When I was little, my father used to tell me stories about his time in the army. He hadn’t been part of any war or major conflict—back then, military service was compulsory for every man after high school. He always said he’d been lucky, stationed at a remote border post where the biggest threat was boredom. The border was marked by a major river, and the neighboring country was on good terms with ours, so there was virtually no activity.

  But when people are bored, they get creative. My favorite story of his, and he had a lot of stories, was about the time a new recruit arrived, and they decided to haze him. As the leader of his platoon, my father was in charge of assignments, so he made sure to send the new guy on his first night patrol with a more experienced soldier. To add to the prank, my father personally handed them their ammunition, ensuring they were given blanks—the kind used for training exercises.

  Their patrol route followed the edge of the river, where a ten-yard strip of land had been plowed to make it easier to spot any unauthorized crossings. To keep things interesting, they had a dog that joined them on these patrols. I can’t recall his name, but he assured me that the walks were his favorite activity.

  After sending the new guy and his partner on their way, my father and the rest of the soldiers from the barracks snuck out to intercept them. The river’s winding path made it easy to cut across and get ahead of the patrol. They set up on a small hill overlooking the route, and my father explained the plan again: three soldiers, dressed in civilian clothes, would pretend to emerge from the riverbank and act like intruders.

  It was a simple plan, really. The evening light provided enough visibility to see the action, but it also added an air of confusion to the scene. It didn’t take long for the patrol to arrive, and right on cue, the “intruders” burst from the riverbank, running toward the patrol as if they were up to no good.

  From what I understood, the protocol for dealing with trespassers was strict. You couldn’t just shoot them on sight. First, you had to announce yourself, then yell for them to stop, then threaten to shoot, and finally fire a warning shot into the air. Only after all that could you consider using lethal force—and even then, nobody actually wanted to shoot anyone. These were just kids, after all.

  But the new guy must have panicked. Instead of following protocol, he immediately drew his weapon and started shooting at the intruders. Of course, since he was firing blanks, the “intruders” didn’t even flinch, let alone stop.

  Meanwhile, the dog, who had been trained to attack on command, rushed toward the trespassers. But as he got closer, he recognized them. Instead of attacking, he happily wagged his tail and trotted alongside them.

  By this point, my father and the others on the hill were dying of laughter. It only got worse when, instead of running away, the “intruders” turned the tables and pretended to attack the patrol. The new guy, completely overwhelmed, threw his weapon to the ground and bolted, leaving his partner behind to face the “enemy” alone.

  My father said he’d never laughed as hard as he did that evening. At one point, they were laughing so hard that they were laughing at each other’s laughter. It was one of those moments that became legendary in their unit.

  Hearing stories like that made me feel like I’d missed out on something when I grew up. By the time I was old enough, the compulsory military service had been abolished, and there was no army for me to join. I always felt a pang of regret, as if I’d been denied a rite of passage—a chance to experience the camaraderie, the pranks, and the absurdity that came with it.

  After more than a week on the road with the army, I can sincerely say I would have done poorly in the military. To be fair, my father had warned me. He always said the army was the place with the highest concentration of stupid people he’d ever encountered. At the time, I’d brushed it off as one of his usual rants, but now, trudging along with this ragtag force, I couldn’t help but see the truth in his words.

  And when I say stupid, I don’t mean uneducated folks from forgotten villages—though there were plenty of those too. No, I mean people who, the moment they get the tiniest shred of power, use it to mask their glaring inferiority complexes. It was exhausting to deal with. Every day, I’d watch some petty officer strut around, barking orders at anyone within earshot, as if their newfound authority somehow made up for their lack of skill or intelligence. The worst part was having to keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself, not when I was trying to stay under the radar. But gods, it was hard not to roll my eyes or mutter something sarcastic under my breath.

  The higher-ups might have been more competent—or at least I hoped they were—but the people I’d met so far didn’t inspire much confidence in the fighting power of this army. Most of the soldiers were green, barely able to hold a sword properly, let alone use it in battle. The officers seemed more interested in maintaining their own status than actually preparing for the fight ahead. It was hard to imagine this disorganized, unmotivated group standing up to a well-organized enemy, let alone winning. Every time I thought about it, a knot of dread tightened in my stomach.

