Training

Forged in Pain

Wes grinned, floating through the void, his form stabilizing, becoming more real as he grounded himself.

He looked less like a wandering soul—more solid, more fleshy. At least, that's how it felt to him.

His thoughts drifted, pulling him back into memory.

As a kid, after life had beaten him down enough times, he had developed a fuck it mentality.

You couldn't control your circumstances—only how you reacted to them.

And after Azhok's speech, he was sold.

If strength was what it took, then he would put everything on the field. Every day.

The first week of Gra'zuk had been the hardest thing he had ever endured.

He hadn't walked to the bathhouse that first night—

He had crawled.

His arms trembled under his own weight, his legs useless beneath him, his ribs screaming with every ragged breath. The lash marks on his back burned, every movement pulling at torn flesh, a constant reminder that failure was punished.

His entire body was wrecked.

He wasn't the only one.

Everyone was limping. Some couldn't even stand.

Broken bones weren't a possibility here. They were guaranteed.

Fractures. Dislocations. Torn muscles. That first week had shattered them.

And yet, in the middle of all the exhaustion, the bruises, the blood—bonds began to form.

Xavier? Rival.

Always pushing. Always competing. They didn't need to talk about it—it was just understood.

Rachael?

Little Pepper.

She had a temper like a wildfire, small but impossible to snuff out.

Dexter?

Smarts.

Short. Blonde. Too clever for his own good. He reminded Wes of Chad, his older brother.

A hierarchy formed fast.

Xavier and Wes took charge—not because they wanted to, but because someone had to.

When there was conflict, they handled it. When someone broke down, they made the call.

And not everyone could handle it.

One kid cracked under the pressure. Shaking, sobbing, pleading to be let out, he was keeping them awake at night with his panic episodes.

Wes and Xavier tossed him outside.

They needed sleep.

If they didn't get their four hours, they were screwed.

The orcs didn't care what they did, as long as they acted with honor.

But there were limits.

One recruit had done something unforgivable to another.

There was a trial.

Gorrak stood as both judge and jury, his presence heavy over the assembled recruits.

It was swift. No drawn-out deliberations, no room for excuses.

The evidence was overwhelming.

The gathered recruits stood in tense silence as the verdict was passed.

No hesitation. No second chances.

"Skar'vash."

The word rang through the air like a death sentence.

The boy was dragged forward, stripped to the waist, his back bared to the open air.

A massive orc stepped forward—one of the enforcers. His grip was firm, his movements practiced as he uncoiled the lash.

The first strike exploded across the boy's back, a sickening crack echoing in the silent courtyard.

His body jerked forward, a sharp, strangled gasp leaving his throat.

Then another.

And another.

The lash tore through skin, carving deep, jagged welts, blood spilling freely down his back.

By the tenth strike, his legs buckled.

By the fifteenth, his voice had gone hoarse from screaming.

By the twentieth, he wasn't making a sound.

The orcs didn't stop.

Not until fifty.

Then, the enforcer coiled the whip, and the boy collapsed onto the ground, shaking, his body trembling so hard it seemed like he was convulsing.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

When it was over, they left him outside.

No food. No water. No help.

He lasted two days.

Later, Wes learned the truth.

If he had survived one more day, the orcs would have healed him.

But he hadn't.

And that was Gra'zuk.

Brutal. Unforgiving. But fair.

And the only thing keeping them from completely breaking?

The food.

The medicinal bath.

Wes smirked, remembering.

He had been carried to that bath more than once.

The sparring sessions weren't always one-on-one.

Three-versus-one fights were common.

Wes was skilled.

But he wasn't superhuman.

Some days, he walked out of those fights victorious. Other days, he was left on the ground, struggling to breathe, the lash cracking over his back to make sure he never stopped trying.

And then—

The bath.

The first time he stepped into that water—

He wasn't ready.

At first, it was warm.

Comforting.

For about five minutes.

Then—

It began.

The warmth didn't just vanish—it was replaced.

A deep, consuming sensation spread through his body, starting at his skin and digging into his flesh.

Not cold.

But something else entirely.

It wasn't the temperature—it was the medicine.

Wes felt it, soaking into him, burrowing into every bruise, every cut, every fractured bone.

His nerves screamed.

Not from pain, but from healing.

The fractures in his ribs pulled back together. The torn muscles stitched themselves tight.

Every inch of his body felt like it was being reassembled.

His vision swam. His breath hitched.

It was marvelous.

The worst injuries would be sore, but they were healed.

Broken bones came back stronger.

Muscles were rebuilt.

Even their bones themselves were made denser.

In fact, it became common practice to fracture bones on purpose—kicking posts, punching logs until the cracks formed, only to let the medicinal bath rebuild them harder than before.

And after?

The feast.

Unlike the bland, mana-infused pastes they ate at breakfast and lunch, dinner was real food.

Meat. As much as they could eat.

They devoured it, tearing into the meals with ravenous hunger.

If a normal person had seen the sheer volume they consumed, their jaw would've hit the floor.

But this was what they needed.

Fuel to rebuild their bodies.

And then, after a few hours of rest—

They would do it all over again.