Enter Brickvia

The road to Brickvia was long, broken, and bitter.

Ren walked it alone, the only sound his boots crunching dry dirt and his breath shallow from exhaustion. Behind him, Riverbrick was nothing but memory and ash. The flames had taken his home, the screams had taken his sleep, and the Suragato invaders had taken his parents. All that remained of them was the sky-blue scarf wrapped tight around his neck—his mother’s scarf, the one she wore on the day everything fell apart.

He clutched it now without thinking, fingers tightening as the wind howled across the open hills.

“I’m still walking… because of you,” he murmured to the scarf. His voice cracked, dry from days without speaking. The scarf didn’t answer. But it stayed with him, and that was enough.

Villages passed like ghosts. Some boarded up. Some silent. Others smoldering from attacks days prior. Ren kept his head low, slipping past anyone who might ask questions. He scavenged what food he could, drank from shallow creeks, and slept beneath trees with one eye open. Every step forward felt heavier, but Brickvia pulled at him like a thread of hope he couldn’t cut.

When the stone walls of Brickvia Castle finally appeared beyond a ridge, Ren stopped.

It looked nothing like Riverbrick—fortified, vast, alive. Supply wagons rolled through open gates. Soldiers barked orders. Armor clanged. Hammers rang out from blacksmith forges. It was a city in full war rhythm, braced for what came next.

Ren took a deep breath and stepped forward, merging into the stream of travelers and conscripts.

The morning air inside Brickvia was sharp, laced with steel and sweat. Around him, the fortress city pulsed like a machine—soldiers marching in formation, blacksmiths hammering out weapons, quartermasters barking over crates of supplies. Brickvia was not a home. It was a war engine.

He drifted toward a corner wall where a crowd had gathered, eyes fixed on a cluster of new posters just nailed into place. The parchment still curled from the edges, the ink bold and urgent:

“Enlist Today — Earn Pay, Shelter, and Honor.

The Homeland Needs You. Brickvia Needs You.”

Ren’s eyes scanned the lines. The part that caught him wasn’t the word honor.

It was shelter. And pay.

He touched his scarf again—his mother’s last gift. The sky-blue fabric was dull now, heavy with dust and grief, but still warm against his throat.

He couldn’t live off memory. He needed something more than survival in the wild. He needed shelter and a job for living.

Beside him, a farmer’s son maybe a year younger stared at the same poster.

“Guess they’ll take anyone now,” the boy muttered nervously. “Even the lost ones.”

Ren said nothing. He stepped forward.

The clerk at the temporary enlistment table barely glanced up. “Name?”

“Rendo Karibata.”

The clerk blinked. “From Riverbrick?”

Ren gave a short nod.

The clerk’s face sobered. “I’m… sorry.”

Ren’s jaw clenched. “I’m not here for sympathy.”

“Of course,” the man said, scribbling quickly. “You’ll be processed as a new recruit. Meals, uniform, and bunks provided. Orientation starts tomorrow morning. And pay begins immediately after division assignment.”

Ren submit the enlistment form and stepped aside, heart pounding—not from fear, but from clarity.

He hadn’t signed up to be a hero.

He signed up to survive.

As he turned away, the wind tugged at his scarf. For a moment, it floated behind him like a silent promise.

The barracks were alive with shouting drills and stomping boots. Recruits moved like currents in a tide, but Ren walked quietly, his scarf fluttering gently with each step—a sky-blue thread pulled from the ruins of his past.

“Karibata! Step forward!”

Ren froze. That voice—sharp, commanding—belonged to Lieutenant General Inoue Kobayashi.

He turned and stepped forward. Kobayashi studied him with a frown that slowly softened into recognition.

“You’re the one from Riverbrick. Rendo Karibata.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You helped devise the strategy that cut off the Suragato’s supply line and suggested the pincer maneuver. You also were the one who signaled Lt. Colonel Kiyoshi to strike.”

Ren gave a modest nod. “I just did what I thought would work.”

Kobayashi’s gaze didn’t waver. “It worked. That maneuver cost them a full retreat. You made an impact.”

Ren said nothing, the scarf suddenly feeling heavier around his neck.

“Come with me,” Kobayashi ordered.

He led Ren through the castle’s winding stone corridors, past guards and aides who saluted or moved aside. The silence between them was brief but weighted.

Finally, they arrived at a large door flanked by armored sentries. Without a word, the doors opened.

Inside stood three towering figures:

King Hikusa, regal and composed, eyes sharp with judgment.

Yamada Masahiro, the kingdom’s chief strategist, observing silently.

Lieutenant General Futaba Watari, thick-built, rough-voiced, arms folded.

Kobayashi stepped forward. “This is Rendo Karibata. Former trade administrator. During the Riverbrick invasion, he helped devise the strategy that cut off Suragato’s supply line and suggested a pincer maneuver. He signaled Lt. Colonel Kiyoshi at the right moment, and the enemy was forced into retreat.”

