We sat in the stone yard, backs against cold walls, waiting for the sergeants to collect us. Some of the other recruits muttered or shifted restlessly, but I passed the time by opening my status.
[Class Progression]
Junior Officer (Cadet) – Level 3 (275 / 300 EXP)
[Skill Progression]
- [Soldier’s March (C)] – 18 → 19
- [Guard Duty (C)] – 21 → 22
- [Minor Restoration (C)] – 14 → 15
I hadn’t gained a single level since the pair I’d earned after that panther ambush. Classes always advanced in sleep, so I would have seen it by now if I’d crossed another threshold. I have picked up around 225 XP during the march.
The truth was simple: after entering the high-mana zone, my role in the caravan had shrunk. I walked, I watched, I stood guard when ordered. Hardly worthy of real experience.
Fighting that panther had been different. It hadn’t just been a clash of steel against claws; it was guarding the caravan, holding the line, protecting others. That was what my class was: not raw violence, but duty performed. And lately, most of my duty had been little more than standing by.
The repetition hadn’t been for nothing. Marching improved [Soldier’s March], long shifts strengthened [Guard Duty], and constant use to restore my HP and MP after exhausting marches finally raised [Minor Restoration] as well
I let the screen fade and lowered my gaze to the recruits around me. Some leaned on spears, others gnawed on dried rations. We sat in the mustering yard as the sun sank low, stone walls stretching their shadows across the square. Beyond the Inner Gate Passage, the watchtower stood tall against the fading light, its signal braziers glowing orange as smoke curled into the purple-gold sky.
Sergeants moved among us, calling names. Some clipped and sharp, others muttering as they skimmed their papers. Each name pulled another recruit away, the line thinning with every order.Then I saw a man approaching with a soldier’s stride, steady but worn, like boots that had marched too many miles. His armor was sloppily buckled, his spear serviceable but dulled from neglect. Dark circles hollowed his eyes, and stubble roughened his jaw. He looked at us once, glanced down at the paper in his hand, and called in a gravel-flat voice with no ceremony “Edward of Oxspell. Michael of Silvergrove.”
I blinked, surprised. He wasn’t dressed like a sergeant, just a plain private’s uniform worn like an afterthought. Not uncommon for a sergeant to send a man to fetch recruits, but something about him felt off: older than most, somewhere in his thirties, carrying himself like a man half-asleep.
“Come. I’ll take you to the sergeant,” he said, voice flat, as if the words cost him effort.
We moved through the Inner Gate Passage, the heavy stone pressing close on either side until it opened out into the Central Square. It was larger than I’d imagined, broad enough for a hundred men to form up, though now it stood mostly empty. The armory’s wide doors gaped open on one side, lantern light spilling weakly over racks of spears. A clerk hunched at a table inside, head bent, laboriously scratching names onto a roster while another soldier stacked battered shields in uneven piles against the wall.
Across the way, the forge burned bright. Sparks leapt into the night like fireflies as a black-robed smith hammered at a glowing spearhead, each strike ringing sharp against the cobbles. The smell of smoke and scorched iron drifted heavy in the air, catching in my throat. Between those two buildings stretched the parade ground, bare now but marked by its years of service: flagstones worn smooth by countless boots, grooves along the edges where benches once stood, dark stains set deep into the cracks that I suspected had never quite washed out.
I forced myself to take it in, every detail, the ramps climbing to the wall-walk, the narrow stair curling to the watchtowers, the line of barracks running south toward the corner bastion. Stonegate had drilled the habit into me: know the layout, know the exits. Order and awareness were the only shields a recruit had. Miss the layout, and you’d spend the night running laps or digging latrines.
The man leading us walked a half-step ahead. His shoulders were rounded, his gait steady but unhurried, like someone who had marched this path too many times to feel urgency anymore. When two of us slowed, heads craning to watch the smith’s hammer arc sparks into the night, he gave a short grunt. Just a sound enough to snap us back into line. We hurried our steps without him turning his head.
