Chapter 123: Great Results

The morning mist clung to the grass like a second skin. The trees surrounding the clearing stood silent, as if waiting for the storm to come. Inigo stood on the wooden platform at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, rifle slung across his back. Lyra stood beside him, checking the last of the paint rounds—red-dyed cartridges packed into waxed paper shells. Non-lethal, but painful. A lesson that left a mark. "They’re ready?" Lyra asked, tying her hair back. "No," Inigo replied. "But it’s time they learn what readiness actually means." Lyra gave a small nod, already understanding. Today wouldn’t be drills or theory. Today was about pressure. Chaos. Pain. And how to survive through it. She secured the last crate with a dull clunk. "Should I warn them?" "No," Inigo said simply. "Let them feel it raw." The bell rang. A single chime through the crisp air. Twenty recruits assembled on the grass. Most wore padded tunics or old guard armor with their new rifles slung across nervous shoulders. They looked like what they were—farmhands, ex-guards, tanners and smiths, standing on the threshold of something they didn’t fully understand. They stood in uneven lines, faces tense. Some squinted at the trees, as if something might already be watching them. Inigo stepped forward. "This is no ordinary lesson," he said. "Today, you face your first trial. A mock battle. One side will defend. The other will attack. You’ll use real weapons, with paint rounds. If one strikes your chest or head, you’re down. Limbs mean you’re wounded. Get hit twice, and you’re out." Murmurs broke out among the group. Some exchanged glances. A few instinctively checked their weapons. One man looked down at his rifle like it had just grown teeth. "No real injuries," Inigo added, "but don’t take it lightly. You will get hit. You will feel it. That’s the point." Lyra stepped forward, holding two bundles of cloth sashes—one red, one blue. "Red for defenders, blue for attackers," she said. "Take one and form your teams." They came forward slowly, unsure. Some tried to pick their own team, others exchanged apologetic looks as they were sorted. Brenna, Sark, and Lio stood among the blues. Meryl, Feron, and Hal took red. Once the sides were set, Inigo raised his voice again. "You have ten minutes to prepare," he said to the red team. "Use the forest, build cover, set ambushes. Once the bell rings again, the blues will begin their assault." Hal raised a hand. "And how do we know when someone’s struck?" Inigo held up a waxed round between his fingers. "It will leave no doubt." With that, he gave Hal a nod. "Go." The red team moved quickly, disappearing into the trees without a word. [Red Team – Forest Edge] Hal led his group through the underbrush, scanning the terrain with a hunter’s eye. They moved uphill, settling near a bend in the creek where the foliage thickened. The ground was uneven and root-bound, perfect for tripping up an attacker. "We’ll make our stand here," Hal said, dropping his pack. "Meryl, take the right. Feron, find a good perch—high ground if you can. If you see movement, don’t hesitate." "Got it," Feron said quietly, already climbing toward a low rise covered in brush. Sark, the broad-shouldered butcher-turned-recruit, began piling logs and branches across the path, building a crude wall to funnel enemies into narrow lanes. Meryl knelt near a broken stump and set a tripline—chalk string rigged to pop and snap loudly. Not dangerous, but enough to scare and distract. "We hold our ground," Hal reminded them. "No chasing. Let them walk into the teeth." [Blue Team – Clearing] Back in the clearing, the remaining trainees checked their weapons and whispered among themselves. Brenna moved among them like a shepherd, her brow furrowed. "We stay low," she said. "Close the distance quick and don’t scatter. If someone falls, don’t freeze. Keep going." Sark nodded. Lio looked pale, his fingers flexing nervously on the grip of his rifle. "We push from the east," she added. "They’ll expect a head-on charge. We give them misdirection." The second bell rang. Brenna raised her hand. "Let’s move." [In the Forest – First Contact] They entered the woods in staggered formation, rifles up, breathing shallow. The underbrush rustled beneath their boots, each step louder than the last. The forest was quiet—too quiet. Then— Crack. A paint round struck a tree near Lio’s head, sending bark and red dye in a burst. He yelped and dropped, scrambling behind a