"Enough!" Valak’s voice boomed, his raised hand freezing the violence mid-air.
Everyone was painted in a grim layer of dust and blood.
"Hit the showers and eat," Valak commanded, pacing through the gore. "Then head to the quarters. We don't have enough beds for all of you. Coin toss or fight for them. I don't care. But no killing and no magic. Meat dismissed."
As the veterans herded the line toward the mess hall, a frantic energy took hold. The moment the formal dismissal ended, a rumbling broke out as recruits began a desperate sprint toward the few barracks, eager to claim a spot before the nightly brawls began.
The Wanderer moved away from the crowd, slipping behind a stone storehouse. He sank onto the bare sand, his back against the cold masonry, and closed his eyes, ignoring the muffled sounds of shouting and thudding blows coming from the quarters.
Footsteps came behind him. "Fleeing the fight too?"
He simply rolled onto his side, facing the wall in a silent dismissal.
The stranger sat down nearby and let out a nervous laugh. "Man, I’m lucky. I thought for sure Valak noticed my wonky steps on those coals. My left foot is a mess." Still receiving no response, the man continued, a hint of desperate excitement in his voice. "Hey, let's go steal some blankets. We can bring them back here and sleep on the sand. What do you think?"
The Wanderer sat up, his gaze sharp and weary. "Can you stop talking? I’m trying to rest."
"I'm just saying," the man replied. "Men like us don't survive alone. Strength in numbers, right?"
"Go find another dog," the Wanderer said, laying back down.
Hours passed. The deep chill of the Draemiran night had settled in when the Wanderer was jerked awake by the sound of scuffling and sharp yelps of pain.
Two larger recruits were standing over the man from earlier, kicking him as he curled into a ball. "Worthless piece of crap," one snarled. "You think you can steal from our blanket pile and just walk away?"
The Wanderer stood up, driven by anger, headed towards them. He moved before they saw him, driving a kick into the back of the first man’s knee. As the leg buckled, the Wanderer followed through, slamming an elbow deep into the man’s spine.
The second attacker lunged in defense, to be met with a rising flip kick that snapped the man’s chin upward. He followed with a brutal strike to the thigh, deadening the limb. Grabbing the second man by the collar, he hauled him up like a child slamming him onto his friend who was still gasping on the ground.
Then he began stomping on the stacked bodies, shouting between the hits. "I... need... to... sleep!"
"Get out of here!" he roared.
The two attackers scrambled to their feet, limping and clutching their ribs. "You'll pay for this!" one spat over his shoulder.
The beaten man sat up, wiping blood from his nose. "Thank you," he breathed.
The Wanderer looked at him for a moment, then turned to find his spot on the sand again.
"I managed to get two blankets," the man said, holding one out. "Take it. It’s the least I can do."
The Wanderer took the rough fabric. "You're welcome."
The man laid down a few feet away, settling into the sand. "I'm Kuma, by the way."
"I don't care," the Wanderer replied, pulling the blanket tight. "Just shut up."
The barracks bell rang, waking the recruits at first light. They scrambled into the yard, falling into a line under the watchful veterans.
Valak stepped out from the shadows of the command tent, he paced the length of the line. "Yesterday was a courtesy," he rumbled. "From now on, the real tempering begins."
The veterans moved through the ranks, handing out heavy wooden practice swords. They were thick, unbalanced slabs of oak.
"Carry your blade and take pride in it," Valak commanded. "It is your third hand. Swing it until it breaks... or until you do."
The yard erupted into motion. The recruits began to slash and hack at the empty air, arms blurring as they tried to force the wood to snap through sheer velocity. The sound of whistling oak filled the air, but the swords held firm. Kuma stood like a shadow beside the Wanderer, his face slick with sweat as he swung again and again.
"He didn't say we had to break them against the air, right?" Kuma whispered between gasps.
The Wanderer didn't break his swings, his muscles burning. "No," he replied, his voice strained.
A sickening *crack* followed by a guttural scream cut through the yard. The recruits faltered, watching as two veterans pinned a man to the dirt, a recruit who had stopped swinging out of pure exhaustion. Valak stood over him, reached down gripping the man’s forearm, and drove his heavy boot into the elbow.
The snap of bone was louder than the wood.
"You can go eat now," Valak said to the sobbing man. He looked back at the line, his eyes sweeping over the horrified recruits. "But tell me, how many of your own arms will you break before the wood gives up?"
Kuma’s eyes darted around, panicked but sharp. "I have an idea," he hissed. He spun suddenly, swinging his practice sword with everything he had against the Wanderer’s blade.
