Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 612: Earning that place

Merza was no one special.

A farmer by birth , he had spent most of his life with his hands sunk in dirt helping his family , eyes squinting at the sky to guess rain, and his back bent over crops that fed more mouths than his own. His world was small — bounded by wheat fields, livestock, and the daily rituals of rural life. But like wildfire through dry grass, news sometimes came even to his forgotten corner of the realm.

And this time, it came with the promise of glory.

Whispers had begun among neighbors returning from the capital — whispers that soon, the White Army would reopen its gates to new recruits. The the elite spearhead of the Legion of Yarzat, as it was also nicknamed, yet better known as the Black Stripes .

It didn’t take much more for Merza to make up his mind. Nor for his friends. Thirty of them — plowhands, shepherds, sons of bakers — all stirred by the same restless hunger, gathered their few belongings and marched with calloused feet toward the capital.

They were not soldiers yet. But they were dreamers. And in Yarzat, that counted for something.

When they arrived, the sheer scale of what they faced became apparent.

Merza had imagined a crowd — perhaps a few hundred souls with wide shoulders and wild hope. What he saw instead was a sea. Thousands. The entire square outside the capital’s outer barracks teemed with bodies — lean, hungry men from every corner of the realm.

Most men would’ve deflated at the sight. Turned around, maybe, or muttered about odds not worth chasing.

But not him.

Instead, something flared inside him. His chest lifted, not with arrogance, but with resolve. This was the proving ground. Not just a path, but a crucible. If thousands wanted the same future, then he’d earn it the hard way — by being better, by enduring more, by refusing to quit.

He had come not only to lift himself, but to lift his family with him — to carve his name into the annals of a prince’s army.

To wear the black-striped tunic and know that when people spoke of Alpheo’s finest, they would be speaking of him.

Of Merza, farmer no longer — but one of Yarzat’s great.

The first day of trials had come like a calm breeze—misleading in its gentleness.

He, along with thousands of other hopefuls, was herded into the wide, dusty field outside the barracks just as dawn broke, the sky still purple with the kiss of sleep. They stood shoulder to shoulder, stripped to the waist under the barking orders of the examiners. Broad-shouldered veterans with arms like knotted ropes stalked the lines, inspecting them like cattle at market.

Old scars were noted. Weak bones dismissed. Rashes, limps, crooked backs—each was a reason to fail.

Merza held his ground, breathing slow, his chest bare and browned by a farmer’s sun. When the examiner’s sharp eyes landed on him, he only received a grunt and a nod — a pass, however silent.

Then came the run.

Half an hour beneath the midmorning sun, across broken ground, uneven terrain, and coarse stones that bit into naked soles. There was no formation, no encouragement — only the unspoken challenge: keep going, or get out.

Merza found the run almost refreshing. His legs, made strong from trudging fields and hauling sacks heavier than himself, carried him easily. Around him, many of his friends from the village kept pace, grinning between gasps of breath. But just as many others began to falter.

By the fifteen-minute mark, a few had fallen out, clutching their sides or doubled over in dust. At twenty, more dropped. Some coughed violently, others limped, but the most demoralizing were the silent ones — faces white, breath gone, simply giving up with hollow eyes.

He was surprised at how many had fallen at such easy task.

When the run was over, they were marched back to the edge of the field. A final headcount was taken, and those who remained were handed salted meat , flatbread baked hard, and a single skin of water. Then, unexpectedly, the voice of the examiner rose above the murmuring crowd:

"That’s it for the day."

Confusion rippled. Some looked around, waiting for the real trial to begin. But the veterans only pointed to the animal pelts laid out under crude tents nearby.

Merza lay that night with his hands folded behind his head, staring up at a star-splattered sky. The pelt beneath him was coarse and itched, but he didn’t mind. Around him, others snored or muttered in sleep, their bodies spent but their spirits still uncertain.

He should’ve known.

The peace of the first day was nothing but the last breath before a storm.

It was on the second day that the blood would be drawn.

They were herded like cattle, again — this time not into a field for running, but to a patch of open ground east of the city, where the morning mist still clung to the grass like breath on cold steel. The sun had only begun to climb when Merza and the rest saw what waited for them. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

A dozens of perfect circles had been cut into the earth, the grass trimmed low, the borders etched out with chalk or perhaps ash. Each ring no wider than a house’s width — tight enough that there would be no room for dancing or delay.

And then came the voice.

"Listen up, maggots!" one of the examiners bellowed, a mountain of a man with a voice like war drums and arms thick with old scars. The chatter in the lines died instantly.

"You’ll be picked two by two and thrown in the ring. You fight—bare hands. No weapons, no tools,nothing that your mother didn’t give you. Keep it in the circle — but if you roll out, you fight back in or fight where you land. Don’t get in the way of another duel, or I’ll flunk the both of you and make you eat dirt ’til nightfall!"

The examiner continued, voice like gravel under boots. "Rules? There ain’t many. No biting. No eye-poking. And keep your hands off each other’s cocks — unless you’re desperate enough to lose your teeth. Everything else is fair game. Fight ends when you surrender, black out, or when we say it does."

