The sky over Ironreach hung heavy with clouds the color of ash. Mist clung to the stone ridges that circled the training grounds like jagged teeth. Cold air scraped across the skin, stinging, unwelcome.
Adem Brown stood shoulder to shoulder with nearly thirty other children on the wet, uneven field. His wooden sword—too big for his hands, too rough in the grip—rested at his side. His boots were soaked through. His fingers trembled, but he kept them steady.
He didn't look around. He didn't speak. Around him, the others whispered, some laughing nervously, some trying to act brave. A few looked like they wanted to run.
A sharp voice cut through the fog.
"Silence!"
The children straightened as **Instructor Garen** stepped into view, boots grinding against the stone-packed earth. He wore no ornamentation, no symbol of rank—just dark leather layered like armor and a stare that could freeze water.
"I am not here to coddle you. I will not teach you how to survive. Survival is something you will earn yourselves."
He began to walk slowly down the line of children.
"You are not knights. Not yet. You are brats with sticks and bad posture."
A few chuckled. Garen's boot kicked the nearest boy in the shin. The boy yelped and fell.
"You think this is a game? This isn't the storytelling circle, and I am not your grandmother."
He stopped in front of a tall girl with confident eyes—**Lira**, Adem had heard others call her.
"Name."
"Lira, sir."
"Strike me."
She hesitated only a moment before lifting her sword and lunging forward with practiced form. Garen sidestepped and knocked her weapon from her hand with a single motion.
"Too slow. And too proud. Pride kills faster than any beast."
He turned to the rest. "Today begins your training. Your strength will be measured not in talent, but in blood, grit, and obedience. If you survive this bootcamp, you may one day earn the right to be called knight."
The word knight made Adem's heart beat faster. It wasn't just a title. It meant stepping onto the true path—a Tier One warrior chasing strength in a world that chewed up the weak and left them to rot.
"Line up. Stances. I want to see your center of gravity or I'll drag you into the mud myself."
Adem dropped into a crouched stance, copying the position he'd seen older trainees use. His legs burned almost immediately.
Beside him, **Toren**, lean and wiry, leaned over.
"Ten breaths and your legs'll snap. Want to bet?"
Adem gave him a sideways glance but said nothing.
"Focus!" Garen barked. "This isn't conversation time."
The drills began.
Over and over again—stance, grip, slash, block. Garen demonstrated with brutal precision, then made them repeat. No breaks. No mercy.
Adem's shoulders burned. His palms blistered. A boy vomited from exhaustion. A girl fainted. Garen didn't pause.
"Pain is not a reason to stop. It's a reminder to do better."
By midmorning, the children could barely hold their swords.
"Form pairs," Garen said. "Time for sparring."
Adem was paired with **Harlan**, a heavyset boy who looked like he enjoyed fighting a little too much. His face already wore a grin.
"You're fast," he said. "But I hit harder."
Adem raised his sword.
"Begin!" Garen shouted.
Harlan charged immediately, his strike wide and clumsy but heavy. Adem barely parried, the force rattling up his arms. He staggered back.
"Come on!" Harlan grinned. "Hit me!"
Adem stepped to the side, keeping light on his feet. He waited for the next swing, ducked under it, and jabbed Harlan in the ribs.
The thud of wood on bone. Harlan gasped.
Garen nodded.
"Better than expected, Brown. But don't admire yourself just yet."
The sparring continued, children falling into the mud, yelping, shouting. Lira knocked her opponent flat. Toren laughed the entire time, even when he lost. Adem found himself catching breath between fights, unsure if the trembling in his legs was from cold or fear.
When the sun was high and the clouds began to break, Garen called them to line up once more.
"You've taken your first step toward something greater. But don't mistake this for progress. You are still soft. Still slow. Still children."
His tone shifted—lower, darker.
"The world outside these walls is not kind. There are places where the land itself will try to kill you. Where shadows move without light. Where even the strongest cultivators go mad."
A breeze swept through the training ground. It carried the faintest scent of sulfur and rot—from the **fringe**, just beyond the mountains.
Garen's eyes swept across the group.
"You train here because one day you will face what lives out there. And it will not care if you are tired. Or scared. Or ready."
He stepped closer. His voice dropped almost to a whisper.
"Some of you will not survive. Some of you will break. But if you want power—real power—you will fight for it anyway."
Then, louder: "Dismissed."
The children scattered, limping toward the barracks at the far end of the grounds.
Adem followed in silence. His arms ached. His fingers trembled again. But beneath the exhaustion, something stirred—something small and sharp, like the glint of a buried blade.
The sky overhead had cleared. The sun shone down for the first time that day.
And far, far beyond the mountains, where the world twisted and laws unraveled, the corruption waited—silent, patient, and watching.