Aren woke up with a full stomach for the first time in weeks. Not much. A bowl of watery porridge. But enough for the fog in his head to begin to lift.
The ground no longer spun.
The pain was still there, yes. In his ribs. In the poorly closed cut on his brow. In the legs numb from the cold.
But his mind was… clear.
For the first time. After who knows how long.
And even so, when he closed his eyes, he saw it.
The line.
Cold. Precise.
[Physical state: slowly improving]
[Repair level: Minimum]
Aren opened his eyes.
Nothing.
Only darkness and dust.
He closed them again.
The same voice. The same tone. Just as bored as always.
[Observation: The subject continues breathing. Notable.]
He couldn't blame hunger now.
Nor fever.
Nor the cold.
It was real.
Or at least… as real as anything else in his life.
Aren sighed, exhausted.
"Then stay," he murmured. "Do whatever you want. I will too."
The voice did not respond.
For some reason, that calmed him.
It was not a friend.
It was not a demon.
It was not a help.
It was simply another thing to carry.
And Aren was already used to carrying weight.
Ignoring it, Aren began training; he no longer collapsed like that day he was recruited, but he still didn't have great stamina.
At least now he could stand firm without the wind pushing him, and that was already a gain after suffering malnutrition for so long.
The first march was at dawn.
There were no drums. No glory. Only boots sinking into cold mud and the sun beating down as if it hated everyone equally.
Aren walked at the end of the line.
At first, he felt… capable. His legs responded. His lungs burned, yes, but they did not collapse. It was more than he had weeks ago. More than he had ever had.
Then, the pain arrived.
First in the ribs. Then in the back. Then everywhere.
Each step was a small stab.
A recruit in front of him spat on the ground.
"If you fall, they'll trample you," he muttered without looking at him.
Aren didn't respond.
Because he knew it was true.
The road became longer. The sun colder. The air heavier.
And then he fell.
It wasn't dramatic. He didn't scream. Simply… his body stopped obeying. His knee bent. His face hit frozen ground.
Laughter. A shove. A boot.
"Get up, trash."
Aren tried to speak, but only air came out.
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
And even so, he moved.
Slow. Clumsy. Pathetic.
But he moved.
He stood up.
He kept walking.
The captain looked at him once.
And said nothing.
In his mind, a cold line.
[Physical state: deteriorated]
[General endurance: low]
[Observation: The subject refuses to collapse. Interesting.]
"Could you stop saying interesting to everything that happens to me," Aren whispered to the system while his recently gained confidence crumbled again after his fall.
Several recruits stared at him while they continued training.
Aren returned to the training.
The older recruits were standing in a circle while they watched the new ones face each other.
There was no laughter this time.
These were not training fights.
They were eliminations.
He who fell and did not stand up… was useless.
And the useless were excess.
All this happened under the gaze of Baron Aldric von Halden, seated in a simple chair — more practical than elegant — in the shade of a stretched canvas. His hands rested on the cane he rarely used, his pale eyes attentive, calculating, silent. At his side, firm as a statue stuck in the mud, stood Sir Corvin Halberg.
Aldric spoke without taking his eyes off the circle.
"How many more?"
"Thirty-two new recruits, my lord," Corvin replied, in a low, deep voice, without excess emotion.
"Half already show signs of fatigue."
"Half are useless in winter," Aldric murmured.
A young man was knocked down in the center of the circle. He fell badly. His arm made a sound that didn't sound good. No one went in to help him. Two guards dragged him out like a torn sack. The boy screamed once. Then went quiet.
Aldric did not react.
"Do you think any of these will last?" he asked without emphasis.
"Some," Corvin replied. "But not many."
His gaze stopped on Aren.
Thin. Pale. Sunken eyes. His hands trembled. Old scars crossed his skin like twisted maps. But he was standing. Somehow, he was always standing.
"That is the orphan who fell during the march," said Corvin.
Aldric watched him a few seconds more.
"And even so you put him to fight."
"If he falls and doesn't get up, we lose nothing," Corvin replied simply. "If he gets up… he may be worth something."
The Baron nodded slowly. It wasn't cruelty. It was logic.
Aren stepped forward when they called him. The mud sucked at his feet. In front of him was another recruit: bigger, stronger, with knuckles already swollen from so much punching.
The others formed the circle. There were no weapons. Only bodies. Only pain.
Aren swallowed. He noticed his short breaths. He noticed the pulse in his neck. He noticed the world narrowing until it was reduced to two things:
Him.
And the one in front of him.
A cold line crossed his mind.
[Physical condition: poor]
[Probability of defeat: high]
[Observation: The subject insists on participating. Notable.]
Aren clenched his jaw.
"Shut up," he whispered without moving his lips.
The other recruit advanced first. A direct blow. Without technique. Only strength. The fist entered Aren's stomach like a stone.
The air left him.
The world folded.
But Aren did not fall.
He stepped back. Stumbled in his steps. He saw the second blow coming and lifted his arm out of pure instinct. The impact burned to the bone.
The murmurs of the observers grew.
"He's going to break."
"Look at him, he can't even lift his hands properly."
Aren didn't know how to fight.
But he knew how to endure.
He took another blow to the cheek. The metallic taste filled his mouth. One of his old scars reopened. Hot blood.
The body wanted to fall.
The legs trembled.
His vision blurred.
[Physical integrity: compromised]
[Slow repair in process]
[System recommendation: none]
Aren laughed. A broken laugh. Almost hysterical.
"Of course none," he whispered.
The other recruit was tiring. He wasn't a soldier, just a strong peasant. He hit badly. He hit out of anger. Without rhythm. Without technique.
Aren saw it.
Not with skill.
With hunger.
He dodged a punch. Not out of skill, but because he tripped toward the opposite side. The fist went past. The other lost balance.
Aren did the only thing he knew how to do:
He pushed.
It was pathetic.
But it was enough.
The other fell into the mud.
There was a brief silence.
The boy stood up quickly, furious, and attacked again. Aren didn't have time to react. The fist crossed his face. He fell.
The mud was cold.
He wanted to stay there.
Sleep.
Disappear.
But an old and bitter idea whispered in his bones:
The dead don't inherit.
Aren placed his hands on the ground. They hurt. He was bleeding. His head buzzed. The world spun like a broken carousel.
He stood up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the fight stopped not because he won…But because he wouldn't stop standing up.
Corvin raised his hand.
"Enough."
The other recruit was gasping. Aren could barely breathe. But he was still there.
His face was a complete mess, bruises and open wounds all over it, blood still dripping, but he was still there. Standing, with barely perceptible breathing.
Aldric spoke about him directly for the first time.
"He's useless at fighting."
"Yes," Corvin confirmed.
"But he doesn't fall."
"No, my lord."
The Baron barely nodded.
"Then teach him not to waste that flaw."
Aren didn't hear that.
He only heard his breathing.
And, in his mind, the cold voice.
[Observation: The subject continues getting up]
[Conclusion: Anomalous persistence. Curious.]
Aren closed his eyes.
He didn't know if one day he would become someone.
But he had taken his first step.
Not toward glory.
But toward being seen.
And in a world where a peasant's life was worth as much as a breath… that was already too much.Then he opened his eyes and looked at Baron Halden, black hair with gray spreading and mixing with the black, not too tall nor too short, a sharp but somewhat tired gaze.
He didn't look exactly like Aren thought nobles would look, but he was still the lord he served… for now.