Chapter 15 : Sword Training

Today I returned to the official slaughterhouse known as the sword training field.

After a week of being an apprentice soldier who spent more time sweeping than training, I finally got the chance to hold a sword again.

Though, part of me was still traumatized from faceplanting during the first practice.

I stood in line, silently hoping today's instructor wouldn't be as sadistic as the commander.

Pointless. Hope was just seasoning for suffering.

Our sword trainer today was a woman. But don't be fooled.

She had muscles tougher than my fate, and she looked at us like we were fresh meat ready to be fried.

"Who here doesn't know the basic sword techniques?"

I raised my hand slowly.

She looked straight at me.

"Aria, right? The one who fainted during the run and now shines as a horse groomer."

...

OH GOD. THE RUMOR HAS SPREAD.

She called me forward and handed me a wooden sword.

"Hold it properly," she said while adjusting my grip.

She gave the command, and I was told to swing.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing again.

Every wrong move got corrected immediately. And every time I messed up, she'd drop a comment:

"You planning to slash an enemy or mow the lawn?"

"Your style looks like you're brushing a horse."

"Aria, you're not a masochist, right? Why does your sword look like it wants to fight you?"

After hours of training, my arms ached, my shirt was soaked, and my ego was torn.

But I started to get the basics.

I tried sparring with a fellow newbie.

And surprisingly... I won once.

(Only because they slipped on some leftover hay from my horse that stuck to my shoe, but still, A WIN.)

At the end of the training, the trainer patted my shoulder.

"Aria, you're terrible. But you're persistent. Keep practicing, and maybe you won't die in the first week of war."

Such uplifting encouragement in this world, huh?

Night had fallen.

Stars began appearing in the clear sky, and I returned to the barracks dragging my exhausted body.

My right arm no longer felt like a limb—more like dead wood.

My back? Don't ask. It filed for early retirement.

When I arrived, the barracks were pretty lively.

A few new recruits sat on the floor, eating and laughing.

They were playing a medieval-style charades game.

The guesses?

"Person who just got hit by the commander!"

"Person washing clothes while crying!"

...

Why are all of these painfully relatable?

I sat in a corner and opened my wallet.

My family photo was still there. So were my important cards.

But none of them mattered in this world.

I tried turning on my phone.

Still broken.

No signal. No light.

Almost like it knew it didn't belong here.

I stared up at the barracks ceiling.

A question popped into my mind—one I still couldn't answer:

"Will I ever be able to go back?"

A soldier—the same one who talked to me at the stables before—walked over and sat beside me.

"Hey. Still alive?" he asked with a grin.

"Technically, yeah," I replied.

"You weren't bad today at training. That trainer doesn't give compliments unless she really sees something."

I gave a faint smile.

Potential?

Or maybe she just felt sorry for me.

We chatted for a bit.

About this world. The training. The barrack food that tasted like sautéed wet tissue.

And that night... for the first time since I got stranded here, I laughed.

I lay down on the hard mattress.

Stared at the wooden ceiling.

"What's next tomorrow? More running? Horse riding? Or getting thrown into a forest to survive with just a spoon?"

I didn't know.

But one thing's for sure:

I'm still alive. And I haven't given up.