King Hikusa’s gaze lingered on Ren. “No formal training. Yet you acted with precision.”

“I just wanted to help people survive,” Ren answered.

Masahiro raised an eyebrow. “Why enlist, then? Patriotism?”

Ren didn’t hesitate. “Shelter and income, sir.”

A beat of silence.

Watari let out a low chuckle. “At least he’s honest.”

Kobayashi added, “He thinks clearly in chaos. That kind of instinct is rare.”

King Hikusa gave a slight nod. “Then give him a place to prove himself.”

The next morning, Ren stood in the administrative hall as a clerk handed him a folded document stamped with three crimson seals.

“Welcome to the Royal Army,” the clerk said curtly. “Your assignment is listed. Next.”

Ren stepped aside and unfolded the orders. His eyes scanned the words:

Name: Rendo Karibata

Rank: Private Second Class

Division: Military Engineering

Commanding Officer: Colonel Koizumi Kotaro

He exhaled slowly.

The Military Engineering Division. Not frontline infantry. Not cavalry. Not even scouts. It was an unit known for building bridges, setting traps, rigging demolitions, and dismantling enemy war machines. Silent work. Smart work.

It suited him.

Later that day, Ren was guided through the stone-walled compound to a lower courtyard, where a man stood inspecting a map pinned to a wooden board. He was tall and wiry, his uniform spotless, his gloves dark with soot.

“Colonel Koizumi Kotaro,” the escort announced.

The colonel turned with a sharp gaze and narrowed eyes. “So, you’re the boy Kobayashi sent me.”

Ren gave a stiff bow. “Rendo Karibata, sir. Reporting for duty.”

Kotaro nodded, tapping the map. “Engineering isn’t glamorous. You’ll be working with tools, mud, and explosives. Most of the time, we’re ghosts—shaping the battlefield before the enemy even steps on it.”

“I understand,” Ren said.

Kotaro studied him a moment longer. “Your scarf,” he remarked. “Doesn’t match the uniform.”

Ren’s fingers touched the sky-blue cloth at his neck. “It belonged to my mother. She died during the Riverbrick invasion. I wear it to remember.”

The colonel didn’t say anything right away. Finally, he turned back to the board. “Then make sure your work honors her memory. You start tomorrow. Be on time. That scarf won’t save you from punishment.”

Ren gave a quiet nod. “Yes, sir.”

As he stepped away, he felt a strange mix of heaviness and purpose. A uniform on his back, orders in hand, and a path forward—however uncertain.

He was a soldier now.

The following day, Ren awoke before dawn, the barracks still cloaked in silence save for the creak of old wood and the muffled clatter of distant boots. He dressed in the dim light, adjusting the belt on his uniform and tying the sky-blue scarf around his neck—a fragment of his past, still warm with memory.

His orders were clear: report to the east wing’s orientation chamber. Before he could wield a tool or march in formation, he had to understand the military machine he’d joined.

The stone hall was already filling when Ren arrived. New recruits filed in—some wide-eyed, others stone-faced. A few looked like they’d held weapons before. Most didn’t. No one spoke. The air buzzed with quiet tension.

Maps lined the walls. Tall iron sconces flickered with torchlight. Officers stood in hushed conversation near the front platform.

Ren took a seat near the center.

A voice shattered the silence.

“All of you—sit still and listen!”

Lieutenant General Futaba Watari strode onto the platform like a hammer striking the ground. His voice boomed across the chamber, his posture unshakable. He was broad, rigid, and commanded attention without asking for it.

“You’re here because you put on that uniform. I don’t care if it was for coin, honor, or to escape starvation—what matters now is that you understand where you stand.”

He scanned the recruits. His eyes paused briefly on Ren—just long enough to make him sit straighter—then continued on. “Some of you are here to rise. Some are here to disappear. And some—like Karibata—have already shed blood.”

A few heads turned.

Watari didn’t flinch. “But even if you’ve seen battle, you haven’t fought with us. Learn our doctrine. Know your chain of command. Understand the systems, or you’ll become another name for the grave keepers.”

He paced a step forward, letting his gaze sweep over the new recruits. His voice hardened, now less of a warning and more of a lesson.

“Brickvia’s military force is not the largest on the continent, but it is one of the most disciplined. Our strength lies in structure, coordination, and adaptability.”

He tapped the board with a long wooden rod.

“We are divided into six main divisions: Infantry, Cavalry, Engineering, Logistics, Medics, and Reconnaissance Scouts. Each plays a vital role in the success of our operations.”

Watari’s gaze swept over the recruits.

“To understand your place, you must understand the ranks. The chain of command is strict and clear.”

He pointed to a vertical chart beside the map, listing ranks.

“At the top is the King — the supreme commander. Directly beneath him is the General, responsible for commanding the entire army.”

“Below the General are the Lieutenant Generals, who oversee major regions and overall strategy.”

“Following them are the Major Generals, commanding multiple divisions and coordinating large-scale campaigns.”

