Standing Tall

After that, they were led to meal time.

It wasn't much—some kind of thick, gray paste that looked like someone had mashed roots and meat into a single, lumpy mass. It smelled earthy, almost metallic, but it wasn't completely disgusting. Bland, but edible.

Alongside it, a cup of water, steeped with bitter herbs. The first sip hit his tongue with a sharp, acrid taste that made his throat tighten, but after the second, he barely noticed.

Wes would later learn that these meals had been perfected over centuries. The orcs weren't just feeding them slop—each ingredient had been carefully selected, designed to nourish recruits who hadn't yet awakened to mana.

Their bodies were still human. Still weak. But mana-infused food had immense benefits, accelerating recovery, strengthening the body's foundation.

The orcs had stockpiled resources for this.

They had planned for this.

This wasn't just about training—this was about building something.

But right now, all Wes cared about was the fact that he could barely eat.

His hands trembled as he scooped up the paste, his arms so sore that lifting them felt like hauling stones. Every movement sent new shocks of pain through his ribs, and his stomach churned, protesting the food even though he knew he needed it.

His knee throbbed. His abdomen flared with every breath, the lingering pain of the orc's punch still radiating outward like a slow-burning fire.

And he wasn't the only one.

Around him, other kids sat hunched over, their bodies wrecked.

One girl, her ankle visibly swollen, clenched her jaw as she forced herself to eat. Wes caught the sharp, pained intake of breath when she moved, but she didn't complain. She had already been lashed for being slow.

No one spoke.

They ate.

Or at least, they tried.

The moment the food hit his stomach, Wes felt something.

A warmth—not much, but enough. It spread slowly, like a faint ember deep in his core. His body didn't stop hurting, but the edge dulled just slightly.

The water helped too, cooling the raw burn in his throat, easing some of the tightness in his chest.

But it was no miracle cure.

They were all still wrecked, beaten, barely holding themselves together.

And then—

"Alright. Sparring time."

A few heads snapped up.

Some groaned.

Others, like Wes, just sighed and forced themselves upright.

There was no protest.

They knew better by now.

He found himself standing across from Rachael.

Red-haired, wiry, sharp-eyed.

Xavier had been paired with Dexter.

Azhok stood in front of them, arms crossed, surveying the recruits.

"Now, I just want to see what you're made of."

His golden eyes flicked over them, assessing, unreadable.

"I want you to hit your opponent into submission."

Some of the kids hesitated. A few exchanged uneasy glances.

"The loser gets a lash."

Silence.

The tension thickened.

"If I think one of you gave up without trying, the winner gets the lash."

That made the air crack with nerves.

Azhok grinned.

"If the winner feels the loser didn't try, then land ten brutal blows, and you will be spared the lash."

He let that sink in.

"Alright. Go!"

Wes didn't hesitate.

He shot forward, immediately going for a takedown.

He had wrestled before—American school wrestling, back when the world had made sense.

But none of that mattered now.

All that mattered was that there would be a lash if he didn't try, and he was too exhausted, too hurt, to care that it was a girl.

After his parents had died—before the orcs—he had taken food from anyone who had it.

Male. Female.

The world didn't care.

It only measured the strength of your fist.

His body was sluggish, every movement weighed down by exhaustion. His ribs ached, his knee flared in protest, but he moved anyway, forcing himself past the pain.

Rachael reacted fast.

She twisted, trying to break free, her thin frame deceptively strong. She didn't hesitate either. No fear, no second-guessing.

But Wes had momentum.

He powered through, gritting his teeth as his tired muscles screamed, slamming her into the dirt. She struggled, fighting with everything she had, but he locked in his grip.

It was ugly.

Messy.

But he got her in a submission hold.

Her breath came ragged against his ear.

Then—

Tap.

It was done.

Wes sagged slightly, relief flooding his aching limbs.

And then—

Pain.

A lash cut across his back, fire searing into his already bruised skin.

Wes hissed through clenched teeth, shoulders tensing.

Across from him, Rachael barely made a sound.

His mind reeled.

What the fuck?

He had tried.

So had she.

Azhok's voice was calm, almost amused.

"You held back."

Wes' breath hitched.

"You had no intention of breaking her arm. You wanted her to submit."

He moved to the next group.

And then—

The lash.

Again.

And again.

Each group. Each pair.

Every time he saw restraint, Azhok punished it.

Wes stopped.

