The clerk led Kaelen through a series of vaulted stone corridors to the Testing Hall, a massive arena where the air hummed with the residual energy of thousands of warriors. At the center stood the Examiner, a man whose skin looked like weathered bronze, his eyes sharp enough to peel the layers off a man's soul.
He didn't waste time. After a cold, clinical verification of Kaelen's identity and a brief, silent probe that confirmed his 4th-stage Skin Tempering, the Examiner pointed to a rack of weapons lining the far wall.
"Demonstrate," the man barked. "Pick a weapon. Show me you aren't just a meat-shield with thick skin."
Kaelen hesitated. His instinct screamed for the Pitch-Black Dagger, the only weapon that felt like an extension of his own soul. But he knew the risks. A dagger of that tier was a beacon for greed. If he failed the test with a different weapon, he would request the blade, but for now, he needed a mask.
He reached for a standard military longsword.
It felt heavy, unbalanced, and "dead" compared to the void-black steel in his shadow. Yet, as he stepped into the center of the hall, the Primordial Eclipse technique shifted. He applied the principles of the Weapon Smith Guide—not to forge, but to understand the "seams" of the blade.
He moved through a standard military kata. It wasn't flashy, but it was precise. Every swing followed the natural grain of the air; every thrust was backed by the terrifying density of his 4th-stage muscles. To the Examiner, it looked like a "decent" performance—the work of a talented but unpolished recruit.
"Passable," the Examiner grunted, scribbling on a ledger. "Report to the Armory for your kit."
The Weight of the Badge
At the Armory, Kaelen was handed the meager "rewards" of his new life. The quartermaster tossed a bundle at him with the indifference of a man feeding a stray dog.
Refined Iron-Wrought Armor: A breastplate and greaves that felt like lead but offered real protection.
Crude Iron-Wrought Sword: A mass-produced blade that would likely chip after a dozen heavy clashes.
The Badge: A bronze disc stamped with the number 19876. It was his name, his rank, and his life in the eyes of the Kingdom.
The Rations: A small leather pouch containing three healing pills and two strengthening pills.
Kaelen looked at the five tiny spheres in his palm. According to the manual, these were a monthly allotment. Barely enough for a week of real training, he thought, his jaw tightening. The military was a meat grinder; it gave you just enough to keep you standing, but never enough to truly grow.
"You have one week of rest," the quartermaster said, already turning to the next recruit. "Study the command structure. Don't get lost, and don't get killed before your first shift."
The Chain of Command
During his week of "rest," which Kaelen spent in deep cultivation to stabilize his 4th-stage foundation, he mapped out the labyrinthine hierarchy of the Aethelgard City Military. It was a pyramid of steel designed to crush any individual spark:
The Squad: 9 soldiers led by a Squad Leader.
The Regiment: 10 squads (100 men) led by a Troop Commander.
The Division: 10 regiments (1,000 soldiers) led by a Colonel.
The General: Each of the 4 Generals commanded 5 divisions (5,000 soldiers).
The Head General: The supreme commander, answerable only to the King.
Kaelen realized with a start that the arrogant boy he had shamed on the bridge—Caius—had an uncle who sat near the very top of this pyramid. General Varick was one of the four, a man who commanded five thousand lives and possessed the terrifying power of 2nd-Stage Muscle Forging.
The Assignment
A week later, Kaelen stood at the assembly grounds of the 12th Division. The morning mist clung to the polished armor of a thousand men, creating a sea of grey and silver.
When the Colonel stepped onto the raised platform to announce the new appointments, a heavy silence fell. The Colonel looked at his scroll, then at the small, 16-year-old boy standing in the back ranks wearing the bronze badge of a trainee.
"Soldier 19876, Kaelen," the Colonel's voice boomed, carrying a hint of confusion. "Appointed to the Vanguard Regiment, 1st Squad."
A collective gasp rippled through the division. The surrounding soldiers, veterans with scars earned in the border wastes, turned to look at Kaelen in extreme shock.
For a 16-year-old trainee to be placed there was unheard of. It wasn't a promotion; it was a death sentence signed in ink.
Kaelen felt the weight of a hundred glares. He saw the sneer of a Troop Commander in the distance—a man who bore a striking resemblance to Caius. He realized then that General Varick hadn't waited for a direct confrontation. He had simply moved a piece on the board to ensure the "abnormal" brat would be erased by the very first battle.
Kaelen gripped the hilt of his crude iron sword, his silver aura swirling deep within his marrow.
They didn't realize they were giving him exactly what he needed