Booting Camp

"Teacher!"

"TEACHER!"

"Sir!!"

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

The group collectively shuddered. The air was stifling, heavy with heat and the earthy stink of sweat. The massive training hall, carved into the side of a mountain, seemed spacious at first glance, but the sunlight streaming through cracks in the rock only made the oppressive atmosphere more noticeable. It highlighted the jagged stone floor and dust motes swirling in the air—just the way Master Griznar liked it.

Standing before them was an imposing orc, his hulking form casting a shadow that swallowed the huddled goblins. His face was hidden behind a mask made of dark iron, its hooked mouth filtering the air and lending his voice a deep, resonant timbre.

No one questioned Griznar’s reputation.

He was a warlord of legend, infamous for training the fiercest goblin skirmishers in the land. His unorthodox methods and rebellious streak had raised many brows among the orc elite, yet his results were undeniable. Entire goblin battalions owed their survival—and their victories—to his teachings.

It made sense that the task of whipping this sorry band of goblin whelps into shape had fallen to him. Rumours of an unusually hardy group of goblins had reached the ears of the orc commanders. They likely chalked it up to superior breeding or a lucky mutation. Marcus had a suspicion why.

So here they stood, in the Shadowfang Training Pit, where any environment could be conjured with the wave of a staff.

Marcus still remembered the first time he’d seen the orc commanders arrive. Their polished armour gleamed like obsidian, inlaid with runes that shimmered with an eerie light. Their sheer presence was overwhelming, as if they were beings plucked straight from the stories of the gods.

He’d been awestruck then. Now, he just wanted to survive.

Griznar stalked toward them with a warrior’s confidence, a staff slung across his back. The wood was blackened with age, adorned with carved runes and talismans that jingled softly with every step.

“Every road you have walked has led to this moment in your training,” the orc bellowed, his voice booming across the hall. The goblins snapped to attention, straightening their spindly forms. “Today, you will face illusions conjured by the gods themselves.”

With a flourish, Griznar slammed his staff into the ground. Before him, spectral figures began to form—towering, muscular orcs wielding massive axes and shields. Their glowing forms pulsed with an ethereal light, their every movement radiating calculated menace.

“The catch,” Griznar continued, “is that this is not a fight you will face alone. Goblins survive by cunning and unity. Today, you will prove whether or not you can rise above your weakness. Form groups of five!”

Not daring to earn his ire, Marcus and his companions scrambled into formation.

Griznar smirked, his tusks glinting beneath his mask. “Your enemy will not fight fair, and neither should you. Heretics use every dirty trick in the book to turn the tide of battle. You must be prepared to meet them in kind.”

With a motion of his staff, jagged rocks and twisted trees erupted from the ground, forming a dense, uneven battlefield.

Marcus’s group was toward the middle of the line. He glanced at Pimya, who was fiddling nervously with his dagger. His stubby hands shook, the blade catching stray glimmers of light as he adjusted his grip.

It wasn’t long before Griznar called their group forward.

“Next!”

Marcus’s breath hitched as the battlefield shifted again, the rocky ground giving way to a dense, misty forest. Ancient trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches casting shadows that danced ominously in the shifting light.

“And go!”

The goblins scattered, ducking behind rocks and tree trunks to avoid the glowing orc illusions. Marcus crouched low, his mind racing. He motioned to Pimya, who swung his head toward him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Pim, cover my flank. I’ve got an idea,” Marcus whispered.

The others huddled closer, their eyes darting nervously.

“Listen up,” Marcus said, his voice low but steady. “We can’t beat them head-on. But if we can distract them, I can get above them and drop a firebomb while they’re busy. Sound good?”

The others exchanged hesitant glances but nodded.

“Alright. On my signal, take potshots with your slings at them and keep moving. Don’t let them pin you down.”

As his companions scattered, Marcus began climbing a nearby tree, his stubby fingers gripping the bark with surprising ease. He’d never imagined himself as a climber in his old life, but goblin bodies were surprisingly well-suited for it.

8-foot-tall beasts, meanwhile, did not make for good tree climbers. He reached for the branches and caught it in a vice grip, hanging on for dear life. His legs scrambled onto the wooden platforms, praying they missed him as they hailed down the might of heaven upon him.

From his perch, he watched as the spectral orcs growled and advanced on his team. Their movements were unnervingly lifelike, each step deliberate and calculated.

“Come on… just a little closer…”

One of the orc illusions broke away, charging toward Pimya.

“Gotcha,” Marcus muttered, hurling the firebomb.

The explosion sent the illusion flying, its glowing form flickering before it dissolved into mist. The remaining orcs turned, growling as they regrouped.

“Oh… shit."

He scrambled higher into the tree as they began firing magical bolts, the projectiles zipping past him with deadly precision.

In and out he weaved among the tree branches, scampering for safer purchase as he climbed higher. He was so close—

A sharp burst of pain panged on his leg, making him lose his grip and pushed him over the edge. He was lucky he landed on even more bushes – otherwise he would have had to make a trip to the infirmary.

Goddamnit! Not now... not now…

Groaning, he forced himself to his feet, only to see the remaining orcs closing in. He fumbled for his last firebomb, his hands shaking.

“Guys! Distract them!” Pimya’s voice rang out, followed by a flurry of thrown daggers and spells.

Marcus used the opening to lob his firebombs, cringing as the illusions roared in pain and dissolved into mist. He knew this was all he had—he didn't have the opportunity to upgrade to better weaponry or move to a better position. The crunches of dead leaves and sticks was all he heard before…

Then—

Ding!

A bell rung. Which meant—

“You failed."

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!”