  The only respite we had was in the evenings, after the camp was set up and the day’s march was over. For a few precious hours, the tension would ease. Soldiers would gather around fires, sharing stories or passing around whatever meager rations they had. It was during these moments that I caught glimpses of the people beneath the uniforms—farmers, blacksmiths, and merchants who’d been thrust into this mess, just like me. They weren’t stupid, not really. They were just ordinary people trying to survive in a system that didn’t care about them.

  But even these moments of calm couldn’t erase the reality of army life. While the constant marching didn’t leave a mark on my feet like the others complained the food was barely edible, and there was never enough of it. Sleep was a luxury, interrupted by the sounds of snoring, coughing, or the occasional shouted order from some overzealous guard. And always, always, there was the waking up before the sun was even up fully.

  My father had been right. The military wasn’t for me. It wasn’t merely the physical strain; it was the overwhelming inefficiency, the constant power struggles, and the feeling of being just a cog in a machine that was indifferent to your survival.

  To keep myself from spiraling into worry about Alira, I joined Isla as she trained with her newfound solid illusions. At first, I was an adequate training partner. Neither of us had much experience with weapons, conjured or otherwise, so we were on somewhat even footing. The exercise was good for me, I guess, but it didn’t take long for the gap between us to widen.

  Now, after an hour of sparring, I was panting and drenched in sweat, while Isla looked as fresh as when we’d started.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you’re already tired?” she teased, twirling her wooden sword with ease.

  I groaned and collapsed onto the ground, my arms trembling. “It’s been like half an hour. I don’t think I can lift this stupid sword even if I tried.”

  “You wish you could last half an hour.” then sighed, planting the tip of her sword in the dirt. “What am I supposed to do? Train with a target dummy?”

  She said it with such calmness that I doubted she meant any double entendre. Just as I was about to comment, a loud thud drew my attention. We turned to see a body on the ground nearby, where another pair had been training. The standing figure, a tall man with a confident stance, looked down at his downed opponent and then glanced over at us. He shrugged and made his way toward us, his wooden sword resting on his shoulder.

  “Hello,” he said with a friendly wave. “Seems like I’ve got the same problem as you. One partner short.” He gestured to Isla with his sword. “Mind if I step in?”

  Isla actually smiled a rare sight and nodded. “Be my guest.”

  The man was skilled, and I had actually gained some experience with various opponents by now. He moved with a fluid grace, his strikes precise and controlled. What surprised me, though, was how he didn’t dominate the sparring session. Instead, he offered Isla small tips here and there—nothing overbearing, just gentle pointers to help her improve. It was clear he knew what he was doing, and Isla seemed to appreciate the guidance.

  As the match went on, Isla began to incorporate more of her illusions into the fight. At first, it was just a flicker here and there, but soon she was creating full-blown distractions—phantom strikes, false openings, and even duplicates of herself. The man’s calm demeanor faltered for a moment as he struggled to keep up, and Isla managed to land a solid hit on him.

  He stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, you got me,” he said with a laugh. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  Isla grinned, clearly pleased with herself. “The tips helped.”

  “My name is Jamie,” he said with a friendly smile.

  “I’m Isla, and this is Tiberius,” she replied, gesturing toward me with her sword.

  The man turned to me, his smile still intact. “No offense, but if you want her to improve, she should find a more suitable training partner.”

  I smirked in return. “I keep telling her that.”

  “Mind if I sit with you two?” he asked.

  “Please,” Isla said, nodding.

  That made me raise an eyebrow. The whole reason I was sparring with her was that she refused to find a more suitable partner. I’d noticed Jamie around the camp over the past few days, helping newcomers. He was clearly skilled—maybe a little too skilled.

  “Why are you down here training new recruits?” I asked, not bothering to hide my curiosity. “With your skill level, you should be higher in rank.”

  His smile faded, and his expression darkened. “I got demoted to training sergeant.”

  “May I ask why?” Isla chimed in.

