Boot Camp

"Teacher!" "TEACHER!" "Sir!!"

"Welcome back to another day of hell, little ones."

Shinji's group collectively shuddered. It was hot, stuffy, and cramped. The Simulated Training Ground, carved into the bones of an old dwarven foundry, looked spacious—but the enchantments laced through the walls stole the breath from the air. Sunlight filtered down through stained-glass vents, casting alabaster light across the mossy stone floor.

Just the way Master Griznar liked it.

He stood before them, tall and gnarled like an old oak, his silhouette vast in the thick air. His leather mask, forged from stitched salamander hide, filtered the sulphur-rich air to protect his two failing lungs.

No one doubted the martial prowess of Master Griznar.

Once a Blood-Fanged Champion of the Warhost, now fallen from grace, Griznar had clawed his way back as a trainer of goblin recruits. So his legends foretold.

Honestly, what a roundabout way of describing how someone is recovering from a mid-life crisis. Then again, this was the closest thing to legend these goblins were going to get in their short lives.

Regardless, to them, Griznar’s reputation was solid steel—coarse, blackened, and tested by fire. What earned him such a post was less his accolades and more his defiance. His methods were as unpredictable as the storms of the Sunken Realms. 

That he still served the Demon King's army at all was something between miracle and curse.

Perhaps that was why he was assigned to this miserable lot—Shinji's lot. The generals must have noticed the strangely low death rate among Batch Seventeen after the epidemic. Some even suspected a mutation—an anomaly in the blood. Shinji had a suspicion too.

And so here they were: in the heart of the Simulated Training Ground. Arcane glyphs embedded in the stone could conjure any environment, from sun-scorched deserts to stormswept cliffs.

It didn’t matter. What mattered to Shinji was getting stronger—and avoiding the fate of a Steward fated to die in a heap.

Griznar approached with a deliberate gait, his staff clinking against the floor. It was an old thing, bound with fangs and iron symbols too foreign to name.

"Every path you’ve trod has led to this moment," he boomed. Every goblin stood straighter. "Today, you face hardlight combatants, cast in the image of Hobfolk elite warriors."

Behind him, constructs shimmered into form—glowing warriors, nearly eight feet tall, formed from crystal magic and bound by rune.

"And no," he added, "you will not be fighting them alone. Today is a test of tactics. Of coordination. Whether you can overcome the impossible with your wits, not your blades. But the details spoil the fun."

He slammed the butt of his staff against the floor.

"Form up! Groups of five, no more, no less!"

They obeyed.

"Heretics fight dirty. They ambush, they lie, they break every rule of honour. They twist the battlefield to their favour. You must do the same—if you want to survive."

He tapped the glyphs on a bracer bound to his wrist. The constructs readied their stance.

From the floor, terrain rose—jutting stone, damp moss, thorny brambles. Unfair terrain for small, stocky fighters.

"First row—defeat the quartet. Go!"

Shinji cursed under his breath. Griznar’s tone might be neutral, but his eyes gave away his amusement. Whether out of genuine enjoyment or sadism, he dared not ponder.

The first group was flattened in under five minutes. The constructs had perfect reflexes—faster than any living warrior. Their movements mimicked Hobfolk Grunts to a tee.

Shinji's group was middle of the lot. He glanced over to Pim, who nervously fiddled with his rusted wand-pistol, checking its mana flow. He didn’t want to know how pistols were made to work in this crazy new universe (or grenades), but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Soon, it was their turn. Around them, groaning goblins were carried off by puffing medic slimes.

"Next!"

No time to think. The simulation shimmered again—this time into a dense jungle. Shadowy and damp, with plenty of cover. He counted his lucky stars…

"And go!"

He and his team scattered to whatever cover they could find. Tol slid behind a thick fern-covered boulder.

"Pim," he whispered, said goblin’s eyes darting toward him. "Cover my flank. I’ve got a plan."

Pim nodded immediately. Trust was hard to come by in this place, but when someone sounded as confident as Tollia did, you hung on for dear life.

The other three seemed too stunned to speak.

Then, he looked closer. Ah. Crippled by fear. He knew the feeling all too well.