rock. "Sniper!" Brenna called. "Feron’s on the ridge!" She tossed a small smoke bomb into the air. A hissing cloud of white chalk burst between the trees. Brenna darted through it, her eyes squinting against the mist, and fired three times toward the ridge. One shot landed true—Feron grunted as a red splash bloomed across his upper sleeve. He slid back down the ridge, out of sight. But the countershot came quick. Meryl, positioned just behind a tree line, tagged Sark squarely in the chest. He staggered backward, looking more surprised than hurt. "I’m out!" Brenna gave a sharp gesture. "Keep going! Creek’s just ahead!" They pressed forward, slipping over roots and leaping across stones. The foliage thinned—and then came the ambush. Hal stepped from behind a tree, raising his rifle. Paint rounds hissed through the air. Brenna dove left. Lio hesitated. Hal fired again. The shot missed—but not by much. Lio clenched his jaw, leveled his rifle, and squeezed. A red mark bloomed across Hal’s shoulder. He exhaled, surprised, and fell back into the brush. "Well struck," Hal muttered, raising a hand in surrender. Only Meryl remained. [Meryl’s Last Stand] The others crept forward carefully now, stepping over fallen logs, eyes scanning the trees. "She’s still out there," Brenna whispered. Meryl was crouched beneath a broken pine, her rifle braced, unmoving. Her breathing was slow. She waited, hidden behind thick brambles, scope aligned with the approach path. She spotted Lio cresting the ridge. She fired. The shot struck true—his thigh lit up red, and he fell to one knee with a hiss of pain. Brenna ducked, spotted the glint of a scope, and rolled behind a tree. She waited. The moment came. Brenna burst left, firing a single shot mid-roll. It hit center. Meryl blinked, surprised, as red dye spread across her chest. The bell rang again. Match over. [Clearing – Dusk] They returned to camp slowly, bruised and weary. Their padded tunics were streaked with red, their arms and legs sore. But none complained. Their faces had changed. Something had settled in their eyes—focus, maybe. Or fire. Inigo waited near the platform, arms crossed. "You did well," he said. "Some of you froze. Some of you moved. Some of you hesitated—and some of you led." He turned to four of them. "Brenna. Hal. Meryl. Lio. Step forward." They did so, quietly. "You showed traits worth watching. Calm in the fire. Precision under pressure. We’ll talk more later." Then he turned to the rest. "This was a lesson. Not just in aim or movement—but in fear. In confusion. You felt it. That shaking in your hands? That knot in your chest? You’ll feel it again. Against real foes, when paint is blood and mistakes cost lives." He pulled a cloth pouch from his belt and opened it. Inside were small brass tokens—shaped like shields, stamped with a rising sun. "These mark your first trial. Take one. Wear it. And remember what it cost to earn." One by one, they stepped forward, accepting their pins. Behind them, Lyra marked a chalkboard—tracking names, hits, and movements. She noted who had covered others, who had frozen, who had adapted quickly. That night, the fire burned low. No one sang. No one joked. They cleaned their weapons, washed off paint, and stitched the tears in their sleeves. No longer just villagers. Not yet soldiers. But something had changed. Inigo sat apart from them, rifle in hand, slowly cleaning the bolt. Lyra sat nearby, scribbling on a worn parchment. "They did better than expected," she said. "They did," he replied. "But this was a game compared to what’s coming." Lyra looked toward the dark trees. "You think it’ll be soon?" Inigo said nothing. Just stared at the black forest. Then he spoke, voice low. "Soon enough. And when it comes... it won’t wait for another trial run." The fire cracked and popped. Somewhere beyond the woods, a distant howl rose and faded. The fire cracked and popped. Somewhere beyond the woods, a distant howl rose and faded. War was coming. And this was only the beginning. Lyra leaned back, her fingers still stained with chalk from marking the board. She glanced at Inigo’s face, half-lit by the flames, his eyes distant. "We’ll need more weapons," she murmured. "And more food. If you keep pushing them this hard, they’ll burn out before they ever see a battlefield." "They won’t burn out," Inigo said, tightening a screw on the rifle’s stock. "They’ll become something stronger." He looked up at the moon, rising pale over the treetops. "Because if they don’t... they die."