CHAPTER 122: SURVIVE

By dawn, before the next trial began, Lucen gathered the remaining recruits and had them register their names, affiliations, and whether they possessed aura, mana, any unique magic, or none at all.

He intended for them to write it down, but unsurprisingly, many couldn’t. Even among Thornefang’s own, only a handful could read or write.

The rest stared at the parchment as though it were coded spellwork, eyes flicking with a quiet shame they tried to hide. Some gripped the quill like a dagger, stiff and unsure. Others muttered excuses, cheeks red from cold and embarrassment.

Lucen said nothing; he didn’t need to. He simply sighed internally at the sight. He was once again reminded that this is the medieval era, a fantasy one, but still medieval.

’Well, it was no different from my old world... I just need to teach them how to read and write. Maybe Robert can help with that.’ Lucen was already planning on how to make Thornefang better, not only through arms but in mind as well.

So for now, Lucen requested a few men from the knights who knew how to write to help register each remaining recruit. With the help of the knights, it took an hour or two to register each one of the recruits.

Once they were done, Lucen spoke to the group of people.

"Before we start the next test, I will warn you. Unlike the test yesterday, you may die this time. So if you wish to leave, you can. If you want to help pass a message to your loved ones in case you die. Tell the knights about it. I will come back within an hour, ready your resolve by then."

***

The hour that followed moved like a slow knife. Every minute dragged across the nerves of the recruits like steel over bone.

They shifted in place, armor creaking, boots grinding at frozen dirt that would not yield. The courtyard felt smaller with every breath, as if the weight of what they’d agreed to was pressing the very air out of the space.

No one spoke at first. The recruits stood scattered across the courtyard, breath fogging in the cold, the weight of Lucen’s words pressing down heavier than the winter air.

Then, quietly, movement began. A few drifted toward the knights. They started murmuring instructions for brothers, sisters, parents, or children who might never see them again.

One man handed over a ring, a dented band of plain silver, asking that it be returned to his beloved wife if he fell. His hands trembled as he passed it to the knight, the gesture small, but heavy, a quiet surrender of all the futures he might never see.

Another left a crude map of where his family might be found, drawn in shaky lines across the back of a ration slip.

There were even some recruits who walked away. Not many, but enough to notice. They packed with quiet, deliberate hands, faces neither ashamed nor relieved, just hollow. They knew their limits. Pride was not worth a grave. But those who had dreams stayed, which was most of them.

Bram sat cross-legged near the wall, sharpening his sword with the calm of someone who had already accepted death long ago.

Veronica stood at the edge of the courtyard, spear balanced against her shoulder, eyes on the sky.

The wind tugged at her navy hair, but she didn’t move, didn’t blink, her stillness more intimidating than any threat. She was beautiful, yes, but there was no warmth in her poise; she was a statue carved for war.

Thrall crouched by the snow, tracing strange shapes with a stick, muttering under his breath in a language no one else understood.

Daniel lay on his back, staring at the clouds as though none of this mattered. He couldn’t help but sigh, like the hour was merely an inconvenience.

Among the younger recruits, conversations began in low, brittle voices. Some clung to bravado, boasting they’d survive. Others whispered prayers. One boy, barely sixteen, trembled but didn’t move to leave. He sat beside a girl he barely knew, both quiet, both staring at the ground, both unwilling to stand alone.

Even Erwin felt the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. He flexed his fingers, raw from the first trial, and forced himself to breathe steadily.

To turn back now would be to spit on everything he’d decided the night before. He had already decided when he left his forge to chase his dream of adventure or die trying.

The hour bled away. When the gates creaked open again, Lucen returned. His cloak carried a dusting of frost, his expression unchanged, but his eyes flicked once over the courtyard, counting.

He looked around, and when he saw that there were only a few who had left, he nodded his head, just slightly, like the sight had confirmed what he already knew.

"It seems that many of you have gathered enough resolve. Now allow me to tell you, your next test. It’s a simple test, really. All you need to do is survive."

’Survive? Survive, what?’ The question echoed in everyone’s mind. Seeing their expressions, Lucen could already guess what they were thinking.

"I can see it on your faces," he said. "You’re asking: survive what? Fair question."

He reached into his cloak and drew out a small, dull-gray object shaped like a river stone, holding it up between two fingers.

"You will spend the next three days in the monster forest west of Ironhold. Those who leave before the end of the third day will forfeit their place here."

He turned the object over in his hand, the light catching faint runes carved into its surface.

"If you can’t continue, if you’re bleeding out, broken, or simply done, you’ll crush one of these. It will release a mana signature our mages can trace. We’ll send someone to pull you out. Do so, and you live... But your chance at Thornefang ends there."

He lowered the stone, eyes scanning the group like a blade dragged across steel. He then smiled a rather gentle smile and asked.

"Any questions?"

Not a single one asked a question. "Very well, then let’s head out to the monster forest."

***

A low murmur passed through the group as weapons were checked and packs tightened. The courtyard gates opened with a grinding groan, and a cold wind swept in like a warning.

The march to the monster forest was not long, but it felt heavier with every step. No one joked. No one boasted. The only sounds were boots crunching over frost and the occasional clink of steel.

Snow gave way to dark soil as they neared the tree line. The air grew damp, heavy with the smell of moss, rot, and something faintly metallic, like blood that never quite washed away.

The forest loomed like a wall of shadow, its trees thick and gnarled, roots twisting like the fingers of something long-dead but not yet at rest. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before entering, curling around the edge of the woods like it wanted no part of what lay within.

Lucen stopped at the threshold and turned to face them.

"This is where your courage stops mattering," he said, voice flat, steady. "Courage gets you to the fight. But that’s not enough for you to survive. In here, show me that you have what it takes to be a member of Thornefang, to be able to survive until the very end."

His gaze swept the group once, weighing them as if already calculating who would walk out alive.

"You have three days. There will be no support, only yourselves, and the forest."

He raised one hand, and a knight stepped forward, carrying a heavy sack. Lucen reached in and withdrew more of the rune-etched stones, handing them out one by one.

"Break it if you can’t go on," he repeated. "We’ll find you. Alive if you’re lucky. Don’t wait too long."

When the last stone was given, Lucen stepped aside and gestured toward the trees.

"Alright, enough words, all of you in you go," he said. "Your time starts now. Struggle for as long as you can and show me your true selves."

No one moved at first. Then Bram strode forward without a word, his sword strapped tight to his back, expression unreadable.

Veronica followed, spear in hand, her shield slung over her shoulder, eyes sharp and calm. Thrall went next, grinning like he’d just been handed a personal challenge, slipping into the shadows as if the forest belonged to him.

Daniel trailed behind them, yawning mid-step, hands tucked into his cloak like this was just another errand.

One by one, the rest followed, some in pairs, some alone, all with their own quiet resolve.

Erwin lingered for a heartbeat, staring into the darkness ahead. His hammer felt suddenly too heavy, his breath too loud. He swallowed hard, tightened his grip, and stepped in after the others.

Lucen watched them go, the last flickers of daylight dying against the treeline, then turned away, the echo of boots swallowed by the silence of the monster forest.

He was going back to Ironhold, where he would watch how the recruits would act in such a challenge. How will he do that?

The answer to that was the Scrying spell. It was a sort of magic to see everyone in the forest. It was something he set up with the help of the mages from the black tower. They had placed various runes in the forest to help with the Scrying spell’s range. It was like a signal to a TV.

Of course, it only works in a limited range, but still, it was enough to monitor the monster forest.

Lucen could watch the scenes back in his room using something similar to a communication orb.