The conversation with Lela had taken place just after noon, but it haunted me the rest of the day. I spent hours in the library, scouring shelves for anything that could contradict what she said. I wasn’t looking for facts, I was looking for hope. But by the time the library closed, all I had were storybooks. Pages full of heroic flair and bloodline legends. Still, they confirmed her words more than they refuted them. Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹•𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖•𝗇𝗲𝘁
That night, I didn’t sleep. My mind spiraled through everything Lela had said. My thoughts chased themselves in circles, each one landing in the same dead end: it’s already decided. Your future is already written, and you weren’t even given the ink.
The king’s conquests, mythic generals, epic bloodlines.
“When the Red-Eyed General stepped onto the field, death bowed its head. When the Red-Haired King raised his blade, the sky caught fire. Together, they didn’t win battles, they ended wars.”
Or another: “With skin like the stone he commands, Count Petrae does not yield. When he stands, the earth remembers its master.”
They weren’t just poetic flourishes. These were literal descriptions of affinity traits, passed off as flair, but every page I read only reinforced what Lela had told me. Bloodline mattered. Affinity determines the ceiling.
I spent three days in that haze.
It wasn’t that I dreamed of ruling nations or reaching god-tier power. I didn’t need to stand at the top of the tower. But to find the road barred before I’d even set foot on it, that was what broke something in me. I had believed. Truly believed. That if I just trained harder, studied more, and adapted faster, then maybe I could climb higher than where I started.
I went through the motions. Training, drills, formations. But the edge was gone. I gave maybe 70%. Enough not to get yelled at, but not enough to improve. I fell back in the sparring bracket. My focus shattered. Almost got tripped during formation drills. I didn't care.
One evening, after a long day of drills and a tasteless stew dinner, I was sitting alone near the campfire, nursing my gloom like a wound. I didn’t even notice Leif walking up until he dropped a piece of flatbread in my lap.
“Hey, Brood Lord,” he said with a grin.
I blinked. “Brood Lord?”
“Yeah. Because you’ve been brooding so hard, it’s practically contagious.”
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I tried to smile. Failed.
Henry joined him, flopping down on the log next to me. “Everything alright, man? Usually, your brooding stops after a day or two. And you’ve never half-assed training. Not even in the first month.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just thinking. About the future. About all these offers floating around.”
Erik shrugged. “I wouldn’t feel too bad if I were you. You’ve still got what, six months before Awakening? You might still catch the eye of someone. A noble. Or the Army’s Knight Order.”
“It’s not the offers,” I muttered. “It’s... everything. Our progress. Our purpose. Are we ever going to be more than tools for someone else’s war? Will any of us make a real difference? Or will we just die out there, names erased before the dirt settles?”
Farid chuckled, bitter and sharp. “My parents sold me to the Army for a tax break and ten silvers. I’ve got nothing waiting for me but a soldier’s grave, so I’d rather meet it head-on. Large and unflinching. Better that than wasting breath dreading the burial.”
His words hit harder than he probably intended.
Maybe ten years from now I’d be dead in a ditch, just another forgotten body. But at least it would be my ditch. My fight. My choice.
Why was I giving up now? Why fold before the cards were even dealt?
I thought about my old life, how many times I regretted doing nothing. How I hated sitting on the sidelines while the world shaped itself without me.
This time, I had a second chance.
Maybe it wouldn’t lead to glory. Maybe I wouldn’t awaken with any grand affinity. But giving up? That guaranteed failure.
I stood up, brushing off the dirt.
“You’re right,” I said. “No more half-effort. Let’s give it everything. See how far we can actually go.”
Leif raised his flatbread like a flag. “Now that’s the Brood Lord we need.”
“Brood Lord forever!” Erik laughed.
Even Farid grinned. “Live fast, die remembered.”
The fifth month ended with me ranked 101 out of 130. Just one spot away from cracking the top 100.
Not great. But better.
More importantly, I’d gotten my momentum back. Even if the future was stacked against me, I was moving.
The sixth month kicked off much the same, grueling drills, rotating formations, and more advanced weapon exercises. But then we got word: the final exams were coming.
And they were brutal.
There would be two major components.
The first was an optional written test. Those who scored high could apply to specialize in support roles. Only the Rune Operators and Field Sappers & Siege Techs would be selected based on those scores. Everyone else could still apply to specialized tracks if they had completed the full six months of training. These included Scouting and Tracking, Signal Running, Polearm and Formation Warfare, and Battle Medic training. The written exam wouldn’t lock anyone out of those paths, but it could give a boost if you performed well.
The second part of the exam was the beast hunt. That was the real trial. We’d be sent outside the safety of the walls, in assigned squads, to track and take down marked targets. Time limits, performance pressure, and real monsters. Not sparring partners. Not simulations.
This was what the army called a filter.
Mess up, and even if you were ranked in the top fifty, you could tumble below one hundred. And if you were scraping the bottom and somehow performed well, you could leap ahead. Raw merit, in real danger.
The mood in camp changed fast. Jokes died off. Training got quieter, more focused. People sharpened blades twice a day and stopped skipping meals.
Everyone could feel it.
The real test was coming.
And this time, effort alone wouldn’t be enough.
You had to be smart. Fast. Brave.