With that, the other examiners moved through the lines, plucking recruits by the shoulders and dragging them forward in pairs.

Merza didn’t need to wait long.

He soon felt the stare of the examiner who then clamped his arm like iron tongs. "You," the examiner said, pointing. "Go there ."

He was shoved forward, his feet carrying him almost on instinct, his heartbeat hammering in his throat. The ring he was brought to was still dewed over in parts, the grass slick beneath his soles. Across from him stood his opponent.

The man looked like he’d been carved from granite.

He was older than Merza by a few years, maybe more. Not as tall, but thicker through the chest and shoulders — a plowman’s bulk, arms covered in old bruises, one eye slightly sunken like it had seen a few fists too many. His knuckles were calloused, and his jaw was already clenched like a war drum waiting to be struck.

The examiner raised his hand, barked, "Begin!"

The moment the examiner’s hand dropped, the air seemed to snap with tension. Merza darted forward first, hoping to catch the older boy off guard, fists raised, shoulders tucked. He threw a jab — it landed, barely — a glancing shot across the cheek. His opponent answered with a solid punch to the ribs that knocked the air from Merza’s lungs, and then another.

They circled each other for just seconds, exchanging quick, vicious blows — fists hammering into shoulders, into arms, scraping against jawlines and cheekbones — until Merza felt himself being seized.

With a grunt, the older boy locked his thick arms around Merza’s middle and heaved.

The world tilted.

Merza crashed down hard onto the dirt, the breath jolting from his lungs. He barely had time to roll before a heavy knee slammed into his side, pinning him. Then came the fists — one, two — crushing down into his face like stones. He saw stars. Blood flooded his nose.

Another punch cracked against his cheek. A third hit him across the forehead. Everything hurt.

He thought he might black out.

But just as the fourth fist came down, he reacted. His hand shot up, fingers closing around the man’s wrist. His other leg shifted — pushed — and he planted his foot against the man’s broad chest.

With a desperate roar, Merza shoved.

The older boy was thrown back, stumbling, falling to a knee. Merza scrambled up, face bloodied, eyes blurry, and rushed him before he could recover.

His fist slammed into the man’s temple, then another into the jaw. He was snarling now, half-blind, half-crazed, striking again and again — until his knuckles burned, until the man tackled him and dragged him down once more.

They hit the earth in a mess of limbs.

Merza landed hard on his back again, the pain sending shockwaves through his spine. The man was on top now, pinning him down. Fists rained down. Dirt clogged Merza’s nose. His vision flickered.

He raised his arms to shield his face but still the fists came, breaking through his guard, crashing into his temple, his cheek, his chin.

He was losing.

A voice screamed in his head — Get up. GET UP!

But his arms were numb, his breath gone. The crowd around the ring blurred. His back arched in pain, and his legs kicked weakly at the ground like a beetle flipped on its shell.

He tried to sit up — and caught another blow to the side of the head that nearly sent him spiraling into blackness.

No!

With the last of his strength, Merza twisted his hips, turning sideways, jamming a knee between them, using the awkward leverage to shove the man off just enough to roll out from under him.

He gasped like a drowning man.

The other boy rose first — steadier, bloodied but still full of fight. Merza forced himself to his knees, then to his feet, swaying like a man too long at sea. His face was slick with blood and sweat. One eye was nearly shut. But he lifted his hands again, broken and trembling.

He wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t yield. Not yet.

Merza could barely stand, his legs shaking beneath him, blood dripping from his nose, stinging his lip where it had split. He stared at his opponent — bruised, panting, but still upright — and forced himself to raise his fists one more time.

That was when the examiner stepped in with a raised hand."I’ve seen enough," he barked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Merza blinked, stunned, his arms still trembling in front of him."No—wait! I can go on!" he rasped, voice hoarse and thick with blood. "I—I , but I can—"

The examiner turned on him with a sneer and a sharp jab of his finger."Shut your mouth. I have spoken"

Merza’s mouth stayed open, breath catching in his throat. The shame hit like another punch to the gut. His heart pounded with dread, with the taste of failure. His body ached from head to toe — all that effort, all that pain — and he had still lost. Lost, and humiliated, dismissed like some weakling who couldn’t take a proper beating.

He dropped his eyes to the ground, despair closing around him like a noose.

Then came the words he hadn’t expected to hear."You both pass."

Merza looked up, stunned.

The examiner was already walking away, grumbling something under his breath, waving the next pair into the ring.

Merza just stood there, swaying slightly, the dust of the field swirling around his knees.

What? he thought, dazed.

He wiped blood from his brow with the back of his hand, still breathing hard. He didn’t understand it. He had lost, hadn’t he? He had been beaten into the dirt.

What had they seen?

The other boy—older, broader, with a swollen eye and a fresh gash on his cheek—turned toward Merza, still catching his breath. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his eyes weren’t filled with victory, just the same stunned disbelief mirrored on Merza’s battered face.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, bloodied and bruised, sharing a silence only two people who had traded punches could understand.

Then the boy gave a tired shrug, like he too wasn’t sure what just happened, and with a faint wince turned and walked off .

He left Merza alone, still in the circle where he’d tasted dirt, blood, and desperation, still not understanding what was going on.

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