Bail of an Old Knight (1)

"I can't hear your voices!" Kyle's voice rang out across the Southern Training Field like a crack of thunder at dawn—sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.

It was still early morning. Mist swirled over the frozen ground as the first to rise rubbed their eyes, unsure whether they were still dreaming or already trapped in a waking nightmare.

"LOUDER!" Kyle barked again, and this time, his words came laced with aura—heavy and sharp, crashing down on our shoulders like sacks of stone.

"Kghhh—!" Several people staggered under the weight. Someone dropped to their knees up ahead, another lost balance and stumbled into a fellow recruit.

"Kyle, Kyle… that's not how it's done." The voice came slow and mocking. Old Isack, with that eternal crooked grin on his face, stepped forward, snapping his fingers like he owned the place.

"YOU BUNCH OF WEAKLINGS! DIDN'T YOU HEAR HIM? LOUDER!!" And then… the real pressure hit us.

KGHHRRR!!

It felt like the air froze solid, like our veins burst from the inside, like a fortress wall had collapsed onto our backs.

Some screamed. Others crumpled. Even the toughest among us had to dig in their heels to stay upright.

'Damn old man… he's enjoying this,' I cursed inwardly, gasping, trying to stay on my feet as my muscles screamed in protest.

"It seems like you're still reluctant, huh?!" Isack jeered, arms outstretched as if waiting for applause. "Maybe you need a little more motivation?"

Our eyes met across the field.

We all knew what came next.

And then, almost in unison, with the resignation of soldiers marching to their doom, we lifted our voices:

"FOR THE BLOOD THAT NEVER DRIED!"

"I'LL PAY EVEN WITH MY LAST BREATH!"

"WE'RE COCKROACHES, BUT WITH HORNS HELD HIGH!"

"But EVEN ROACHES BURN WHEN FURY FLIES!"

"I'D DIE LIKE A DOG, I SWEAR!"

"BUT GET CAUGHT IN TORN UNDERWEAR? TOO MUCH TO BEAR!"

The song rose into the frozen morning air, a miserable battle hymn—courtesy of the Dracknum family.

This wretched motivational anthem was all their fault. More precisely, it was thanks to old Isack, who, after cursing the Patriarch and getting "imprisoned," slipped out of his punishment as easily as one escapes a leaky tent. But worst of all, to avoid a harsher sentence, he decided to contribute to the family.

And how did he do that? Simple: by training us. All of us.

Didn't matter who you were. If you were with a restriction and at the waiting fields, you got dragged into this hellish bootcamp. The family, of course, didn't object. A retired Level 7 knight offering free physical training?

Looked good… on paper.

And so here we were. After being flattened by the Commander's aura, we were sorted into groups based on how many aura waves we could withstand and how long we stayed conscious.

Those still sleeping got the traditional and ever-so-loving bucket of cold water. In winter.

"Move it! Anyone who doesn't run 50 laps can say goodbye to their dignity!" Kyle roared, dashing through the ranks like a war general in a stage play.

The Southern Training Field… oh, the Southern Training Field! Big enough to fit two and a half soccer pitches. I couldn't help but wonder: if this was for squires, what were the knights' fields like? An entire valley?

The first laps began. Boots pounding against the frozen ground, warm breath steaming into the air, shouts of motivation (or panic) echoing all around.

"Come on, Bart! It's only your tenth lap! Stop throwing up and move!"

"Lewis, quit staring at the girls and focus!"

"António's down again! Someone drag him by the leg!"

Among all the chaos, I spotted familiar and unfamiliar faces. Some laughed nervously, others cursed their fate under their breath. Many still sang the damn song, like it was the only thing holding them up. A few whispered silent prayers, eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

The Cruelest Part?

Whoever didn't finish the fifty laps had their unfinished laps added to the next day. Yes, because the race from that damn day on would be daily.

And to make it worse: those who failed were punished.

Manual labor, toilets, table cleaning… And for the truly unlucky… extra training with Kyle or a "motivational talk" with Isack.

Honestly, no one could say which was worse.

"RUNNING IS A GIFT, NOT A PUNISHMENT!" shouted someone who had clearly gone mad.

Yeah, that was the vibe: freezing cold, mud, ridiculous singing, burning muscles, and old Isack grinning over it all like it was some festival.

Me? 

Well… I was still running. But with every step, every new curve, I kept wondering how many laps I had left—and how much of my soul was still with me.

You might ask, "But you guys lived in the forest for a long time, right? You must have high stamina?"

The obvious answer is no. Everyone survived in their own way—some with secret help from daddy's magical trinkets, others by hiding.

Me? I've got decent stamina, sure, but it's still way below average—at least by my family's standards. My body in this world was always weak. So yeah, even for me, there came a point where it became brutally exhausting.

Still, when someone asked if all this was really necessary, Isack's reply was: "Growth requires pain. If you're not crying, you're not growing."

Damn old man.

✦ ✦ ✦

Three hours.

That's how long it had been since the start of this hell disguised as training.

Most had finished their fifty laps by then. Some were hunched over by the wooden fences, throwing up like they were trying to return their stomachs. Others just collapsed flat on the ground, arms spread wide, lungs on fire. A few, defying all logic, still tried to finish, dragging their feet like ghosts.

The field reeked of sweat, steam, and stifled groans.

But my group… The last 25 who had stayed conscious after Alaric's display… We held out longer, sure, but we paid for it.

Being, without a doubt, the weakest one physically among them, I was the last to complete the laps. When I finally staggered across the "finish line" like a proud zombie, I saw Oswin watching me with that annoyingly smug grin. The kind of grin that says I'm in better shape than you, and we both know it.