“Next come the Brigadier Generals, who lead brigades consisting of several battalions.”

“Colonels serve as field leaders on the battlefield, commanding regiments and making tactical decisions during combat.”

“Lieutenant Colonels are primarily responsible for guarding borders and strategic outposts, ensuring enemy forces do not infiltrate.”

“Next are Majors, who command companies or specialized task forces.”

“Captains lead platoons directly in battle.”

“Lieutenants are junior officers, often leading small squads or serving as aides.”

“Among the enlisted ranks are Sergeants, who maintain discipline and training among troops; Corporals, junior non-commissioned officers assisting Sergeants; and Privates, the backbone soldiers carrying out orders.”

Watari’s voice grew firm. “Each rank has its role and responsibility. Knowing this chain and respecting it is vital. Ignorance or defiance leads only to confusion—and death.”

He paused to let the weight of his words settle.

“Discipline saves lives. But skill sharpens that edge. Some of you are sharp already. Some are dull iron. If you want to survive this war, get yourself forged.”

As the briefing ended, the recruits began to murmur and prepare to leave.

Watari called out to Ren, who had been quietly observing.

“Karibata.”

Ren turned and stood straight. "Yes, Sir?"

Watari studied him—calm eyes beneath a scarred brow. “You’re not just here to carry rations or build walls, are you?”

Ren hesitated. “No, sir.”

“You’ve seen battle. You think tactically. But strategy doesn’t mean much if you're dead before you can speak.” He walked closer, arms folded behind his back. “You’re now part of this machine. And machines break under strain if they’re not tempered.”

“I understand.”

Watari gave a slow nod. “Then listen well. You need combat training—real training.”

Ren stiffened, bracing for a lecture.

But instead, Watari’s tone lowered. “Go to Kawasumi Mai. She doesn’t just teach swordplay—she teaches survival. Fast feet. Quiet reflexes. She served for seven years and hasn’t lost a duel since.”

“She’ll teach me to fight?”

“She’ll teach you not to die,” Watari said flatly. “And that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

Ren’s throat tightened. Shelter. Food. A future.

"Yes, sir. That’s exactly why I’m here."

Watari stepped back and gave one final nod. “Report to her courtyard before dusk. If she accepts you… don’t waste the chance.”

Ren exhaled, tightened the scarf around his neck, and made his way toward the eastern wing.

He wasn’t sure what awaited him.

But he knew this much:

He wouldn’t survive this war by standing still.

He knew what came next.

He had to find Kawasumi Mai.

He had to learn not just to fight…

…but to survive.

The sun dipped low, casting warm amber light across Brickvia Castle’s eastern wing. Training courts echoed with grunts and clashing steel, but in one quieter corner, elegance danced.

Ren stood at the edge, watching in awe.

Kawasumi Mai moved with a grace unlike anything he’d seen—sidestepping a spear thrust, pivoting to avoid a blade, then spinning behind her opponent in one fluid motion. She tapped him gently with the hilt, disarming him without drawing blood.

When her final opponent yielded with a bow, Mai turned—and noticed Ren.

“You must be Ren Karibata,” she said, walking over, calm and composed. “Lt. General Watari told me you’d come.”

Ren nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to learn. I want to survive this war.”

Her gaze softened. “That’s a good reason. Survival is underrated.”

She stepped to a nearby rack and picked up a regular iron sword, then handed it to him with both hands—respectfully, not forcefully.

“Try holding it.”

Ren gripped the sword. The weight dragged at his arm, his stance faltering slightly.

“Now swing. Gently.”

He took a step and swung. The blade wobbled. Off balance. He tried again, adjusting his grip, but it still felt wrong—too heavy, too rigid.

He looked up, embarrassed. “It’s... heavy. I can’t move right.”

Mai gave a gentle nod, not disappointed—only thoughtful. “That’s alright. Not every fighter is born for the sword. Some of us are shaped by movement instead of steel.”

She took the iron sword back, twirling it smoothly in her hand.

“Let me show you something.”

Then she stepped into the ring again, standing still for a heartbeat. Five training dummies—each mimicking a different stance: sword raised, spear forward, axe overhead, crouched, shielded—stood in a semi-circle.

Mai took a breath.

Then she moved.

She dashed forward, sidestepped left, struck with the back of the blade—then pivoted low, sweeping the legs of the crouched dummy.

With one spin, she dodged the imaginary swing of the axe, slipped under the shield bearer’s defense, and tapped its 'neck' cleanly.

The sword flashed but never overreached. Every move transitioned to the next like a dance, not a duel. Even Ren could tell: she wasn’t fighting. She was flowing.

She came to a quiet stop, sword lowered, eyes calm.

“No wasted movement,” she said. “Power comes not from muscle, but intention. Control.”

Ren couldn’t look away.

“No sword. No armor,” she said as she stopped. “Just your body. That’s the first thing that keeps you alive.”

Ren lowered the iron sword. “I… want to learn that. How to move like that.”