“Listen,” he rasped at last, voice low and rough, like gravel shifting in the throat. His eyes never left the path ahead. “The sergeant told me to explain how the fort runs. I’ll say it once.”
A broad warehouse pressed against the wall came next, its heavy doors reinforced with iron bands. Walter tilted his chin toward it. “Quartermaster’s store. Food, crystals, beast meat. Everything passes through there.”
I blinked a few times, still trying to process his words about the Quartermaster, while the weight of his earlier warning lingered in the back of my mind. Then the sharp smell of salted hides hit me. Bundles were stacked against the wall, and I caught the faint clatter of barrels being rolled inside. A line of soldiers waited outside, tin cups in hand, arguing with the clerk at the window. Their voices carried sharp on the air, complaints about short rations, half-filled bags, and officers cutting ahead. The quartermaster’s guard leaned against the doorframe, expression bored, spear tapping the ground with idle rhythm.
We kept walking.
“We’re Company Three, under Lieutenant Fenward. Our sergeant is Alric Fenward.” The way he said it, name and rank dropped like dead weight, told me everything I needed to know about what Walter thought of his sergeant.
At last, we reached the northern barracks. A battered numeral three had been painted across the wall in faded strokes. A man sat on a low bench outside the door, papers balanced on his knee. Three soldiers lounged nearby, one scratching lines into the dirt with his boot, another oiling the haft of his spear. They looked up as we approached.
“Who’s Edward of Oxspell?” the man on the bench asked.
“Me, sir.” I snapped a salute, crisp from training.
He studied me for a long moment. His face was clean-shaven, sharp-featured, younger than I had expected, mid-twenties, perhaps. Pale skin, a hawkish nose. His armor gleamed bright, almost polished to a mirror shine, though the straps holding it sagged loose across his chest. He was tall, wiry, the kind of man who stood straighter than his frame deserved.
“You’re with Intelligence, then,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the lieutenant. Your reports go to him as well.” He let the words hang, before adding, “Are you affiliated with any house?”
“No, sir.” I kept my salute, pride stiffening my arm. It surprised me when he didn’t dismiss it.
Instead, his mouth curved into something close to a smile, then shifted into a different look altogether, polished, rehearsed generosity. “Do you want to join House Fenward? I can put in a word with my cousin.”
Heat rushed to my neck. I had heard the whispers, houses buying favors in garrisons, noble families treating forts like markets for pawns, but I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. By regulation, such offers weren’t allowed during active duty, but it wasn’t as if I could do anything about it. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I’m still finding my footing. Let me learn my duties first, then I’ll inform you of my decision.” My voice stayed careful, polite.
His nostrils flared, annoyance flashing before he smothered it. “Very well.” He folded his hands over the papers.
“Has Walter explained the fort?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“Good.” He slid a single sheet toward me. “These are your duties. You’ll monitor the conscripts pressed into this squad. Note their loyalty, whether they follow orders, and whether they break under pressure. Record terrain changes, beast movements, anything unusual on watch or patrol. You may be called by sappers or runers because of your specialization, though that’s rare, unless it’s an expedition or beast wave.”
I was to watch, to report, to measure the men around me.
The sergeant leaned back, smug grin returning. “Walter will introduce you to the others.”
Walter pushed to his feet with a grunt, muttered something too low to catch, and turned away. I followed without waiting for dismissal.
A few yards down the path, his voice came again, softer now, quieter, stripped of the monotone he had worn since the gate. "Listen. Don’t strike first. The conscripts are bound by mana-oath. They won’t attack unless their life’s clearly in danger."
I tightened my grip on the sheet. My eyes skimmed the inked lines, names shackled to crimes. They weren’t brothers-in-arms. They were inmates shoved into armor, men who’d traded chains for spears. My stomach turned cold. This wasn’t a unit, it was a powder keg. Discipline was supposed to be the spine of a formation, but how do you march shoulder to shoulder with someone who’d slit a throat for bread? My modern mind whispered the word: liability. Hopefully the mana-oath would stop them from bolting at the first chance.