Months bled into one another, the grind of the legion turning the recruits into something leaner and harder. Kuma, however, had found a different way to adapt. He had become the unit’s self-appointed story teller, weaving grand fictions where the Wanderer was the centerpiece.
To the other recruits, the stories might as well be true. They had seen the "beast incident" and the way the Wanderer moved during drills.
The Wanderer found Kuma at the center of a rapt circle of recruits, his hands moving animatedly as he described a fight that had never occurred.
The Wanderer supposedly dismantled a full squad of veterans using nothing but a snapped tree branch.
He shook his head and kept walking.
"Hey! My friend, wait up!" Kuma’s voice cut through the air. He scrambled away from his audience and ran to catch up, following the Wanderer back toward the quarters.
Inside the quiet of the barracks, the Wanderer turned. "You’re never going to stop with those bedtime stories, are you?"
"It builds reputation," Kuma said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"I don't need one."
Kuma shrugged, unbothered. "Maybe not. But I do."
The Wanderer let out a tired breath. "I didn't mind you using me as a human shield during the drills. But you’re pushing it."
Kuma hopped onto his bunk, swinging his legs. "You’re getting status in return. Why are you complaining?"
The Wanderer didn't bother replying. He stretched out on his own bed, staring at the ceiling.
"I’m sorry for selling you out that day in the mess hall," Kuma said, his voice dropping. "But I have to survive."
"If you pull that shit again," the Wanderer said. "I’ll tell everyone you’ve been lying to them the whole time. See how your status holds up then."
Kuma stayed quiet for a long moment, then spoke in a shaky tone. "I’m sorry. I really am. I just... I have to get back at the people who killed my family. I barely escaped the Mage Seekers. They hunted us for days... my parents had to sacrifice themselves so I could get away."
The Wanderer closed his eyes. "Don't try playing on my emotions, Kuma. I don't have any right now."
Kuma turned away, facing the other side. Soon, the sound of muffled sobs drifted across the gap between the beds. The Wanderer turned his back to the sound, his mind drifting back to Lythra. He remembered the way they had looked at him, the way they treated him like a plague when he was at his most vulnerable. He wondered if he was becoming exactly what they had feared.
The next morning, the air was sharp with the smell of wet earth and oiled metal.
Valak stood before the line of recruits. "Today, you’ve earned your names," he barked. "And with those names comes the right to bear Draemiran steel."
A group of veterans moved down the line, handing out heavy swords forged of matte black steel. They felt cold in the hand.
"Make no mistake," Valak continued, pacing the line. "You are still raw. You still need tempering. You will be divided into groups of five. Each group will protect a flag. The rule of no magic stands…but killing is permissible."
He stopped then continued.
"Each group will choose a leader. If your flag is stolen or your leader dies, your group loses. The veterans will assign your bases. You have until noon to dig in. Move!"
Kuma naturally stuck to the Wanderer’s side, moving with urgency to ensure no one else claimed the spot. Three other recruits joined them, weary-looking men who had barely survived the months of drills.
One of them, a man with a scar across his chin, looked at the Wanderer with genuine relief. "I’m glad to be part of your group, sir!"
The Wanderer adjusted the weight of the black steel blade at his hip. "Don't call me sir. We have the same rank."
"But we must," Kuma interjected, puffing out his chest as if he were the one being complimented. "You’re the group leader. I don’t think anyone here is going to disagree with that."
The other three recruits nodded in immediate agreement.
"Fine," the Wanderer said, his voice low. "Does anyone have a plan?"
Kuma’s eyes darted around, his mind clearly already spinning. "Listen. Instead of planting the flag in the dirt where it's a sitting duck, we tie it to your back. You’re going to be a target anyway. It doubles the risk, but it doubles the reward."
He leaned in closer, dropping his voice. "You move through the field, drawing everyone's eyes. They see the flag, they see the 'beast' of the unit, and they’ll lose their minds trying to achieve glory taking you down. While they’re obsessed with chasing you, the four of us slip through the brush and hit their bases while they're empty."