Rachael hesitated, her sharp eyes flicking toward him with a flash of concern. Why had Wes stopped sparring?

It wasn't because he was hurt.

He was pissed.

This was bullshit.

The void-eyed man. Barely scraping by as an orphan. And now this?

Nothing had changed.

All they were doing was breaking each other. Beating and maiming until they were nothing but walking bruises, walking wounds, walking corpses waiting to happen. By the time this was over, they'd be ruined.

This wasn't training.

This was destruction.

His fists clenched as rage burned through him, hotter than the welts across his back.

Across the dirt, Azhok watched him with an amused grin, making no move as Wes started toward him.

The orc didn't interfere. Didn't bark orders. Didn't demand he fall back in line.

He just waited.

Rachael hesitated, eyes flicking between Wes and the orc.

She didn't move to stop him.

Because to her, Wes had lost his mind.

But Wes didn't care.

The orcs were sadistic fucks.

There was nothing to gain from this.

So he walked.

His entire body protested, muscles trembling from exhaustion, pain twisting deep in his core. His ribs screamed with every breath. His knee ached with every step. But he walked.

Azhok crossed his arms as Wes stopped in front of him, standing his ground despite the fact that the orc loomed over him.

Wes lifted his chin, voice steady, controlled, even as fury burned behind his words.

"If you're just going to maim and cripple me, then fucking do it. I'm not playing your damn game."

Silence stretched between them.

The recruits held their breath.

Azhok's golden eyes studied him.

Then—

Laughter.

Deep, genuine, shaking his whole frame.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Amused.

"Finally. Someone with some fucking balls."

Azhok's grin widened as he turned, casting a glance over the bruised and battered recruits.

"Alright. Follow me, everyone."

Wes blinked.

The others hesitated before stepping in line.

The children limped and hobbled after the orc, some still clutching their sides, others throwing uneasy glances at Wes. Like he'd just done something insane.

He ignored them.

As they made their way across the training grounds, another group of recruits emerged from a domed building.

They looked just as bad as Wes' group—bruised, bloodied, faces tight with exhaustion.

But there was something else.

They weren't slumping.

They weren't staggering.

They moved with a steady, unshaken confidence.

What the hell…?

Wes glanced at Rachael, but she looked just as confused.

Azhok led them inside.

The moment they stepped in, warmth wrapped around them, thick and heavy. Steam clung to their skin, filling their lungs with the sharp scent of minerals and bitter herbs.

Then they saw it.

A long row of individual baths—each just large enough for a full-grown orc to submerge vertically.

The water inside was dark, almost ink-like, silver streaks swirling beneath the surface like something alive.

Azhok turned to face them.

"You will come here every evening after training. You will bathe. You will have a thirty-minute allotment."

His golden eyes flicked over them, sharp, assessing.

"My recommendation? Use it. Hold your breath. The water will start warm… and then it will get really fucking cold. But it will mend your bodies."

Wes inhaled sharply, still trying to process.

"You are not cultivators." Azhok continued.

"Your bodies were doused in mana when it came to your world, your bodies have potential. It costs very little to make you whole again."

He let the words settle.

Then his voice shifted.

Lower.

Sharper.

Colder.

"And that is how much your humans didn't give a fuck about you."

The words hit like a slap.

The recruits stiffened.

"It would've taken almost nothing to make you stronger. To heal you."

Azhok's lip curled.

"A giant rat, enhanced by mana, could have been ground down and made into a soup that would have filled your bellies."

A slow, burning pause.

"But they didn't."

His golden eyes locked onto them, unyielding.

"They didn't give a shit about you."

The silence was heavy.

Wes felt the words like a punch to the gut.

Azhok let the weight of them linger.

Then he stepped forward.

"So when I ask you to climb a mountain, you give it your all."

His voice was steady, cutting through the haze of steam, through the exhaustion weighing down their limbs.

"When I ask you to strike the person next to you in a spar, it is not to hurt them, but to reforge them."

His gaze hardened.

"To turn your brother. Your sister. Into something better."

The recruits stood straighter.

The exhaustion was still there, the pain still real, but the orc's words settled into something deeper.

"This planet is about to become fucking dangerous."

Then—

A grin.

Sharp.

Savage.

Something that dared them to rise to the challenge.

*"And I am asking you to listen. To follow my commands. So when that danger comes, you can meet it head-on—"

He let the words hang.

Then his grin widened.

"And tell it to fuck off, because you are Ruh'Kel."