Shinji addressed them all. "Look, I know the odds suck. They suck for me too. But see those trees? I need you in and out—fire, duck, move. I’ll go high, drop a nade. Can we do that?"

Uneasy nods.

"Thanks, guys."

Goblins were natural climbers. Their stubby, calloused hands and wiry builds made it easy. In another life, Shinji had dreamed of muscles like these. Now he had them and he wished he could just wake up.

Hurriedly, he scaled the branches above the construct Hobfolk, positioning himself just right. Below, he could see them glowing faintly—already sustaining minor damage from his allies' potshots.

"Come on, come on…"

One of the constructs growled and broke formation, charging toward one of Tol’s teammates.

"Gotcha."

Tol lobbed the grenade. It connected. The construct exploded in a flash of green light and crackling leaves.

The others regrouped, wary now.

"Oh… crap."

Tol hadn’t considered that they could adapt.

They turned. Rifles raised.

"Oh no, no, no—"

He leapt as the branch melted under way of fireball. Lucky for him, the leaves cushioned the fall.

“GAH—shit!!”

But it still hurt like hell.

Before he could even rise, he heard the ground shake… which meant—.

"Guys, need help over here!!"

Pim, bless his brave little heart, responded with no less urgency.

"Go go go!!"

Shinji acted quickly, tossing another grenade.

Inexplicably, the Grunt caught it and tossed it back.

"Uh oh."

Dust rose. Bodies flew.

His squad lay scattered, moaning in defeat.

"Sorry!!"

Tol unloaded his wand-pistol, then scrambled for higher ground. The constructs followed.

They were not built to climb.

He grabbed a branch, swung up. Plasma fire zipped past. Sparks burst all around.

Too small. Too nimble. They missed.

He climbed higher, ducking and weaving. Almost—

Pain seared through his leg. He slipped.

Bushes broke his fall. Just barely.

"Not now…"

Groaning, he reached for his last grenades. No aim, only sound.

Lob. Lob. Lob.

A cry. Then a blast. Debris rained.

But that was it. No more escape.

Then—

ding

"Course level failed."

The jungle blinked away. His gear faded. The pain stayed.

All around, his teammates groaned.

The forest faded away, replaced by the dim training hall. Marcus collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. His teammates groaned in defeat around him.

Beside him, Pimya flashed him a thumbs up. Despite everything, Marcus couldn’t help but smile.

Griznar begged to differ.

“Next!”

\\

“Asshole…” Marcus muttered.

Pimya jogged up and stuck out a hand. “You okay?!”

Before Marcus could speak, one of the orcs growled from the sidelines. “Move it, Steward! You stink up the air worse than boiled swamp meat!”

“Sorry…” Tollia murmured, waving Pimya off as he pushed himself up.

They walked together. Tollia limped.

“I am fine. I swear it,” he said.

Pimya frowned. “But you fall bad. Real bad.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“And now you walk like chicken with arrow in leg!”

“Pimya. I have it.”

“You say that always,” Pimya snapped. “But you lie. You lie bad. Why you lie? You smart—so smart—but lie like dumb goat! Why?!”

...

"It does hurt. A little."

“Good! I just don’t want you lie to yourself. Now we go. You to in-fir-mary.”

Marcus widened his eyes. “The infirmary?! It’s not so bad that—”

“I concur with your friend.”

Both froze. A new voice—smooth, precise, authoritative.

They turned.

An elf-looking thing stood behind them. A woman. Impossibly graceful. Ears long, eyes like blades of green glass. Dressed plainly, but there was something old about her. Older than anything in this place had the right to be.

Tollia stared. “It’s you…”

She nodded, gaze steady. “So you remember. There are perhaps… exceptions to the rule the scholars once taught.”

“What do you mean?”

“We thought goblins were simple. Predictable. Mapped from bone to blood. We thought we had you figured out.”

“We’re not exactly in the position to flex our wings at leisure…” Tollia muttered.

Her expression hardened. “Come along; quickly now, before you lose an elf’s temper.”

Pimya stepped in eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “Good tidings!”

“…Good tidings,” Tollia echoed, eyes still locked on the elf.

She turned without another word, cloak swaying as she walked.

Tollia followed. He didn’t have much of a choice. 

But something told him… she wasn’t going to give him one anyway.