chapter 3.4

The morning, once gripped by an unforgiving chill, had begun to warm slightly, yet the atmosphere in The Wall's Central Headquarters training grounds remained as bleak as ever. The pale sunlight struggled to pierce through the thick gray clouds, casting only faint, elongated shadows over the rocky terrain. Beneath the towering crumbling walls, the morning breeze stirred up dust, mixing with the metallic scent of rusted weapons left to decay.

At the center of the training courtyard, Alcard stood firm, his sharp gaze fixed upon the eight recruits lined up before him. The remaining two were still confined to their barracks, their bodies unable to recover from the brutal first effects of Bloody Potion. The burning sensation in their veins, the nausea tearing through their stomachs, and the mental strain of their sudden forced transformation kept them bedridden.

Scattered around the edges of the training field, several senior Outcasts sat idly, sharpening their worn blades or simply watching with skeptical expressions. They had seen too many recruits pass through these grounds, only to die before ever completing a single mission. To them, not all recruits were worth saving—some died not because of enemies, but because of their own fear.

In the distance, Oldman sat buried under a growing mountain of reports and documents, his attention fully consumed by the worsening state of The Wall's defenses. He paid no heed to the morning training session, his mind occupied with numbers, losses, and impending collapse.

Meanwhile, Alcard's voice cut through the air, calm yet commanding.

"Loosen your grip. A sword is not a farming tool. Hold it like that, and you'll lose your arm before you even get a chance to swing it."

Sring!

With a swift, precise motion, Alcard swung his sword, the blade slicing through the air with a sharp, hissing sound. The recruits gulped, their bodies stiff with tension. A few attempted to mimic his movements, but their posture was rigid and untrained.

Several times, their wooden practice swords slipped from their hands, clattering onto the ground—a humiliating reminder of their inexperience.

One of the recruits, a gaunt-faced young man, fumbled his grip and dropped his sword, his breathing ragged. Sweat dripped down his pale forehead, and in a barely audible whisper, he muttered to himself.

"I'd rather die… I can't do this."

His voice was quiet, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Three others nodded in agreement, their expressions sinking into quiet resignation. The effects of Bloody Potion, the psychological weight of their situation, and the crushing realization of their new reality slowly ate away at what little courage they had left.

Alcard approached the gaunt-faced recruit, picking up the fallen sword. He did not shout, did not berate—instead, he simply stared down at him with a gaze colder than the morning air.

"Do you really think dying will solve anything?" his voice razor-sharp.

The recruit looked away, unable to meet his gaze. His fists clenched, but his entire body trembled.

Alcard extended the sword back to him.

"I once thought The Wall was hell, too," he said, his tone lower but unwavering. "But here, you can find your own reason to survive. Whether it's vengeance, your fellow Outcasts, or even just a foolish desire to keep breathing—find it."

One of the other recruits, who had remained silent until now, spoke hesitantly.

"But… what reason is there for us to survive in this place?"

Alcard was silent for a moment, then answered.

"That depends on you." His red eyes gleamed, reflecting something unreadable. "If you still have family, missions may one day take you back to them. If someone framed you and threw you into The Wall, find proof—and maybe, just maybe, Oldman will let you kill them yourself."

He let those words hang in the air before delivering the truth they all needed to hear.

"But one thing is certain—" his voice dropped to a near whisper, forcing them to listen carefully.

"Dying here for nothing won't get you anywhere."

The recruits—once on the verge of giving up—began to rethink their choices. Some started to grasp the truth: while this place offered no future, it still gave them a choice in how they survived.

Alcard turned away from them, his gaze fixed on The Wall, its towering form looming over them all.

"Beyond this wall," he said, his voice low but cutting, "is a darkness greater than any of you can imagine. Mutated monsters like orcs, direwolves, and things that only exist in your nightmares. If you don't learn to fight now… you won't survive long enough to understand what true terror looks like."

One of the recruits, his face still pale with fear, hesitated before asking in a shaky voice.

"But isn't… isn't that the job of the Three Great Kingdoms? Aren't they supposed to be the ones protecting Middle Earth?"

Alcard let out a short, bitter laugh, the cynicism in his tone unmistakable.

"That's what they claim." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "But in reality? They'd rather let us—the discarded, the forgotten—be their shield. They sit in their golden palaces, while we die here. That is why we exist."

The recruits fell silent.

Though fear still lingered in their expressions, something changed in their eyes.

They began to understand the harsh truth—they weren't just prisoners; they were weapons. They were the wall between the world and its horrors, a shield sacrificed so others wouldn't have to fight.

Alcard studied their shifting expressions, watching as their perspectives slowly evolved.

"Learn to fight, to survive, and to understand our code." His voice was calm but firm. "Only then will you last long enough to realize why The Wall must stand."

By midday, their basic training was complete.

Their arms, once weak, had begun to adjust to the weight of their weapons. Their movements, though still unrefined, showed improvement. They were still far from ready, but at least they had begun to learn.

As they stood in the training ground, awaiting their final instruction, Alcard studied them one last time.

"This is just the beginning," he said, his tone grave.

"The monsters in the south won't give you the luxury of slow progress. Be grateful you are still alive to learn."

The recruits nodded, their faces weary but different from before. A new determination flickered in their expressions. They had not fully accepted their fate, but at the very least, they now understood—survival was their only option.

As they dispersed toward the barracks for a brief midday meal, Alcard remained where he stood, his eyes once again fixed on The Wall.

The cold wind blew, rustling his hair, whispering silent warnings in his ear.

The Wall—massive, ancient, and crumbling—was nothing without those strong enough to hold it.

"This is only the beginning," he muttered, stepping into the shadow of the fortress, already seeing the cracks that would eventually shatter their defenses… if they were not ready.