Chapter 43 | Getting Drilled

One hundred armored Fulgari recruits stood in formation, steady and silent beneath the rising sun. Dawn broke over the jagged horizon of Ferros, spilling golden light across the rust-colored plains. Shadows stretched long behind them, sharp and surreal against the cracked, red earth.

Their newly issued armor, matte gray with the angular imperial design, caught the light with a gleam. Between the segmented plates, faint pulses of blue flickered, revealing the living nanite mesh beneath. The adaptive undersuit clung to their bodies like a second, synthetic skin.

The armor felt strange on Leon's body. Heavy across the shoulders, tight at the joints, and awkward with every subtle shift of weight. He couldn't tell if it was poorly fitted or if he just had no idea how to wear it properly. 

He forced himself to stay still. From the outside, they looked sharp and disciplined. But inside his suit, Leon felt the pressure building. The armor was more than just equipment. It was a symbol of what they were expected to become.

The wind rolled across the Ferros training fields, stirring orange dust at their boots. They waited as instructors moved through the ranks, inspecting every recruit.

"Your boots are not properly sealed," Leon heard an instructor tell a recruit behind him.

"Recruit Carl, I am not sure if I should be impressed or worried…" came another voice from his left. "How did you manage to get your nanite suit on backward?"

Leon fought the urge to turn his head. 

Was that even possible? he wondered, suddenly concerned about his own armor. He ran through the mental checklist trying to remember if he missed a step.

He caught sight of Instructor Zell in the corner of his vision, moving down the line. When the man reached Leon, his inspection was thorough but quick. The instructor tugged at Leon's plating, shook his helmet to test its seal, and prodded his shoulder guards with some force. It took less than a minute before he moved on to the next recruit, leaving Leon with neither criticism nor approval.

The inspection lasted thirty minutes, the sun climbing higher as they stood at attention.

"Alright recruits, listen up," Instructor Zell announced, now at the front of the formation with his assistants flanking him. "Today we will be doing a light jog around the outside perimeter of the base. Then we move to combat drills. You have fifteen minutes before we start. If you were told to adjust your equipment, make sure it's done in that time. Dismissed."

The formation dispersed. Some recruits hurried off to fix their armor, others lounged around in clusters, waiting for the jog to begin.

"Well, that was fun," Nyra said after removing her helmet. Her hair was already plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes held their usual spark. She stood beside Leon, bouncing lightly on her toes as if testing the armor's flexibility.

"I think my chest plate is too small," Mason said, joining them. He looked like a behemoth in his armor, making Leon feel small by comparison. Though Leon stood at 5'10", Mason towered a full head taller.

Leon tugged at his nanite undersuit where it bunched uncomfortably at his neck. 

"These Class Is feel uncomfortable. I don't know why we have to wear the nanite suits underneath if the armor doesn't have the enhancements."

"Probably to get used to them," Nyra shrugged, her armor plates shifting with the movement. 

They passed the fifteen minutes talking about random things, mostly food, until the instructors called them back into formation.

"Forward march!"

The formation took two steps.

"Double time march!"

The group surged forward as one, boots striking the packed dirt in rhythm as they jogged in step. Leon kept his eyes forward, matching the pace, the weight of the armor making each stride feel just a little off.

The recruits moved as one gray mass, cutting across the training field under the pale morning light. Their shadows flickered across the terrain, merging and separating with each synchronized step.

They passed the dining facility, where the scent of breakfast being prepared lingered in the air, faint but noticeable even through the helmet's filtered intake. Next came the living quarters, structures lined in perfect rows, each one identical to the next.

Ahead, the outer wall rose high above, a seamless barrier of dark, mana-resonant alloy. Its surface shimmered beneath the morning sun, streaked with red dust but unmarred by time or weather. Armored guards stood watch at the top, their helmets scanning the horizon.

As the formation drew closer, the gate mechanism rumbled to life. Thick slabs of reinforced steel slid apart with a low, grinding sound. 

Dust spilled into the air, but the formation didn't break pace. The recruits moved through the gate without a word, the sound of their boots echoing off the walls.

Leon crossed the threshold with the others, leaving the familiar buildings behind. Ahead lay open land, dry and uneven, painted in rust and shadow. The terrain outside was rougher, with loose stones that shifted underfoot and sudden dips that tested their balance. Heat shimmered above the distant ridgelines.

What had been described as a light jog proved to be anything but. Two hours around the perimeter, and there was nothing light about it. Leon wasn't used to running with extra weight, let alone a full armor suit that covered him head to toe. 

Every step jarred his knees, and the helmet trapped his labored breathing, amplifying it in his ears.

