The Training Grounds of Iron Hearth Castle. One Week After the Debt Payment.
"RUN! DON'T WALK! IS THIS A FAMILY PICNIC TO YOU?!"
Sir Riven's roar thundered, slicing through the morning mist that hung low over the Northreach soil. His gravelly voice rebounded off the stone walls of the castle, exerting a psychological weight on anyone within earshot.
In the center of the field—now a churned-up slurry of thick, black mud—thirty village youths were enduring the worst day of their lives. Stripped to the waist, their skin was a mottled map of cold-induced red and the flushed heat of straining muscles. Across each of their shoulders sat a sodden teak log weighing twenty kilograms, slick with rainwater and grime.
They were the First Squad, the bedrock of House Sudrath's new military might.
In this world, training a soldier was usually a simple affair: hand them a spear, show them which end to poke with, and send them to the front lines. But Riven demanded a different standard. He had implemented a curriculum that was a brutal fusion of the hardcore discipline of Tarung Derajat and the nightmare of a modern military Hell Week—shadows of memories from a life he barely remembered.
"Pathetic! Pah!" Riven spat into the mud. He stood tall in light, grimy armor, his right hand gripping a rattan cane that he occasionally slapped against his own palm. Whack. Whack. "My grandmother back home could run faster than you lot while carrying three sacks of grain!"
A lanky youth suddenly lost his footing. His feet skidded, and thud! He took a faceful of mud as his log tumbled aside. He coughed, trying to crawl, but the strength had been leeched from his very marrow.
"Sir... mercy, Sir... I... I can't go on..." he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Riven walked over. His heavy boots made a wet, squelching sound in the mire. The youth squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders bunching as he braced for the sting of the cane or the impact of a steel-toed boot—the standard treatment a commoner expected from a knight.
Instead, he felt the opposite. Riven crouched in front of him, the scent of sweat and cold iron hanging heavy. A massive, calloused hand was extended toward him.
"Get up," Riven commanded, his voice now low but vibrating with authority.
The boy opened his eyes tentatively. Riven hauled him to his feet with a single, powerful jerk that nearly lifted him off the ground.
"Listen to me, boy," Riven raised his voice so it carried to the rest of the panting squad. "I am torturing you here so you don't become a corpse out there!" Riven pointed toward the dark, ominous treeline of the border forest. "The enemy won't give you time to catch your breath. The enemy won't care if your feet are blistered. So, choose now: do you want to bathe in sweat here, or bathe in blood on the battlefield? CHOOSE!"
"Sweat, Sir!" a few of the youths shrieked with the last of their strength.
"GOOD! Ten more laps! Whoever finishes last, I'm giving his meat ration to the hounds!"
Up on the second-floor balcony, Sir Rianor and Duke Lucian watched the spectacle, steam rising from the cups of herbal tea in their hands.
"Your brother's methods are undeniably brutal," Lucian commented softly, taking a sip. "But I must admit, they are effective. Their posture and the fire in their eyes have changed drastically in just one week."
"It's called high-intensity interval training and bodyweight conditioning, Father," Rianor replied nonchalantly. He flipped through the stack of papers in his hand—the newly restructured payroll.
Rianor wasn't just revolutionizing their physical strength; he was overhauling the system. Under his direction, every Sudrath soldier now received two gold coins a month—double the kingdom's standard. More radically, he had implemented an 'insurance' policy: if a soldier fell in battle, their family would receive a lump sum of fifty gold coins. Even Martha in the kitchen had been ordered to provide meat three times a day. No more bland, watery gruel. Their loyalty was being bought at a premium.
"By the way, Father," Rianor pointed toward the main gate as it swung open. "The guest we've been waiting for has finally shown his face."
Captain Thorne entered the courtyard, escorting an intimidating stranger. The man was massive, his face disfigured by a burn scar that crept from his left cheek down to his neck. Two longswords were crossed on his back. He walked with a strangely light gait—the signature of a killer intimately acquainted with death.
