Pathetic Trainees

'…'

Lindarion scanned the room. It was simple—bare walls, an oak wardrobe, and a small wooden bed barely big enough for one person. A plain white sheet and a single wool pillow lay on top. Functional, but nothing more.

He walked around, inspecting every corner. A small washroom was attached. Basic. A tub, a toilet. No luxury.

'Could be worse.'

When he stepped back into the main room, Thalorin was already sitting on the bed, waiting.

"This is your room. You're already inside the training camp. Someone will knock soon—when they do, put this on."

He pulled a uniform from the wardrobe and handed it over. Black, smooth, almost velvet-like. Lindarion took it in his hands. The fabric was light and soft, yet felt unnaturally sturdy, as if nothing could pierce it.

It reminded him of his ballroom attire. Elegant, weightless—yet unyielding to the touch.

"Good luck, Lindarion."

Thalorin offered a small smile. Lindarion simply nodded.

Then the space around Thalorin twisted. A tear in reality swallowed him whole, and just like that, he was gone—leaving Lindarion alone with his thoughts.

[Sovereign's Veil]

A pulse of mana spread through his body. His Greater Core concealed itself, shifting its presence to that of a mere Stable Core.

Still extraordinary for his age. Probably unmatched by anyone his age in the world.

'I knew this would come in handy. No need to reveal my full strength immediately. Only if I have to… or if someone irritates me.'

He let himself fall onto the bed. It practically devoured him.

'Finally… I missed this.'

For five blissful minutes, he lay there. Then—

A knock.

'Of course.'

Remembering Thalorin's words, he sat up, slipped into the black uniform, fastened his sword to his waist, and moved toward the door.

The moment it swung open, he found himself staring up at a walking fortress.

A giant of a man stood in the hallway.

At least two meters tall. Broad as a siege tower. His head was completely bald, his face marred by scars. Dressed in dark green, he had the air of a war veteran.

His eyes—hazel, cold—locked onto Lindarion.

"Lindarion?"

"Yes sir."

Lindarion straightened his posture instinctively, standing like a trained soldier.

"You're Trainee #1."

The man slapped a numbered tag onto his uniform. It sank into the fabric as if it had always been there, fusing seamlessly.

'A mana inscription?'

Lindarion gave a slight nod before stepping past him.

The hallway stretched long, lined with doors on both sides. Dozens, maybe hundreds.

As he walked, he noticed something—he was the only one outside.

By the time he reached the exit, the training ground spread out before him.

Vast.

Racks of weapons. Rows of training dummies. Archery targets. Every kind of combat tool imaginable.

And the size—massive.

At least a kilometer long and just as wide.

'Damn. That's bigger than any training ground I've seen before.'

One by one, the other recruits began stepping out.

Lindarion immediately noticed the looks.

Stares.

Curious glances.

Whispers.

He was the only child here.

The others—adults. Some elves. Mostly humans. Even a handful of dwarves.

As expected, the murmurs started.

"What's a kid doing here?"

"Who cares? He won't last long."

Scoffs. Chuckles. Some didn't bother whispering. Men and women alike smirked as they exchanged glances.

Then—

The walking fortress stepped into the field.

Silence.

The entire group tensed. Some flinched. Others outright shook.

'The fuck is their problem?'

Lindarion barely felt anything. Compared to the crushing pressure of Selene and Thalorin, this was nothing.

"ATTENTION!"

The voice exploded through the air.

Thunderous. Commanding.

Everyone snapped into position—including Lindarion.

'Was that really necessary, baldie?'

Suppressing a sigh, he focused his gaze ahead.

"My name is Magnus Krieg." His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "I am your instructor. Today, two hundred of you stand here. But do not assume you will all remain."

Tension crackled in the air.

Expressions hardened. Some paled. But no one dared speak.

There was something about him—something beyond just presence. A raw, unshakable authority.

'What a charming fellow.'

Lindarion remained impassive.

Magnus swept his gaze over the recruits, scanning each face carefully.

'What's he looking for?'

Lindarion had no idea. He simply stood still. Silent.

Then—

"Start running. Now."

The moment the words left Magnus' mouth, everyone moved.

—

Magnus

He watched.

Footwork. Endurance. Weakness.

By the tenth lap, people were already dropping.

His eyes settled on one in particular.

'Leonhardt… what the hell are you thinking, sending a kid here?'

Apparently he didn't have a background. No noble house backing him. Nothing at all, just a name.

Yet—Lindarion wasn't even sweating.

'Let's see how long you last, boy.'

—

Lindarion

'Already?'