The instructors seemed to take sadistic pleasure in randomly increasing the pace, pushing the formation from a jog to a sprint without warning. Leon's legs burned, his lungs fought for more air than the filtration system could provide, and sweat pooled in every crevice where the nanite suit met his skin.

By the time they returned to the training field, most recruits were barely keeping formation. As soon as dismissal came, they collapsed where they stood, sprawling on the ground in their armor gasping for breath.

Leon lay on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky through his visor. His chest heaved, and he could feel his heart hammering against the chest plate. Beside him, Nyra sat with her helmet off, hair soaked with sweat, while Mason remained standing, hands on his knees, head bowed.

"Now that we've had our warmup," Instructor Zell announced, not a trace of exertion in his voice, "the schedule was to dismiss for breakfast, but fortunately I was informed the dining facility is short-staffed and breakfast will be delayed for an hour." 

His tone suggested this unfortunate circumstance gave him great pleasure. 

"So we will jump right into combat drills."

A collective groan rippled through the recruits.

On cue, the assistant instructors stepped onto the field carrying bundles of gear. They laid out spears, swords, and shields along the edge, the weapons clanking as they hit the ground. 

"Grab one of each," an assistant instructor ordered once everything was set.

Leon’s legs were already tired from the jog, and the armor made every movement harder than it needed to be. Slowly, he got to his feet and joined the slow march toward the pile of weapons.

No one said much. A few recruits muttered under their breath. Some bumped into each other as they moved, clumsy in the armor. Leon waited his turn, then bent down and picked through the gear.

The spear felt too long and unwieldy in his armored grip. The sword was dull-edged and awkward in his hand, its balance off. The tower shield was massive and scratched, with dents along the rim.

He trudged back to where Nyra and Mason had claimed a spot, then sank down beside them, letting his new arsenal clatter to the ground.

"The edges are dull," he muttered, running a finger along the sword's blade. It was blunted for training, but even so, it looked like it had seen better days.

The three continued to inspect their equipment in tired silence until the last of the recruits had claimed their gear and found spaces on the field.

"Looks like everyone's equipped," Instructor Zell called out. "Spread out. Make sure you won't hit each other when swinging. We'll do basic stances and drills for each weapon to familiarize yourselves. In the coming days, you can decide which ones you're most comfortable with and develop your own fighting style."

The next hour was grueling. The instructor allowed no rest between sets of drills, jumping from one weapon to the next. The weight of the armor and weapons was punishing. Each movement required conscious effort, each stance a battle against fatigue.

During the spear drills, Leon felt marginally more confident. It was the weapon he had often used in the simulations, so the grips and positions were somewhat familiar. His form wasn't perfect, but his thrusts mostly went where he intended, and his footwork wasn't completely wrong.

Even so, he could see how far behind he was.

Many of the other recruits moved with sharp precision; each thrust, each slash flowing like part of a rhythm they already knew. Their bodies pivoting and stepping in perfect coordination. 

Leon's own movements were stiff and off-beat by comparison; he felt like he was trying to dance to music he couldn't quite hear.

The sword was worse. Much worse. Leon struggled to control its weight and length. More than once, he struck with the flat of the blade instead of the edge, or executed a wild swing that left him off-balance. 

Meanwhile, Nyra handled her blade as if she trained with it for years. Her stance was low and solid, her strikes fast and clean. 

Mason was surprisingly adept with the sword as well, his powerful frame giving each strike devastating force. What he lacked in Nyra's grace, he made up for in raw power.

They looked like real Fulgari while Leon felt like a child trying to copy them.

Then came the tower shield. Leon hated it almost immediately. It was bulky, slow, and determined to drag him off-balance. Every block, strike, and bash in the drill threw him off-balance. The weight of it pulled at his arm, and the wide shape caught the wind. Several times, he had to take a quick step back just to stay upright.

At least he wasn't the only one struggling. A few other recruits, even Nyra, lost their footing during the more complex movements. Transitions from block to strike were especially rough, often throwing off their timing.

Leon glanced over at Mason. The big guy moved like the shield weighed nothing, swinging it with his whole body in smooth, powerful arcs. He drove it forward into bashes, then swept it back into defensive positions with barely a pause.

Leon narrowed his eyes, watching more carefully.

He makes that thing look light, Leon thought, then noticed something else. When Mason shifted into a blocking stance, the shield barely covered his massive frame.

Then again, he makes the shield look small.

As the hour dragged on, fatigue set in deeper. Leon's arms trembled with each movement. His strikes became sloppier, his reactions slower. Sweat stung his eyes, and the nanite suit felt like it was chafing everywhere it touched his skin.