A soft smile appeared on her face. “Then we’ll start tomorrow, at dawn. Come in lighter clothes—no armor yet. Just your feet, your breath, and your will.”

He nodded, tightening the sky-blue scarf around his neck. “Thank you.”

“You won’t thank me when your legs are screaming,” she said kindly. “But when they keep you alive, you will.”

In that moment, Ren realized something: she wasn’t training killers. She was training survivors. And survival began at the feet.

In the next day, the training yard was quiet in the gray sky before dawn. A faint mist curled across the stone floor, and the air bit cold against Ren’s cheeks.

He arrived early—nervous, unsure—and stood waiting, the sky-blue scarf around his neck stirring gently in the breeze.

Kawasumi Mai stepped into the yard moments later. Her presence was calm, almost serene, as though she belonged to this hour between night and day.

“You’re early,” she said with a soft smile.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ren admitted.

“That’s good,” she said. “Your body’s already listening. Let’s begin.”

She gestured to the center of the training court.

“Today,” she said, “you won’t need a sword. Just your body—and patience.”

Ren stepped forward. Mai joined him and lowered into a stance. Her knees bent slightly, feet shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands resting at her sides.

“This,” she began, “is your neutral stance. It’s your home base. Every move begins and ends here. Feet planted—but never stiff. Think of roots—firm, but flexible in the wind.”

Ren copied her posture. She adjusted his back gently, tapped the inside of his foot to correct the angle.

“Good,” she said. “Now: shifting weight. Feel your center—not in your chest, not in your shoulders—in your hips. Gently rock forward… and back… from left… to right.”

They moved in silence, only the sound of breath and shifting cloth.

“Most people carry their weight in panic—in their arms or eyes,” she said. “But you? You’ll carry yours in your feet. The ground is your ally.”

Ren nodded, focusing. He stumbled once, overcompensated, and almost tripped.

Mai caught his arm—not scolding, just steady.

“Again,” she said kindly. “You’re learning.”

An hour passed. Then two. The sun climbed, but they stayed in the basics.

She introduced the sidestep—a light glide of the foot, leading with the toe, pushing gently from the opposite leg.

“The sidestep isn’t about speed,” she said. “It’s about direction. About removal from danger without leaving the fight.”

She demonstrated again. Her body flowed—no excess motion, no bounce. A whisper of movement, and she was suddenly at Ren’s flank.

He tried. Stumbled. Tried again.

“Better,” she said. “Now pivot.”

She turned in place, one foot grounded, the other rotating around it like the spoke of a wheel.

“A pivot changes your angle without retreat. Use it to control where your enemy stands… and where they fall.”

Ren followed her lead—slowly, clumsily, sweat starting to drip despite the cool air.

Hours passed. His legs burned. His calves trembled. But he kept moving, because Mai kept encouraging.

“You’re not here to be fast,” she reminded. “You’re here to be ready.”

When at last he collapsed to one knee, gasping, Mai knelt beside him.

“You did well,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll learn stance shifting. Today, let your legs remember.”

Ren looked up at her, the scarf at his neck damp from sweat.

“Thank you,” he managed.

Mai offered him water, then helped him stand.

“I teach you not to kill,” she said quietly. “But to stay standing when others fall. That… is the heart of survival.”

The next morning, Ren returned to the training yard. His legs still ached from yesterday’s lesson, but the burn reminded him he was changing—moving forward.

Kawasumi Mai was already there, stretching calmly in the quiet, her long hair tied back, her breath visible in the morning chill.

“You came back,” she said, a touch of warmth in her voice.

“I said I would,” Ren replied, adjusting the sky-blue scarf at his neck.

“Good,” she said, rising. “Then today, we learn how to flow between moments. Welcome to stance shifting.”

She stepped into her neutral stance once again, grounding herself. Then, slowly and precisely, she moved.

One step forward—right foot gliding ahead, her center of gravity adjusting seamlessly. Then back. Then left. Then a swift diagonal slide.

She wasn’t just walking. She was gliding through invisible doors, never breaking form.

“Stance shifting,” she said, “is the art of never staying still, even when you look still.”

She turned to him.

“Most warriors wait for the strike. You? You will always be one step before.”

Mai motioned for Ren to mimic her.

“Begin in neutral. Shift forward—don’t lunge. Your weight moves with the step, not after.”

Ren took a cautious step. Too much weight on his front foot—he nearly tipped.

Mai caught him gently by the shoulder.

“Ease into the ground, not onto it. You’re not crashing. You’re gliding.”

They practiced forward and backward shifting, side-to-side, then diagonal. She showed him how to slide from a wide stance to a narrow one, how to lower his center quickly to duck under imagined strikes, then rise into a balanced position.

“You must always be ready to act. Every stance is both a wall… and a door.”

She demonstrated again—a living rhythm of balance and movement. From sidestep to pivot to sudden shift, she transitioned like wind skimming water. Her blade remained sheathed at her side, but her body alone painted the image of a master.