The Wanderer looked at Kuma. "At least you have a brain."
"I have to use something," Kuma grinned.
"Alright," the Wanderer said, turning toward the assigned zone. "Let's start setting up the base. If we want them to take the bait, we have to make it look believable."
The base they were assigned was between two limestone ridges.
For two hours, they worked in a feverish silence. The three recruits-Hennen, Jax, and Kael-dug a perimeter trench while Kuma gathered deadwood and dry brush.
They planted a decoy flag deep in the shadows of the ridge. Kuma spent an hour weaving a web of thin trip-wires made from frayed bootlaces across the entrance. Just to make enough noise to sell the lie that they were hunkered down for a siege.
By noon, the Wanderer stood ready. He had the true crimson banner, tightly bound to the back of his grey legion tunic with strips of leather. It trailed behind him like a cape.
"Noon," Hennen whispered, gripping his black steel sword. The horn of the legion sounded in the distance, a signal to start the hunt.
"Go," the Wanderer said.
He peaked the ridge in plain view, the crimson flag snapping in the wind. Below him, the valley was a maze of tall grass, dense thickets, and rocks. He could see movement everywhere, flashes of steel, the rustle of the brush.
The Wanderer began to run.
The first group found him within ten minutes. They were a frantic lot, five recruits who had clearly decided that the "Beast" was the biggest threat to their survival. They emerged from a cluster of pines, their faces set in masks of desperate ambition.
"There! He’s got the flag on him!" their leader shouted.
The Wanderer led them on a grueling chase through a creek bed, the water splashing against his boots. He moved with efficiency, not too fast to escape them, not too slow for them to engage.
As he led his pursuers toward a narrow ravine, a second group joined the chase, coming in from the flank. Each group left one or two behind to protect the base.
*Good,* he thought. *The more eyes on me, the fewer eyes on the bases.*
The followers scrambled after him, cursing as the thorns scratched their skin. The Wanderer, however, moved like a ghost through the thicket, his eyes scanning for the layout of the other bases Kuma had speculated about.
He spotted one. A small encampment tucked under a stone overhang. It was guarded by only two men, the rest of their squad had likely joined the mob chasing him.
The Wanderer purposely stumbled, letting his flag dip low so the chasing pack could see it.
"He’s tiring! Cut him off at the bend!"
The mob surged forward, their formation breaking as greed took over. The two guards at the nearby base stepped out from their cover, lured by the prospect of a stray kill. As they moved away from their post, the Wanderer saw Kuma and the others, ghosting through the tall grass toward the unguarded flag.
He jumped over a hill and threw himself into a controlled slide down a steep, muddy slide. At the bottom he waited.
The first of the pursuers tumbled down after him, off-balance and winded.
The Wanderer met them. He used the flat of the blade and the heavy pommel. A crack to a collarbone, a sweep of the legs, a blunt strike to the chest. He moved through them taking advantage of their fall, to send them to a deep sleep.
Hours passed. The sun began to dip, casting long, bruised shadows across the valley. The Wanderer was covered in mud and the blood of others, his lungs finally beginning to burn. He had led nearly half the recruits in the valley on a wild goose chase, weaving a path that circled back toward the extraction point.
A shadow moved in the trees to his left.
Valak stood on a high rock, arms crossed, watching the carnage. He didn't say a word, just watching.
Suddenly, a low whistle echoed from the ridge above. It was Kuma’s signal.
The Wanderer looked up. High on the ridge, Kuma stood silhouetted against the orange sky. He had three flags tucked under his arms, grinning like a madman.
"He's over here!" a voice screamed from behind the Wanderer. A final, desperate squad was closing in, their eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.
The Wanderer looked at the approaching line, then at the black steel in his hand. He felt the urge to hunt. He planted his feet, the crimson flag on his back still fluttering, and waited for the last wave to break against him.