chapter 3.3

The next morning greeted the central headquarters of The Wall with the same gray sky, heavy and oppressive as if pressing down on those beneath it. Dew clung to the damp ground, leaving a thin sheen of moisture atop the weathered stones and decaying wood that formed the last bastion of Middle Earth. The lingering scent of burnt wood from dying torches mixed with the stubborn chill of dawn, refusing to dissipate.

In the main courtyard, the Outcasts had assembled in a tight circle. There were no grand ceremonies, no extravagant displays of tradition, only a silent formation of warriors, hardened by struggle and exile.

At the center, ten recruits stood, their expressions a mixture of confusion, fear, and exhaustion. The weight of their new reality hung heavy on their shoulders. No one spoke. No one dared to show weakness.

At the heart of the gathering stood Oldman.

Despite his aged frame appearing more fragile than before, his gaze remained sharp as tempered steel. His tattered cloak fluttered slightly in the morning wind, and his white hair, wild and unkempt, framed a face that had witnessed too many battles.

Behind him, Alcard stood in silence, his crimson eyes sweeping over the new faces before him. He studied them—noting the trembling hands, the subtle shifts of unease, the quiet, desperate attempts to mask fear.

And then, Oldman spoke.

His voice, deep and unwavering, cut through the heavy silence like a funeral bell.

"From this moment on," he declared, his tone carrying the weight of countless years, "you are no longer free men. You are Outcasts—bound to this silent, dying wall and the darkness that lurks beyond it."

The recruits glanced at one another, exchanging silent, uncertain looks. The lingering burn of the Bloody Potion they had consumed still clung to their throats, a bitter reminder of their irreversible fate.

Some swallowed nervously, realizing there was no way back.

Oldman began to pace, slowly circling them like a predator evaluating its prey.

"Here, you will atone," he continued, "for sins you committed… or for the misfortune of being cast away. It does not matter why you are here." His voice was merciless, carrying no sympathy. "Your task is simple—but it will be without kindness. You will defend the border against the monsters that crawl from the south. You will take on the missions you are given, no matter how dirty or dishonorable.

The world beyond The Wall has already forgotten you. And here… their laws do not apply.

There is only one law—the law of The Wall."

A few recruits flinched at his words, their hands tightening into fists. Some still clung to the hope that this was some kind of mistake, that they could appeal their fate.

But others—the ones who understood quickly—merely stood still, their faces set with grim acceptance.

Oldman stopped walking and turned, his piercing gaze locking onto each of them.

"But even though we are no longer part of their world, there is one thing that separates us from mere mercenaries and discarded men," he said, his voice heavy with finality. "We have a code. A law that keeps us alive."

His eyes flicked toward Alcard and the other senior Outcasts, as if reminding them that they, too, once stood where these recruits now stood.

"First," he began, his voice like iron, "an Outcast does not betray or kill his own. No matter what orders you are given, no matter how many coins are offered, you do not turn on your brothers."

Some of the recruits exhaled slightly, relieved that at least they wouldn't have to fear betrayal from within.

But the tension in the air remained.

"Second," Oldman continued, "we answer to no kings, no lords, and no self-proclaimed rulers. The only authority here is The Wall itself."

A brief silence followed, allowing the words to sink in.

"And third, Bloody Potion is both our weapon and our curse. It will keep you alive, but if you misuse it, it will kill you just as surely. Use it wisely—and never turn it against your own."

The recruits remained still, their minds trying to grasp the weight of the rules imposed upon them.

Oldman took one final step back, then raised his hand in command.

"Raise your blades." His voice rang clear, carrying through the cold morning air.

Without hesitation, the senior Outcasts drew their weapons, lifting them high—steel, worn but deadly, pointed skyward.

Those without swords raised whatever they had—a dagger, a rusted spear, even their bare fists.

The recruits, though awkward and hesitant, followed suit—lifting their newly assigned, low-quality swords with uncertain grips.

The air in the courtyard became heavy, thick with an unspoken weight.

Then, Oldman spoke again, his voice steady, unwavering.

"In a world that has cast us out, we stand amidst the darkness."

The Outcasts, as one, repeated the words.

"In a world that has cast us out, we stand amidst the darkness."

"We have no land, no name, only this path."

"We have no land, no name, only this path."

"We are the shadows behind this wall."

"We are the shadows behind this wall."

"We are the forgotten guardians of the world."

"We are the forgotten guardians of the world."

"We are the Outcasts, and we will endure, or die on our path."

"We are the Outcasts, and we will endure, or die on our path!"

As one, the Outcasts lowered their weapons, the sound of steel meeting air echoing through the courtyard.

For the new recruits, this was their final moment of acceptance—their last step into exile.

They were no longer who they once were.

They belonged to The Wall now.

There was no home, no nation, no legacy waiting for them beyond this fortress.

They were shadows, fighting for a world that would never acknowledge them.

Oldman surveyed them one last time before delivering his final decree.

"From this day on, you are Outcasts. And remember… you have nowhere else to go."

Several senior Outcasts stepped forward, gripping the recruits' shoulders—a gesture of acceptance, but also a reminder of the harsh life ahead.

There were no smiles, no embraces, no words of encouragement.

Only cold reality.

Alcard slid his sword back into its sheath, his gaze still locked onto the new faces, their fear still evident beneath the surface.

He turned toward Oldman and spoke low.

"They need training. Immediately."

Oldman gave a single nod, his voice carrying absolute authority.

"Take them to the training grounds. They must learn to survive before death comes for them sooner than they expect."

The ceremony was over.

But the oath they had sworn would bind them forever.

As if The Wall itself had witnessed their words, sealing their fate within its unforgiving shadow.