“You won’t carry a sword,” she said, pausing. “So your stance becomes your weapon.”

She stepped behind him, guiding his arms gently, adjusting the angle of his knee.

“Lower,” she said. “Now shift left. Stay grounded. Don’t bounce—glide.”

They moved like this for over an hour. Ren began to feel something shift—not just in his legs, but in his awareness. The ground became familiar. His weight, once wild and misplaced, started to follow his will.

“Good,” Mai said. “Now—combine.”

She ran through a short sequence: sidestep, pivot, forward shift, quick drop, backward slide.

Ren followed, step by step.

He stumbled. Paused. Tried again.

Mai watched silently.

On the third attempt, he completed the sequence.

She nodded, then smiled.

“Your feet are learning,” she said. “Soon, your instincts will follow.”

Ren wiped sweat from his brow, panting.

“And when that happens?”

“You’ll walk through a battlefield,” she said, “and no blade will find you.”

The training yard has changed after the passing day with the sharp whistle of wind, the hiss of steel cutting air, and the pounding of Ren’s heartbeat. Kawasumi Mai stood a few paces ahead, one hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed sword.

“Today,” she said, “we test your feet. Not your fists. Not your strength. Just this—” she tapped the ground with her toe, “—and your mind.”

Ren gave a tense nod, trying to control his breathing.

Mai slid into motion—a sidestep so smooth it barely kicked up dust, followed by a forward pivot, and then—a feint to the right.

Ren flinched. He caught himself and shifted his stance, remembering her voice:

"Glide, don’t stumble."

She came again—faster this time. Her movements were fluid, but her presence felt like a crashing wave. She didn’t draw her sword, but every strike she simulated with her body told a story of death narrowly avoided.

Ren sidestepped, keeping his stance low and grounded. He shifted left, avoiding the arc of her leg sweep. When she pivoted around him, he spun to face her, breath ragged but controlled.

Mai raised a hand, pausing the spar.

“You're not reacting like prey anymore,” she said. “You're choosing your ground.”

She walked slowly around him, eyes sharp but encouraging.

“Let’s push further.”

She struck again—quick sidestep, then a fake shoulder check, immediately followed by a low sweeping kick. Ren pivoted with a twist of his heel, narrowly dodging it, then flowed backward using stance shifting to regain distance.

She advanced. He angled sideways, his body lighter now, more responsive.

His breath burned. Muscles screamed.

But his feet moved without panic.

Mai spun mid-advance, reversed her direction with a flawless pivot, and stopped the tip of her sword just inches from Ren’s chest—not drawn, just pointed by instinct.

She held it there. Not a threat, but a statement.

“You lasted longer than yesterday,” she said, stepping back.

Ren fell to one knee, gasping.

“I couldn’t touch you.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” she said gently. “You were supposed to survive. And you did.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide with exhaustion—and something else. Respect. Inspiration.

Mai crouched beside him.

“Your footwork is your freedom,” she said. “You can’t stop war, Ren. But you can learn to walk through it without losing yourself.”

She stood.

“Come back tomorrow. We’ll begin shifting during pressure. Real combat simulation.”

Ren nodded, the scarf at his neck soaked with sweat, but still tied firm.

In the following day, the courtyard had grown quieter, the afternoon sun spilling gold over worn tiles and stone. Ren stood once more across from Kawasumi Mai, breath calm, legs tense—not from fear, but preparation.

Mai tapped the toe of her sandal on the dirt.

“Today,” she said, “we learn the pulse of movement. Shifting your stance isn't just stepping around. It's about where your weight rests—and how fast you can let it go.”

She took a wide stance, knees slightly bent.

“Watch my feet.”

Ren focused as she began slowly.

She raised her heel, shifted her balance onto her back foot, then smoothly transferred it forward without lifting her toes. Her center of gravity flowed, allowing her to move in any direction without warning.

“Your stance is your breath,” she said. “Hold it too long, and you're stiff. Change it too quickly, and you're off-balance. The enemy will feel it.”

She demonstrated again—stance, weight shift, pivot, sidestep, all in a seamless flow.

Then she nodded at him.

“Now your turn. Start with a neutral stance. Center low. Shift forward, then diagonally. Don’t lift—slide.”

Ren mimicked her motion. His back foot adjusted, and he eased weight into the front leg. He tried to slide left—too fast. His heel lifted, wobbling him.

Mai stepped in, gently placing her hand at his lower back.

“Bend more here. Feel the floor through your spine. It will hold you.”

Ren adjusted. He breathed slower. Again—center, shift, step, slide.

Better.

She circled him like a hawk, eyes studying every movement.

“Good. Now do it while reacting.”

Suddenly, she lunged—not with her sword, but with a burst of speed. Ren instinctively shifted weight to his rear foot, pivoted, and angled his stance sideways. She passed by him cleanly.

“Excellent,” she said.

She came again, this time from an angle. Ren failed to shift in time—she tapped his shoulder.