  He lifted his gaze from the ground, looking toward the officers’ tents up the hill. “I thought with the kingdom at stake, they’d actually listen to ideas. But I was reminded that I’m not a noble and should ‘know my place,’” he said bitterly.

  I gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m an offworlder,” I admitted.

  He nodded, a hint of approval in his eyes. “Who knows? Maybe they do know better,” he said with a resigned shrug.

  “What exactly did you say to annoy them so much?” Isla pressed.

  “I was part of a strategy meeting—you know, sitting in the back row. The plan they came up with was basically a direct confrontation,” he explained.

  “And you thought that was unwise?” I asked.

  “There’s no way Ascalon would march out to meet us head-on without some kind of surprise waiting. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and said as much. When the king seemed to agree with me, I thought there was hope. However, it seemed that their army was weaker than ours, at least according to the intelligence reports.” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Next thing I knew, I was called in by my superior and reassigned to teaching kids how to hold a sword properly.”

  “Well, I hope they come around,” I said, though inwardly, I doubted it. “Everyone I’ve met so far hasn’t given me much hope for this army.”

  He didn’t look happy at all. “That’s because the experienced soldiers were sent to the troll border. What you see here are the reserve conscripts, plus whatever town militias we could scrape together along the way,” he said, his tone heavy with frustration.

  “Why are they attacking, then?” Isla asked, her voice sharp with curiosity. “Shouldn’t you hold a defensive position and let your men gain experience? You’re much more likely to survive defending than attacking.”

  “Yeah, what she said,” I mumbled under my breath, though my mind was already racing. Defensive strategies made sense, but something about this whole situation felt off. Were they hiding something, or was this just another case of arrogance leading to disaster?

  “I don’t know,” Jamie admitted, his voice tinged with doubt. “Some of the decisions have been… puzzling. But they must have information we don’t—maybe from spies or defectors.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than us.

  “Maybe,” I mused, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. “But enough about the war. Tell me you have time to teach Isla a thing or two before we reach the frontline. I’m not much of a swordsman.”

  He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “That much is clear. For your sake, I hope you have other skills.”

  Before I could retort, Isla jumped in. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll outlive us all. I’ve never met anyone luckier than him.”

  I couldn’t help but smirk at that, though inwardly, I wasn’t so sure. Luck had always been on my side, but was it really luck? Or was it just that I had more options than most? Isla had saved herself at the castle, but she’d come back for me—well, maybe more for Amra. Still, the bracer she’d used to help us escape had come from me. Maybe luck wasn’t just something that happened to you. Maybe you made your own luck.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much it came down to options. The more allies you had, the more chances you had to survive. I’d always said I needed to make more friends, and now, with times like these, I could use all the options I could get.

  While I was lost in my thoughts, Isla and Jamie had already struck up a conversation. They seemed to be hitting it off, maybe my brooding had pushed her to find someone else to talk to. I hadn’t been the most pleasant companion lately, my mind weighed down with worry. Isla had tried to be patient, but everyone had their limits.

  Nevertheless, it hadn’t occurred to me that she would be in the mood for conversation, given the recent events. Yet there she was, chatting with Jamie as if nothing had happened. Were they truly friends, or merely acquaintances brought together by chance? I felt a twinge of guilt for even considering it, but I knew that I likely wouldn’t mourn three strangers after just a few weeks.

  Was I becoming jaded, or had this always been part of me? Maybe a little of both.

  To keep my mind off Alira, I’d started thinking about the war in the last week. It was inevitable, after all, and even if I didn’t want to be part of it, I knew there was no escaping it. My spells, though useful, were mostly single-target—effective against a few people at most. But armies here numbered in the tens of thousands. I could cast spells all day and barely make a dent. That left me with two options: either use my powers for show, to boost morale like I had at the arena, or come up with something new.

  I’d always tried to think of new spells, but after all this time on this planet, I’d started to believe that real breakthroughs only came when there was an immediate need. All my best spells had been born out of necessity, not peaceful meditation. My frostbolt, for example, still took five seconds to cast and did less damage than an arrow. Maybe adrenaline was the key, maybe it cleared the way for a stronger connection to the aether. It was a long shot, but worth testing.