone dripping with disgust. “Even a half-starved dog could swing harder than that!”

The instructor—a scarred veteran with a permanent sneer etched across his face—paced back and forth, his cold gaze fixed on Agan and the other conscripts. He paused to glare at Garik, who was panting heavily, clutching his practice weapon with shaking hands.

“Are you children, or are you conscripts?” the instructor growled, his voice a rasp that cut through the air like a blade. “I see one more of you falter, and I’ll have you on latrine duty for a month!”

Agan gritted his teeth, his vision narrowing to the task at hand. He lunged forward, swinging the weapon with renewed strength, feeling the sting in his arms as it connected with his sparring partner’s shield. Across from him, a boy from another region staggered under the impact, his eyes wide with fear and fatigue.

“Again!” the instructor shouted, his voice filled with a cruel sort of glee.

Agan drew in a ragged breath and swung again, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion that gnawed at his bones. He couldn’t afford to show weakness. Not here.

As the hours dragged on, the instructor’s taunts grew more venomous, his insults cutting deeper with each passing moment. Agan and Garik exchanged glances between blows, their mutual exhaustion evident. The instructor was relentless, pushing them until their legs wobbled and their breaths came in gasps.

Finally, the instructor raised a hand, signaling the end of the drill. “All right, you worms,” he sneered, his gaze sweeping over them with disdain. “Report to the mess hall. Maybe you’ll find something worth your miserable efforts there.”

The conscripts stumbled out of the training grounds, their footsteps slow and uneven. Agan’s arms felt like lead, every inch of his body aching from the unyielding punishment of the day. He cast a glance at Garik, whose face was pale, his hands trembling from exertion.

“Can you stand?” Agan asked, keeping his voice low.

Garik gave a weak nod, swallowing hard. “Barely. But I’ll manage.”

They made their way to the mess hall, where the smell of thin gruel and stale bread greeted them. The room was dimly lit, filled with rows of wooden tables where other conscripts hunched over their meals, their faces etched with exhaustion and defeat.

Agan and Garik grabbed their bowls and found a spot in the corner, sinking onto the benches with weary sighs. The gruel was tasteless, barely warm, but Agan forced himself to eat, knowing he couldn’t afford to waste any strength.

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Across the hall, a group of human conscripts laughed loudly, their voices carrying over the murmur of conversation. Agan noticed that their bowls were filled with thicker, richer food—an obvious privilege granted to those with human heritage.

One of them—a broad-shouldered boy with a smirk plastered on his face—caught Agan’s gaze and sneered. “What are you looking at, swamp rat?”

Agan dropped his gaze, forcing himself to focus on his meal. The last thing he needed was to get into a confrontation. But the boy wasn’t finished.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, blue-skin,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Or are you too stupid to understand simple words?”

Garik clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around his spoon. Agan placed a hand on his friend’s arm, a silent warning to stay calm. They couldn’t afford to draw attention—not here.

The boy’s friends laughed, their voices filled with mockery. “Look at them—acting all high and mighty, like they belong here,” one of them jeered. “I say they should be mucking out the latrines with the rest of the trash.”

Agan ignored them, his focus fixed on finishing his meal as quickly as possible. He could feel Garik’s tension beside him, but they both knew the consequences of retaliation.

“Filthy half-breeds,” the boy muttered, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “They should be grateful the empire even lets them live.”

Agan clenched his spoon so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, a rage that threatened to boil over with every insult, every taunt. But he forced himself to remain still, to hold his tongue.

The boy eventually turned away, laughing with his friends, their voices a constant reminder of the division within the ranks. Agan exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his body, though the anger remained, a steady burn that he knew he’d carry for as long as he wore the empire’s chains.

Garik muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. “One day, we’ll make them regret this.”

Agan gave a slight nod, his gaze hard. “One day.”

After the meal, they were herded out of the mess hall and back to the training grounds, where the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the camp. The guards wasted no time, lining them up for another round of drills.

“Today’s lesson,” the instructor sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “is pain.”

He motioned to a line of wooden dummies, each one covered in spikes and sharp edges. “These are the ‘enemies’ you’ll face today. I want you to strike them until your hands bleed. If any of you show weakness, you’ll be spending the night with the rats.”

The conscripts hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. But the guards moved in, shouting orders, forcing them forward until each one stood in front of a dummy. Agan swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the jagged spikes embedded in the wood.

“Begin!” the instructor shouted, his voice a command that brooked no disobedience.

Agan raised his hands, ignoring the stinging pain as he struck the dummy, each impact sending a fresh wave of agony up his arms. His skin tore against the spikes, blood smearing across the wood, but he kept moving, kept hitting, the pain fading into a dull ache.

Beside him, Garik gritted his teeth, his face contorted with pain as he struck his own dummy, each blow punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. Around them, the other conscripts grunted and cried out, their voices filled with agony and desperation.

The instructor watched them with a cold, satisfied expression, his arms crossed over his chest as he observed their suffering. Agan’s vision blurred, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of his strikes, the relentless, numbing pain that consumed him.

By the time the instructor finally called for them to stop, Agan’s hands were raw, his fingers trembling as he pulled them back, his palms slick with blood. He looked down, his mind a haze of exhaustion and pain, barely able to comprehend the damage he had inflicted on himself.

The instructor smirked, his gaze sweeping over them with a cruel satisfaction. “Good. Now you’re starting to understand what it means to serve the empire.”

He turned, signaling to the guards. “Take them back to their tents. They’ve earned their rest.”