“You froze. That’s panic. Trust your stance. You can flow.”

They repeated it over and over. Every motion stripped away hesitation. Ren’s feet adjusted faster. His weight moved smoother. He stopped overthinking. Each step became like a dance—one he was starting to learn.

After an hour, they stopped.

Ren stood with sweat dripping into the scarf at his neck. His legs trembled, but his feet no longer hesitated.

Mai gave a small smile. “You're beginning to understand,” she said.

“Understand what?” Ren asked between breaths.

“That the floor is your ally. Every time your foot meets it with intention, you stay alive.”

She stepped back, arms folded.

“Tomorrow, we blend stance shifting with angle breaking. If you can control your angle, you can control the fight—even without a blade.”

Ren nodded.

No sword. No killing.

But movement—precise, practiced movement—could be his weapon.

The Day had passed, and by the time the sun began to dip behind the castle walls, the courtyard had taken on a dim glow. Ren’s calves burned from repetition, but his mind stayed sharp. He stood facing Kawasumi Mai, ready.

She stepped into the light, eyes calm, voice steady.

“Today,” she began, “you’ll learn how to break angles.”

Ren tilted his head. “Break… angles?”

Mai nodded. “A direct path is always dangerous. If someone comes at you head-on, you don’t stop them. You change the angle. Let them pass, then reposition. Like turning the tide of a river.”

She moved, drawing a line in the dirt with her sandal—a straight line.

“This is where the enemy wants you.” She tapped the line. “Now watch.”

She suddenly lunged forward at a diagonal, pivoted off her front foot, and slid to Ren’s left, circling behind his imagined attack. Her cloak flowed as if caught in a gust. She ended beside him, back straight, sword tip pointed toward his unguarded side.

Ren blinked. “I didn’t even see when you moved.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Breaking the angle takes your body off their axis—you become invisible for a second. That’s all it takes.”

She stepped back.

“Now come at me. Don’t hold back.”

Ren rushed forward with the iron training sword. Straight. Predictable.

Mai waited until the last moment, then sidestepped and pivoted, her feet barely whispering against the dirt. In one smooth glide, she moved behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Dead.”

Ren spun around, breathing hard.

“Again,” she said.

He charged—this time faking right.

She adjusted with a half-step.

He tried to reverse mid-motion, shifted his weight, but stumbled.

She didn’t strike. She waited.

“Too much in your heels,” she said. “You can’t break the angle unless your center is free. Lighten your frame.”

They repeated it again. And again. Pivot. Slide. Recenter. She taught him how to open his stance, spot blind spots, and slip into angles where swords couldn't follow.

Eventually, Ren found it—a moment where he moved as Mai did. She came in, and he didn’t meet her head-on. He stepped just aside, angled his stance, and watched her miss him by a breath.

Mai exhaled and smiled.

“You’re starting to disappear,” she said.

Ren grinned, heart pounding.

Not from fear.

From clarity.

Ren stood at the center of the courtyard, sweat dripping from his brow, heart steady. Around him, four wooden dummies had been rigged with swinging arms—each triggered by a step or shift in weight.

Mai stood by the edge, arms crossed, watching.

“In war, you won’t face one enemy at a time,” she said. “You’ll be surrounded. Panic will kill you faster than steel.”

She stepped beside the first dummy and gave it a push. The arm swept in a fast arc.

“Your footwork must anticipate more than one direction. Evasion isn’t just movement—it’s timing. Step too early, and they adjust. Step too late, and you bleed.”

Ren nodded, gaze fixed on the contraption.

Mai approached him, gently adjusted his stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees light, heel slightly raised.

“Center low. Breathe. Listen.”

She stepped back. “Begin.”

Ren inhaled—and moved.

The first arm swung from the left. He sidestepped, shoulder dipping beneath the arc.

A click—then the second dummy spun a heavy wooden rod toward his right flank. He pivoted sharply, letting it rush past his ribs as he turned to face the third.

But the third came faster. He was off-balance.

Mai called out, “Weight too far forward! Let it flow!”

Ren tried to shift back, barely managing a quick shuffle-step as the rod scraped his sleeve.

Fourth swing—he dropped low, knees coiled, letting it pass over his head.

Then stillness.

Mai clapped once, walking toward him.

“You survived,” she said. “Rough, but alive.”

Ren breathed hard, rubbing his shoulder.

“You moved well,” she added, “but too reactive. Try again. This time—predict. Anticipate where each attack wants to go, and be somewhere else before it gets there.”

She walked around him, resetting the dummies.

“Picture yourself as wind in a battlefield of blades. Never where the strikes fall.”

Ren lowered his stance again, now more aware of his center. As the mechanisms clicked into place, his eyes didn’t fixate on a single one. He widened his awareness.

When the arms swung again, he wasn’t just dodging. He was flowing, angling, letting momentum carry him from one evasion into the next.

By the end, he stood untouched.

Mai smiled faintly. “That’s it. You’re learning how to survive a storm.”

