New training

The days following the survival test settled into a new kind of grind. Ren and Liam consistently received the larger rations in the Mess Hall, the slightly richer stew a welcome fuel after weeks of near starvation and basic fare. The difference wasn't lost on other cadets, Ren saw envious glances and noted the harsher tone instructors like Grak used with those pairs who had failed or received only Tier One rewards during conditioning drills.

Their injuries healed slowly under the relentless physical demands. The crude bandages stayed on, changed when dirty, but there was no rest. Liam still favored his arm, and Ren's leg often ached fiercely after the runs, but they endured. They had passed.

Mid-week, during the brief period after the evening meal before lights-out was enforced, Ren and Liam made their decision. "Boots," Ren said quietly, rubbing his sore calf. Liam nodded instantly. Their footwear, never good quality, was practically falling apart after the mountains.

The next day, during a designated time, they approached the designated storeroom off the main courtyard, tokens in hand. Instructor Vorl stood just inside the heavy wooden door, a ledger open on a small table beside him. Ren stepped forward first. "007. Request gear exchange. Boots."

Vorl consulted the ledger without looking up, made a small mark, then jerked his head towards a stack of sturdy-looking leather boots piled on a shelf behind him. "Take one pair. Size."

Ren found a pair that looked close to his size. The leather was thicker than his old ones, stiff but unbroken, the soles looked solid. He took them. Vorl made another mark. Liam stepped forward, repeated the process, finding his own pair. The entire exchange took less than a minute, conducted in near silence. Vorl dismissed them with a curt nod.

Back in the barracks, they examined the boots. A clear upgrade. Putting them on later, Ren felt the difference immediately, better support, soles that gripped the stone floor more securely. Liam tucked his worn knife, still carefully concealed, back into the leg strap beneath the new boot's cuff.

A few days later, the training shifted again. They were assembled on the paved courtyard, but instead of Vorl or Grak stepping forward, a different instructor emerged. This one was leaner than the other two, almost gaunt, but moved with an unsettling quietness. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to miss nothing as they swept over the cadets. He didn't offer a name.

"Feet," the new instructor said, his voice surprisingly soft yet carrying absolute authority. "Combat begins with the feet. Balance. Movement. Control. Today, you learn to stand."

For the next hour, they did just that. The instructor demonstrated a basic stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight centered. Then he had them hold it. And hold it. He walked among them silently, correcting posture with sharp taps from a thin, reed-like cane, instantly identifying the slightest imbalance or shift in weight.

Then came the steps. Slow, deliberate. Forward one pace, back one pace. Maintain balance. Side step left, side step right. Weight flowing smoothly, feet landing precisely on the painted lines of the courtyard. Then pivots, ninety degrees, one-eighty, on the balls of the feet, ending perfectly balanced in the same stance. Any wobble, any stumble, any loss of form earned a sharp tap from the cane or a cold stare that promised worse.

It was different from Grak's brute force conditioning. This required intense focus, muscle control, and a constant awareness of balance. Ren found the precision surprisingly demanding, but his body seemed to respond, the movements feeling less alien than they perhaps should have. The new boots gripped the stone well, aiding his stability. He focused on the instructor's demonstrations, the controlled flow of movement, the absolute stillness between steps.

The session ended abruptly. The lean instructor gave a single sharp nod and walked away, leaving them trembling with muscle fatigue of a different kind. Ren glanced at Liam, who grimaced, rubbing his thighs. 

Chapter 17

The rhythm settled into a new pattern over the following weeks. The brutal runs, the strength-sapping labor, the muddy obstacle course, these remained constants under Instructor Grak's unforgiving eye. But now, sessions with the lean, unnamed instructor were equally regular, demanding a different kind of endurance, precision, focus, control.

Days often began or ended on the paved courtyard, drilling the footwork patterns Ren now knew intimately. Forward, back, lateral shifts, pivots, repeated endlessly until balance was ingrained, until movement became thoughtless muscle memory. The instructor rarely spoke, observing silently from the edge of the formation, his intense gaze seeming to pick out every flicker of instability. A cadet losing balance on a pivot might suddenly find the instructor beside him, a sharp tap of the thin cane against a misplaced foot or an adjustment to their posture, followed by a curt "Again."

Today, the focus shifted. After an hour of drilling footwork until Ren's legs burned with controlled tension, the instructor moved to the front. Without preamble, he demonstrated a series of movements, raising a forearm to shield the head, angling it outwards to deflect a side blow, sweeping an arm low to parry an attack aimed at the legs. High block. Outside block. Low parry. He flowed through them with minimal effort. "Watch," was his only command. He demonstrated again, slowly. Then, he began moving down the lines.

He approached the first rank, making a slow, telegraphed downward swing with his cane towards a cadet's head. The cadet flinched, raising his arms defensively but awkwardly. The instructor's cane tapped sharply against the boy's exposed elbow. "Terrible," the instructor stated flatly, demonstrating the correct high block again before moving on.

He continued down the lines, simulating high, side, and low attacks for each cadet. Ren watched intently as the instructor approached. A slow sweep towards his legs, Ren shifted his weight back slightly as drilled, bringing his forearm down in the low parry, keeping his eyes on the instructor. A high, arcing motion, Ren flowed into the high block, forearm angled correctly. A sideways feint, outside block, body turning slightly with the movement. The instructor's gaze lingered on him for a moment, then moved on without comment or correction.

After drilling individually, the instructor ordered, "Pairs. Form up."

Ren automatically turned to Liam. They faced each other, mimicking the stance.

"One attacks, one defends," the instructor's voice commanded. "Slow. Precise. The sequence is High, Side, Low. Then switch. No force. Focus on form. Begin."

A low murmur of movement filled the yard as pairs began the exercise. Liam initiated, mimicking a slow overhead strike. Ren executed the high block, focusing on keeping his stance stable. Liam followed with a slow side motion, Ren performed the outside block. Then the low feint, Ren parried. They switched. Ren moved through the attack sequence, Liam blocking, his movements perhaps a fraction less fluid than Ren's, a slight tightness in his shoulders, but functional. The instructor paced between the pairs, his cane occasionally tapping an arm into the correct position or adjusting a cadet's footwork.

Later that night, exhaustion settling in the barracks, Liam rubbed his arms. "Feels wrong," he muttered quietly, his voice low enough only for Ren to hear over the general settling sounds. "My block feels... weak. 

Ren considered it, picturing the drills. "The weight shift," he replied, equally quiet. "It starts from the feet. Like the pivots."

Liam frowned, trying to process it. "Easy for you to say," he sighed, but there was no real heat in it, just weariness.

Ren didn't reply, settling onto his pallet.