Garrick "The Butcher." The leader of the most feared mercenary band in the North.
Lucian and Rianor descended to the courtyard to meet him. Facing the Duke, Garrick merely spat to the side with a dismissive sneer.
"So, this is the Duke Sudrath rumor says has found a mountain of gold," Garrick's voice was a harsh rasp, like sandpaper on stone. "I heard you're looking for professionals. Not snot-nosed brats playing with sticks." He jerked his chin toward Riven's squad.
"I need instructors," Lucian said flatly, his gaze locking onto Garrick's. "And extra boots for border patrols. Word is you have fifty butchers I can rely on."
"Of course. But my price isn't cheap, Duke. And I'm not the type who takes orders from pampered knights who don't know the scent of blood," Garrick said, eyeing Riven as he approached, wiping sweat with his sleeve. "Especially 'knights' whose armor looks a little too clean and shiny."
Riven stopped directly in front of Garrick. He was slightly taller and significantly more muscled. "Pampered, you say?" Riven asked. His tone was calm, but a dangerous aura began to radiate from him.
"Yeah. Pampered," Garrick challenged. His right hand drifted toward the hilt of the sword on his back. "Want to test it, Little Lord? If you can touch me even once, I'll give you a ten percent discount."
Riven glanced at Rianor. "Nor, can I?"
Rianor nodded with a faint smile, taking a final sip of his tea. "Go for it, brother. But please, don't kill him. we still need his services."
Garrick let out a cynical laugh. He began to draw his blade. "How cocky can you—"
BOOM!
Before Garrick could finish his sentence, Riven vanished from his sight.
With a burst of speed that defied his massive frame, Riven breached Garrick's personal space. The muscle memory of his new body merged perfectly with the Double Leg Takedown technique he had mastered in his previous life.
Riven ducked under the swing of Garrick's half-drawn sword and drove his shoulder into the man's waist. With a powerful surge of his back, he hoisted Garrick into the air and slammed him into the muddy pit.
CRUNCH!
The sound of Garrick's body hitting the earth was so solid it sent a spray of mud in every direction. Garrick coughed, the air forced from his lungs in a violent rush. Before he could process what had happened, Riven was already in the mount position. A massive, iron-plated fist stopped exactly one millimeter from his crooked nose.
The shockwave from the halted punch was strong enough to blow Garrick's hair back.
Silence fell instantly.
The young soldiers who had been running stopped in their tracks, jaws dropped. The "Sir Riven" who had been training them was, in fact, a true monster.
"So, what was that discount you were offering?" Riven asked casually. His breath wasn't even labored, as if slamming a veteran mercenary was merely a light warm-up.
Garrick swallowed hard. He looked into Riven's eyes. These weren't the eyes of a noble accustomed to soft silk and cushioned chairs. These were the eyes of a predator used to breaking bones with his bare hands.
"Fifty... fifty percent," Garrick stammered. "And my men... they are yours entirely."
Riven stood up and extended a hand to help Garrick out of the mud.
"No need for a discount. We'll pay you in full. But on one condition: you and your men answer to my rules. In Iron Hearth, discipline is paramount. Understood?"
Rianor clapped softly as he approached. "A very efficient negotiation. Welcome to the fold, Captain Garrick."
Now, House Sudrath possessed:
The Core Force: 30 village youths with modern physical endurance.
The Special Ops: 50 veteran mercenaries under Garrick's command.
The Commander: Sir Riven, a monster who was now both feared and respected.
"The military front is stabilizing," Lucian said, unable to hide the satisfaction in his voice. "Now, Rianor... what about this 'new toy' you promised?"
Rianor grinned—the kind of grin that usually meant he had just won a massive gamble. He pulled a thin sheet from his pocket.
It wasn't thick, stiff, animal-scented parchment.
It was a sheet of pure white paper—thin, smooth, and crafted from refined wood fibers.
"It's ready, Father. It's time we stop relying solely on muscle and start mastering information."