Ren wiped the sweat from his brow, chest rising.

He wasn’t fighting.

He was dancing.

The training yard now became quiet except for the scrape of wooden swords and soft thuds on the earth. Around Ren, three other trainees formed a loose semicircle, each armed and ready.

Kawasumi Mai stood nearby, her gaze sharp but patient.

“Enemies rarely come one at a time,” Mai said. “When you’re surrounded, you must move, not fight. Your weapon is your body — your feet, your mind, your breath.”

Ren nodded, muscles tense but eager.

“Remember your footwork,” she continued. “Sidestep, pivot, angle away. Always create space.”

Mai stepped forward and tapped her iron sword on the ground.

“Begin.”

The trainees advanced. The first moved in with a swift strike to Ren’s left.

Ren sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the blade sliced past.

Before he could counter, another came from the right. Ren pivoted sharply, avoiding the blow, and quickly shifted his weight to face the third attacker charging from the front.

His feet moved almost instinctively — a quick sidestep, a step back, then a spin away as the fourth swung from behind.

He felt his heart race, but his breath stayed steady.

Mai called out, “Good. Now, remember: don’t just evade. Use their momentum.”

Ren squared his shoulders, eyes flicking between his opponents. One lunged aggressively.

Instead of dodging fully, Ren guided the attacker’s arm with a light touch, using the man’s own momentum to send him stumbling past.

The others hesitated.

Ren pressed forward, stepping carefully but swiftly, maintaining distance.

He felt the ground beneath his feet, heard the faint shuffle of his enemies.

Mai smiled approvingly. “You’re learning to flow between attacks, not just away from them.”

The trainees broke formation, breathing heavily.

Mai approached Ren, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Survival isn’t about strength alone,” she said softly. “It’s about control — control of your body, your space, your mind.”

Ren nodded, chest rising and falling, feeling more ready than ever.

The sun dipped low as the training ground quieter. Most recruits had retired for the evening, but Ren lingered under the open pavilion, panting after another round of footwork drills. His legs burned, soaked in sweat, but his eyes stayed focused on Kawasumi Mai, who stood across from him in the soft light.

She slid her blade back into its sheath and looked over at him.

“You’ve improved,” she said gently, walking toward him with quiet, deliberate steps. “Your stance is more rooted. You’re beginning to move like water—shifting, flowing.”

Ren caught his breath, then blurted the question that had been weighing on him.

“Mai-sensei… how do you evade arrows?”

She stopped beside him, her expression thoughtful. “Evading arrows,” she echoed, then looked out across the field. “You’re thinking ahead. Good.”

He nodded. “They’re fast, and from what I’ve seen… once released, there’s barely any time. I don’t want to rely on luck.”

Mai stepped closer, raising a hand. “Come,” she said. “I’ll show you what can — and can’t — be done.”

She led him to the center of the clearing and gestured for him to stand still. Then she circled him slowly.

“First, understand this — an arrow is faster than a blade, but not smarter than you. Evading it requires anticipation, not reaction. You must read the archer, not the arrow.”

She stopped behind him. “Your survival depends on your stance and your center of gravity. A rigid stance will kill you.”

Suddenly, she barked, “Now — pivot!”

Ren instinctively shifted his weight to the ball of his foot and pivoted to his left — just in time to see Mai extend her hand sharply in a motion mimicking an arrow shot.

“Again!” she snapped.

They repeated the motion again and again. She would shout — and Ren had to pivot, sidestep, duck, or shift stance in one smooth motion. She adjusted his foot placement, reminded him to stay low, to never cross his feet, to glide rather than stomp.

After the fifth round, she paused, breathing lightly. “Most archers aim for where you're standing — not where you’re going. Keep moving. Shift the moment they draw. That’s your chance.”

Ren, breathless but focused, looked at her. “So… dodging an arrow is possible?”

She gave him a small smile. “Dodging one? Yes — if you’re lucky and prepared. Dodging a volley? Pray you have cover… or better footwork than everyone else.”

Ren let out a short laugh, but it faded quickly. He looked at the scarf around his neck and tightened his grip on it.

“I’ll survive,” he said quietly.

Mai nodded. “You will. Keep training like this… and arrows will have to chase you — and miss.”

The moon had risen above the training yard. Ren remained behind once again, too restless to sleep, still thinking about the lessons he’d just absorbed.

As Mai wiped down her blade nearby, Ren approached, hesitant but determined.

“Mai-sensei,” he called softly.

She turned, her expression warm despite her fatigue. “Still not satisfied?”

Ren scratched his neck. “I was thinking… if I can dodge arrows… what about crossbow bolts? Are they the same?”

Mai’s eyes sharpened slightly. She stepped toward him, folding her arms thoughtfully.

“Good question,” she said. “No, they’re not the same.”

She crouched, motioning for him to sit as well. “Crossbows fire faster and flatter. Less arc. Less warning. The danger is in their suddenness.”