There was no impact. The wooden swords phased through each other, the air rippling where they should have met. They both stumbled, staring at their weapons in confusion.
Valak’s shadow fell over them. "Good thinking," he said, a ghost of a smirk touching his scarred face. He turned to the rest of the yard, raising his voice. "In the heat of battle, you follow orders. But that doesn't mean you stop using those rotten brains of yours! A problem requires a solution. Figure it out."
He began to walk away, muttering loud enough for them to hear, "Idiots... trying to break oak with air."
Kuma turned back to the Wanderer. "Let’s try again. There has to be a real contact point." They began to swing at one another cautiously, testing the blades at different angles and heights. Suddenly, their swords met in a solid spot.
"There!" Kuma shouted. "That's the spot. Hit these together!"
The Wanderer pulled his sword back, channeling his focus into the marked oak. He swung with a controlled, explosive force, meeting Kuma’s blade at the exact point of collision.
The wood shattered into a cloud of splinters.
Valak stopped and looked back, nodding slowly. "Looks like you found the trick. No more training for you two today. Go have your fun."
He turned his attention back to the rest of the gasping, confused recruits. His face darkened instantly. "As for the rest of you stone-heads... get down! Now! Push-ups until the sun sets!"
Kuma leaned into the Wanderer’s space laughing. "Look at those idiots," he signaled toward the sweating rows of men. "Stone-heads, just like the Sergeant said."
The Wanderer brushed him aside without a word and began to walk.
Kuma stumbled, caught off balance. "Hey! Where are you going?"
"To training," the Wanderer replied. "We aren't here for pleasure."
"But Valak told us to have fun," Kuma called out, a smirk returning to his face. "That’s a direct order!"
The Wanderer didn't bother to reply. Kuma shrugged, satisfied with his small victory, and turned toward the early scent of broth drifting from the mess hall. The Wanderer, however, fell back into the rhythm of the yard, joining the next rotation of drills until the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the black towers of Draemir in blood-orange light.
By the time he showered and reached the mess hall, the air was thick with tension. He grabbed a tray and sat, focused only on the fuel his body required. Nearby, a group of recruits had cornered Kuma. He ignored the scuffle until Kuma’s voice cut through the noise.
"He did it!" Kuma shouted, his finger trembling as he pointed directly at the Wanderer. "He's the one you want!"
The men shoved Kuma away and turned as one.
"You’re the one who broke the sword?" one of them growled, stepping forward.
"What if I did?" Said without looking away from his bowl.
One of the beaten recruits from the night before said.” He also stole our blankets yesterday, beat us when we demanded it back.”
"We went through hell because of your little trick, and you dared to touch my personal servants" the man spat. He leaned over and sent a thick glob of saliva into the Wanderer’s soup.
The Wanderer calmly chewed a final piece of chicken. Then, in one fluid motion, he slammed the heavy ceramic bowl into the man's face. As the recruit reeled back, the Wanderer kicked his chair up, catching it by the legs and swinging it in a wide arc to keep the others at bay.
The brawl erupted. A recruit flanked him, smashing a wooden chair across the back of the Wanderer’s head. The wood splintered, and he felt the immediate warmth of blood soaking into his collar. Straggling to balance , he sent his fist in a clumsy swing crashing it into the man's jaw. But the swarm overwhelmed him, grabbing whatever part of his body they reached.
Punching and kicking any limb touched him, he tore himself free, sprinting out of the mess hall and into the darkness between the barracks. The hunger pressed him to shed blood further, but he escaped the violence in resistance.
The recruits followed in pursuit. One caught his speed, lunging forward, but he leaped, spinning in mid-air to drive a heel into the man's head. Another caught his leg before even landing, he crossed his legs around the man’s neck, pressing a back flip from the top of the man’s shoulders, planting his face into the dirt.
Then, a wooden training sword pierced his side. Another recruit sneaked in from the shadows, the wood biting deep into his flesh.
The pain was the final trigger. The Spiral's hunger, suppressed for days by resolve only, roared back to life.
He lunged at the one who stabbed him, before the recruit could retract the wooden blade. He jammed his fist into the man's mouth, fingers hooking deep behind the bone of the lower jaw. The man thrashed, eyes wide with terror, pushing the Wanderer's chest, but the grip was steel.
He forced the man's mouth open past the breaking point. The tongue flailed uselessly in the night air. His eyes were twin voids of cold, blue light. He jammed his fingers into the exposed throat, tearing the airway wider.
Blood sprayed everywhere announcing the return of the pilgrim of ruin.