The guard led him deep into the military district, eventually stopping at a wide, dirt-packed training ground. Rows of recruits stood in silence, surrounded by stone-faced veterans who watched them with boredom.
In the center of the yard stood a man who seemed carved from the same blackened iron as the city walls. He was broad chested and bald, a scar cutting a pale line across the bridge of his nose.
"Hey, Mad Dog!" the guard shouted, shoving the Wanderer forward. "Another head of cattle, courtesy of the holding cells."
Mad Dog turned, his gaze heavy and unimpressed. "Dumping trash in my barracks again? I didn't ask for more recruits, especially not ones that look like they’ve been rotting in a hole for a week."
"He’s a mage," the guard countered with a smirk on his lips.
Mad Dog’s interest shifted. He stepped close, grabbed his hand, turning it over to inspect the thick callouses, then squeezed his forearms to gauge the density of the muscle. His eyes caught the faint dark patches on the Wanderer's arm.
"So, his mana was poisoned," Mad Dog noted, his voice a low rumble.
"Yeah, but he took the cure," the guard replied. "He’s stable."
"Stable is a start. I can work with that." Without another word, Mad Dog shoved the Wanderer toward the line of recruits. "Get in line."
The Wanderer stumbled slightly but found his place in the dirt, his eyes never leaving the man. Mad Dog finished a brief, low-voiced exchange before the guard turned and headed back toward the gates.
Once the guard was out of sight, Mad Dog turned back to the line of recruits. He paced the length of the line, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel.
"Listen up, you lot," he began, his voice carrying across the grounds without effort. "You arrived here as criminals, beggars, or failures. In Draemir, those titles mean nothing. Here, you are simply meat. My job is to see if that meat is worth tempering into steel, or if it's better suited for the pits."
He moved across the line, his eyes narrowing.
"In this city, we don't care where you came from or what gods you think are watching over you. We care about two things: strength and the will to use it. You will eat when I tell you, you will bleed when I tell you, and if you're lucky, you'll survive long enough to see a battlefield."
"What’s your name, recruit?" the man asked, stopping directly in front of the Wanderer.
"The Wanderer," he replied.
A fist blurred, a piston of muscle driving toward his face. He tried to pivot, but he was too slow. Instead of catching his cheek, the blow landed square on his chin. The impact rattled his brain against the skull, sending him reeling back three steps as the taste of blood filled his mouth.
"Wrong answer!" the man roared.
He moved to the next man in line. "What’s your name?"
The man hesitated, his lips parting to speak, but the pause was too long. The instructor drove a knee into the man's abdomen. The recruit folded, gasping for air on the dirt.
"Too slow!" he barked. He stepped over the groaning man and stood before the third. "What’s your name?"
"Meat, sir!" the recruit shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.
"That’s right," the instructor said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "You’ll earn your names back when I say you’ve earned the right to have them."
He turned his head back toward the Wanderer, who was wiping a smear of red from his lip. "Try to dodge my fist again, and you’ll spend the rest of the day as the camp’s training dummy."
He then turned to face the entire row of recruits, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "I am Sergeant Valak. You will address me as Sir or Sergeant Mad Dog. You will soon know why."
"Down! Now! What are you waiting for?" Valak’s voice cracked like a whip over the yard.
The recruits hit the dirt. The Wanderer braced his palms against the grit, lowering his chest as the strain of push-ups began. He barely reached ten before a crushing weight slammed into his shoulder blades. Valak was pacing across their backs, his iron-shod boots digging into muscle and spine.
Whenever a recruit buckled or let their chest touch the mud beneath the Sergeant’s weight the veterans stepped in with leather lashes, the sharp *crack* followed by the screams of the recruits.
"You all want to be mages," Valak said, his voice undisturbed as he balanced on a man's trembling spine. "But steel comes first. Magic is a fickle mistress, steel never misfires. You temper the body before you touch the spark."
He finished his circuit, stepping off the last man’s back and onto the solid earth. He turned to face the row of heaving recruits. "Draemirans don't flinch. Whether you were dragged here in chains or walked through the gates seeking glory, you are Draemirans now. Act like it."
He gestured toward a long trench filled with glowing, orange-red coals. The heat shimmered off the pit, blurring the air.
"Form a line," Valak commanded. "You will walk the coals. Eyes front. No flinching." He glanced at the veterans, who were already closing in. "Anyone who hesitates or cries out goes to the pits. And if the pits don't want them, the war beasts haven't been fed since yesterday. Move! Move! Move!"
The Wanderer felt the heat radiating from the trench. His mind flickered a vision of the Spiral's blue energy clashing with the red embers. He stepped toward the edge, eyes locked on the horizon ahead.
The war inside was a tougher fight than the coal scraping his feet or burning his skin.
Valak took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he inhaled the scent of scorched flesh and the smoke from the pit.
"Yes, that’s it," he rumbled. "Meat needs heat. Steel must be tempered."
A recruit near the front of the line let out a sharp cry, his leg twitching as his skin touched the orange glow. He tried to hop to the edge, his composure shattering. Valak’s satisfaction turned to disgust.
"Take this weakling out of my sight." Two veterans moved in instantly, dragging the man away by his collar as he pleaded for a second chance.
The line moved forward. A quarter of the recruits were purged in minutes: any flinch, any cry of pain, and you were discarded. Valak spat on the ground as the failed men huddled in the dirt, clutching their burnt feet.
He turned his gaze toward the survivors. The Wanderer stood among them, his feet numb and his expression a mask of iron.
"Now," Valak commanded, pointing a finger at the failures. "Beat these weaklings to the verge of death. They are meat to be tenderized. Whoever refuses will join them on the ground." He leaned in. "Now go!"
The survivors moved. There was no hesitation, no mercy.
The training ground erupted into an orchestra of dull thuds and desperate groans as the passed recruits began the assault.
The Wanderer threw punches without caring where they landed. On the outside, he projected the cruelty Draemir demanded, his fists striking the men who had stood beside him only an hour ago. On the inside, the Spiral’s hunger roared at the scent of blood and the proximity of violence. It pushed him towards the violence demanding going further.
He gritted his teeth, his knuckles splitting, forcing the hunger back into its cage.