Ren frowned. “So they’re harder to dodge?”

“They are,” she nodded. “The time between release and impact is shorter, and they often come at chest level. That means pivoting or sidestepping might not be enough. You’d need to drop low, roll, or already be in motion before the bolt is loosed.”

Ren’s brow furrowed. “So the trick is… move first?”

She smiled. “Exactly. With a crossbow, you don’t wait. You read the shooter’s posture—see when they aim. Then you’re already moving.”

She stood up again and drew a line in the dirt with her foot. “Now for volleys.”

Ren followed her eyes as she looked toward the distant treeline. “Arrows in volleys fall from above. They rain down, not at a straight line.”

She made a high arc with her hand.

“You don’t dodge a volley by being fast. You dodge it by being elsewhere.”

Ren blinked. “Elsewhere?”

“You need to be where the volley isn’t falling. Which means—”

“Anticipate the aim?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Volleys target large clusters—formations. If you’re scattered, or if you move just before the release, you can slip through.”

She demonstrated a quick series of movements—sidestep, duck, roll forward, then pivot up on one knee. Her footwork was seamless, always balanced, always fluid.

“But most importantly,” she added, rising, “use cover. Trees, walls, shields. Even a ruined wagon is better than empty air.”

Ren absorbed every word.

“Arrow... crossbow... volley,” he muttered, committing the lessons to memory. “Move early, move smart. Stay light.”

Mai smiled at him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’re asking the right questions, Ren. That’s how warriors survive.”

He looked down at the scarf around his neck, then back at her, resolve settling behind his eyes.

“I won’t waste the life they gave me.”

She didn’t say anything, only nodded once, firmly—then turned and walked off into the quiet night, leaving Ren standing in the moonlight, already thinking of how to train tomorrow.

Ren wiped the sweat from his brow, his sky-blue scarf damp and clinging lightly to his neck. It still carried the scent of ash and old memories, a silent promise he had yet to fulfill.

“Rest for the day, Karibata,” Kawasumi Mai said gently. Her voice had lost its sharp command and now carried a quiet warmth. “You’ve earned it.”

Ren bowed slightly, still catching his breath. “Thank you, Kawasumi Sensei.”

She gave a small smile — rare, but not cold. “You’re growing stronger, not just in body. Hold on to that clarity.”

Ren made his way out of the training grounds, feet aching, shoulders sore, but his mind alive. Each lesson left a mark, not only on his muscles but on his sense of purpose. He hadn’t joined to become a killer. Shelter and income were the reasons — but survival had become something deeper. A fight to stay human in a world turning colder by the day.

He returned to his assigned quarters — a shared barracks room with rows of simple bedding and folded blankets. The space was quiet, a few snores drifting from fellow recruits already asleep. Ren eased down onto his mat, staring at the wooden ceiling above.

His body longed for rest, but his thoughts wandered. Kobayashi’s words. Kawasumi’s teachings. The ever-present tension of a nation at war.

He reached up and touched his scarf. His mother’s scarf. The fabric was soft against his fingertips, even now.

With that, Ren closed his eyes and let exhaustion take him — just as the sound of distant boots echoed faintly in the halls outside.

Tomorrow, a new chapter would begin.

The morning bell rang before dawn, sharp and merciless.

Ren awoke with a jolt, his body aching from yesterday’s drills. Around him, fellow recruits scrambled to dress, pack, and fall in line. Orders were being barked in the corridors — today was not a routine morning.

He quickly fastened his tunic and tied his mother’s scarf around his neck. It fluttered briefly as he moved, a quiet contrast to the marching boots and clanging gear.

In the courtyard, the recruits were lined up by platoon. Lieutenant General Futaba Watari stood on the elevated steps, hands behind his back, eyes sharp as steel.

“You’re not soldiers yet,” he declared. “But starting today, you will begin to understand what it means to become one.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

“You’ve been selected for advanced field training. You will be stationed at an abandoned castle beyond the hills — isolated, stripped of comfort, and surrounded by wilderness. You will learn to function under pressure, defend unfamiliar ground, and adapt to the unexpected.”

Whispers rippled through the line. An abandoned castle?

“Your commanding officer there will be Lieutenant General Harada Kurosuke,” Watari continued. “You will follow his orders without question. Anyone who fails to meet the standard will be sent home.”

A row of transport wagons creaked into the courtyard, each draped in tarps and reinforced with steel lining.

Ren swallowed hard. This was it — no longer drills in the safety of Brickvia. This would be real.

Colonel Koizumi Kotaro passed through the lines, checking the roster. When he reached Ren, he gave a small nod.

“Stay sharp out there.”

Ren nodded back.

As he climbed into the wagon, scarf tucked beneath his collar, he glanced back once at the castle walls of Brickvia. Solid. Safe.

What waited ahead was a different kind of challenge — one that would test not just his skills, but his resolve.

The wheels groaned, the horses neighed, and the convoy began to move.

And so, the road to the abandoned castle began.