I bit back a curse.

'Not worth getting worked up over,' I told myself, panting. He was stronger, after all… and likely on the verge of fully awakening his aura.

I let myself slide down until my back touched the training field wall. The cold stone pressed into my sweat-soaked shirt. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to hear my own heartbeat over the surrounding chaos.

'Can I really keep this up every day?' I sighed, forehead throbbing, lungs burning.

That's when something cold and wet slapped against my face.

"AH!" I yelped—more out of shock than pain.

Suddenly, my vision was covered in something sticky. For a second, I thought I'd passed out and woken up in a new kind of torture.

"What… is this?" I muttered, trying to peel the thing off.

It was a wide leaf, sticky to the touch, with a strange scent—earthy, almost citrusy. Some of its sap was trailing down my cheek.

"A narlith lea—"

"Yes. Narlith leaf," a voice interrupted my confusion calmly.

I looked up. Damian stood in front of me, soaked hair clinging to his forehead. He looked tired, but not exausted, he was steady, and spoke as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

'This guy's really training to be a mage?' I couldn't help but wonder, staring at him. We weren't allowed to use magic or aura during the laps, and yet Damian had been the first to finish, and even did ten extra.

"It's good for fatigue. The elders used it during long marches. The sap eases muscle strain and helps with breathing."

His voice pulled me back from my thoughts.

Behind him, I spotted Bart and Lewis with the same leaves stuck to their faces—like they were in some kind of wartime spa. Lewis lay flat on his back, arms behind his head, the leaf gently resting over his nose and eyes

"Has a refreshing touch, don't you think?" he said with a smirk. "I can already feel my strength coming back."

'Reminds me of a time back on Earth, when no one left the house without a mask', I thought, trying not to laugh.

"What's funny?" Bart asked with a grin as he turned toward me.

"If this heals my soul, I'll slap another one on my forehead," Antonio muttered before I could answer. He showed up right after, holding a half-torn leaf. Looked like he'd tried to eat it by mistake.

I already knew about Narlith leaves, their effects, their uses. My counterpart in this world had been an obsessive reader. Not to mention, back in the forest, I'd used them plenty of times.

A comfortable silence settled over us for a moment. Just the sound of leaves rustling in the wind and, in the background, the thud of the last stragglers' boots on the wet ground as they finished their laps.

But that peace was short-lived. After all, our "motivated" instructor wasn't one to let us rest for long.

✦ ✦ ✦

"Now that you've warmed up, we can begin for real."

Sir Isack's voice boomed through the training field like thunder from a sky too clear to trust.

There was no urgency in his tone—just that cheerful lilt of someone who thoroughly enjoys watching young people get broken like dry twigs.

"That was just the warm-up?" someone whispered, with the despair of someone who knows they're dying, but still hopes to negotiate with death.

A few groans rippled through the group, mostly drowned out by exhaustion… but Isack ignored them with the ease of a man who had been tuning out teenagers since before they were born.

At the center of the field, a line of knights stood in full armor—gleaming, pristine, with family crests stitched proudly onto their chests like badges of authority—forming what looked like a living wall of steel.

And there, a complete contrast to them, stood old Sir Isack. Simple clothes, partially unbuttoned shirt, messy beard. The only thing that still hinted at his title was the long sword at his side, its hilt worn with more stories than it could possibly tell.

He took a step forward, hands behind his back, and announced with a mock solemnity:

"Each one of these noble knights, including yours truly, will be responsible for one assigned group. As soon as you hear your group's name, step forward and line up in front of your knight."

The names began.

And what names they were…

"WEAKLINGS!" barked a bald man with a scar slicing across his upper lip.

A group of recruits hesitated, glancing around like maybe if they didn't move, the name wouldn't apply to them.

"FLEAS!" yelled another knight, tall, with a hawkish nose and a polished blue breastplate.

"SICKLINGS!"

"WIMPS!"

"DEADWEIGHT!"

"NUISANCES!"

"BASTARDS!"

"DISAPPOINTMENTS!"

One after another, the names came like a parade of public shaming. The groups slowly scattered and formed, each bearing the burden of their new title.

And then, finally, Sir Isack stepped forward. That smirk on his face already warning us that something especially cruel was coming. He was the type who knew exactly how uncomfortable he was about to make you—before even opening his mouth.

"PERVERTS!" he roared, arms wide open, like he was welcoming the honored guests of a festival.

The entire field went silent. Not even the wind dared move.

Damian let out a nearly defeated sigh, a vein twitching in his neck.

Lewis cleared his throat, unsure whether to laugh or dig himself a hole.

Bart muttered, eyes dead: "Could be worse… we could be Fleas."

"I'd rather be a Flea than… that," Antonio replied, gaze fixed on the ground like he was burying his dignity six feet under.

"What else would you expect from the founder of the Lovestruck Old Men's Club…" I murmured, exhaling deeply.

"Come on, come on! Line up!" Isack clapped his hands sharply, the sound slicing through the air like a dry slap. "I won't waste my day with a school of frustrated sardines!"

Even Beatriz, usually the stoic one, hesitated. Oswin had to be literally dragged by one of the group's unfamiliar faces—like a stubborn kid refusing to go to class.

One by one, we stepped into line, faces caught between disbelief, embarrassment, and fatigue.

Me, Lewis, Bart, Antonio, and the rest of the sorry bunch exchanged looks. We sighed. And then, with the slow, heavy steps of the condemned, we walked toward the old knight.

The ground still radiated heat from our earlier ordeal, and the shame clung to us like a second layer of sweat.

And just like that, we were the Perverts.

A name now carved into the columns of shame.