Dwarves fell first. Expected. Humans soon followed.

'We've only done ten laps. Seriously?'

For Lindarion, this wasn't training. This was a warm-up.

Minutes passed. Then half an hour. Then an hour.

The field was nearly empty.

Only three remained.

All elves.

'Well, that's not surprising.'

Everyone knew elves had superior stamina, but… this was brutal.

The difference was obvious.

"How is he still running?"

"He has to be cheating."

"Who the hell is that kid?"

The whispers continued.

Lindarion ignored them.

'This test is practically made for us. We're dominating.'

He shook his head and kept running.

The two elves collapsed, gasping for breath.

Lindarion remained.

Alone.

He kept running, his steps light, controlled—untouched by exhaustion.

'Who would've thought? They're weak…'

He shook his head.

They weren't soldiers. Just applicants. But still—this was disappointing.

"Enough!"

Magnus' voice boomed like a cannon blast, shaking the air itself.

"First place—Trainee #1!"

A murmur spread through the group.

Magnus caught snippets of their whispers.

"He must've cheated—"

"Silence!"

The force behind his words was like an explosion, cutting through the crowd like a shockwave.

'…Does he really need to yell like a lunatic?'

Magnus took a step forward, scanning the exhausted, defeated recruits.

"Are you not ashamed?" His voice was filled with pure disdain. "Some of you dare to call yourselves warriors? Soldiers? Yet you were left in the dust—by a child?"

The camp fell dead silent.

Lindarion's fingers twitched as he covered his mouth behind Magnus.

He was trying not to laugh.

'Holy shit.'

Magnus had a point—these so-called warriors had performed pathetically.

The recruits, however, didn't take the words well. Their glares darkened.

But Lindarion?

He stood there, perfectly still. Unbothered. Uninterested.

Magnus didn't give them a chance to sulk.

"Strength training begins now!" he barked. "Use any equipment you want!"

Then, he stepped back, watching.

Lindarion didn't hesitate.

He strode toward the weights, passing the silent, bitter-eyed recruits without sparing them a glance.

His hands wrapped around two 40-kilogram dumbbells, lifting them effortlessly before starting his reps.

The stares continued.

Some filled with jealousy.

Some with admiration.

Some with thinly veiled hostility.

He ignored them all.

Repetition after repetition, he moved with perfect form. Controlled. Steady. Strong.

Then—

As he finished his final rep, someone approached.

A girl. She was an elf.

Her long blonde hair reached down until her waist. She was quite tall…taller than Lindarion in fact. 

Lindarion recognized her origin country immediately.

'She's from our kingdom.'

She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"Lindarion Sunblade, Prince of Eldorath. It's an honor to meet you."

Her tone was polite. Her smile—small, unreadable.

Lindarion didn't react.

His gaze met hers, calm and commanding.

"Keep my identity a secret."

Nothing more.

No warmth. No friendliness. Just a simple order.

He wasn't here to make friends.

He was here to become stronger.

The girl nodded—then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Lindarion exhaled.

'This is going to be troublesome.'

Lindarion continued his training alone.

Then—

A man approached.

A human, he was pretty tall and broad-shouldered. His dark obsidian black hair cascaded down onto his shoulders as his brown eyes glowed. His steps were heavy with unearned arrogance.

Lindarion didn't even spare him a glance.

'Are people really this pathetic?'

The man scoffed.

"Not ashamed of yourself, kid? Cheating your way through training?"

Lindarion didn't react. Didn't pause.

He simply kept lifting.

The man's eye twitched.

"Oi! I'm talking to you!"

Still—no response.

Lindarion barely acknowledged his presence.

He finished his rep, then—calmly, coldly—spoke.

"Cheating? Don't make me laugh."

His voice was low. Steady. Unshaken.

But beneath it was something hidden, authority.

A quiet, effortless dominance that made the air grow heavy.

The man's expression darkened.

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to like that?!"

He stepped closer, fists clenched.

Lindarion finally glanced to the side—toward Magnus.

Nothing.

The instructor wasn't moving. Wasn't stepping in.

'So he's letting this happen?'

Fine.

Lindarion let out a slow exhale, then—

Dropped the weights.

The impact thudded through the ground. The man flinched.

Lindarion turned to face him.

His green eyes were empty.

His voice—cold.

Unshaken.

Uncaring.

"Get lost, you miserable failure. You're pathetic."

Silence.

Every eye in the training yard turned toward them.

The man's breath hitched. His face twisted—anger, humiliation, something in between.

But he didn't move.

He couldn't.