As the days flew by, Darius's injuries began to heal. His skin looked healthier, no longer pale and bruised. The thinness faded. The Prime was stunned—how could this boy recover so quickly in just seven days?
Even after his punishment ended, he didn't come back to eat soup with the others. How the hell had he done it?
"Darius, step forward," the prime called out.
Darius walked to the front with a curious look in his eyes.
He couldn't resist mocking me, huh? Good thing I made preparations.
"How are you in such good shape? Are you stealing from the camp?" His voice was cold as steel.
"No sir. I wouldn't dare. I went hunting using the bow you generously gave me."
"With that weak body of yours? You expect me to believe that?"
"You're right—I can't use it properly. It's too heavy. But I used the wood as a fishing rod. Couldn't have done it without your help, sir. Thanks a lot."
The boys looked at him, wide-eyed. Was he a fool... or a genius?
The Prime chuckled darkly.
"It's been a while since someone dared to make fun of me. You've got guts. But guts alone won't help you. Discipline will. You have two choices: fight me... or take fifty lashes on the back."
Narrow-minded as hell. I only made a small joke. These Spartans don't know what fun is.
"Let's fight."
"Hmph. I'll supervise your little show. Is that alright, Marcus?"
The instructor's voice came from the shadows. He had been watching the whole time.
"Instructor—sir, no problem at all," Marcus said with a forced smile, inviting the Marshall closer.
The circle closed around them.
Darius stood barefoot in the dirt, arms low, breathing steady. Marcus—the Prime—cracked his knuckles. Amused. Confident.
Observe. Analyze. Exploit.
"Begin!" the Marshall barked.
Marcus moved in, casual at first—testing.
Darius stepped to the side, light on his feet. The first punch came fast.
Whoosh. He ducked, the air grazing his ear. Countered with a palm to the ribs—smack—and jumped back.
A few boys gasped.
Marcus paused. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.
Then he charged—faster, sharper. A kick swept low. Darius blocked—thud—but the force staggered him.
He tried to pivot, but slipped on loose dirt. A punch landed on his shoulder—bam—the world tilted.
He rolled, coughing, and stood again.
Blood in his mouth. One eye swelling. Legs unsteady. But his eyes were calm.
One more exchange. That's all I need.
He rushed in. Feinted low. Slipped under Marcus's arm and—
PAH! Elbow to the jaw.
Marcus stumbled back. Spat blood.
Then came the end.
A punch to the chest—thump—stole his breath. A second strike to the head—whack—shut everything down.
Darius didn't fall.
He just sank. Knees buckling. Arms loose.
Darkness.
"He landed a hit," someone whispered. "Yeah... and that's more than most."
"Alright, that's enough. Mountain training—now. Someone drag Darius to the barracks."
Later that day – Inside the instructor's tent
"Huhu... I can't believe he actually landed a hit. What do you think of him?"
"He's... impressive. I didn't take him seriously. But that final strike... it still hurts. His reflexes are sharp. His technique even better. Once he fully recovers, he'll be one of the camp's strongest seeds."
Marcus was ashamed—yet amazed.
That was Sparta. The weak were expendable. The strong? They were the past, the present... and the future.
"I agree," the Marshall said, eyes narrowed. "But his personality is a problem. Too relaxed, even under pressure. Hunger doesn't break him. Pain doesn't work. We must carve that smile from his face. Turn it to stone. Then, he'll be a real warrior."
He stepped closer.
"A wolf uses all its strength to kill even a rabbit. If he had a dagger... you'd be dead. There won't be a next time. Understood?"
Marcus shivered.
"Yes, sir. It won't happen again."
"Good. Now return to your duties."
Next morning – Departure
When Darius woke, it was already light outside.
Holy fuck. I can't go two days without getting beaten or knocked out here. I'm taking this place too lightly. If I keep this up... I'll die. I need to switch back to survival mode. Being an explorer softened me too much.
Cleon stepped inside the barracks, cheerful as always.
"Hey sleepyhead. New mission—just for you. The Prime says it's your punishment: survive outside the camp for a month and a half. Don't go too far from Limnai, and… they'll give you a bow and a sword."
Darius blinked. His mouth hung open.
What the hell is wrong with these people?! How do they expect a child to survive in the forest alone?
Then again…
I'm not a normal child.
At the camp gate, a Cadet handed him the promised tools.
"Here you go. Try your best. Oh—and if you come back early, we'll kill you. Better later than sooner."
Darius gave a bitter smile.
"Thanks for the encouragement."
The forest was quiet.
To survive out here, he needed to move fast. It was early—he had the whole day. First priority: water. Then shelter. Then food.
If he found something edible on the way, all the better.
He adjusted the leather strap of the satchel. The bow dragged at his shoulder. He hadn't tried drawing it—he already knew he couldn't.
The short sword at his hip felt like the only real tool he could count on.
An hour later, the river came into view. It cut across the land like a scar—cold, clean, reliable.
He crouched, sipped from his hand.
"Alright... temporary shelter. Food. Fire."
He scanned the area. Rocky outcrop to the left. Thick trees to the right. Sun already leaning west.
No time to overthink.
He pulled off his sandals, rolled up his trousers, and crossed the river. The cold bit into his feet. He ignored it.
Behind a low ridge, half hidden by tall grass, he found it—a fallen tree leaning against a stone slope.
A perfect, natural wedge. A shelter.
"It'll do."
He dropped his gear and got to work. Gathered branches. Snapped dry twigs. Laid pine boughs across the trunk. Packed dirt at the sides. Used a flat rock to block the front.
It wasn't much. But it would hold.
While gathering wood, he found a few wild figs. Soft. Ripe. Sweet. Not enough to fill him—but enough to stop the hunger from screaming.
Back at the shelter, he sat against the stone, watching the sky turn violet.
"Tomorrow I'll make fire. Today, we survive."
He didn't sleep.
The cold hit harder than expected. His limbs shook. He curled up, clutching the quiver to his chest for warmth.
His teeth chattered through the night.
No fire. Rookie mistake.
Around midnight, a wolf howled far in the distance. He didn't move.
Eyes open. Muscles tense.
By dawn, he couldn't feel his feet.
But he was alive.
"One day down." "Forty-four to go."