Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 615: Shame and humiliation(2)

"It happened nearly two years ago," Darnel began, setting down his spoon with the slow, deliberate weight of memory. "My village isn’t anywhere near the capital—it’s way out west, near the coast."

Merza blinked, surprised. "That’s quite the distance, isn’t it?"

Darnel nodded with a faint smile. "Took me nearly a week and a half on foot to get here. Blisters, rain, sore legs... the whole heroic journey."

Merza chuckled lightly, but the mood quickly shifted as Darnel’s voice dropped into something graver.

"With the fall of the Isle of Harmway, pirates flooded the Sea like flies to a carcass. The coastal villages—especially the fishing ones like mine—became easy prey. Ships full of hungry men with no lords, no law, and too many swords."

Merza’s fingers tightened slightly around his bowl. He could already sense where the tale was heading.

"It wasn’t the first time we’d seen trouble. A few weeks before, another crew came ashore, burned our fields to the ground. But Her Grace and the Prince—may the gods bless their souls—sent grain to get us through the winter. Without it, we’d have starved."

He paused, his expression darkening.

"But the day I’m talking about... that day was different. It was a clear, sunny morning—peaceful, like any other. Until they came. We tried to run, of course. Grabbed what we could and fled inland. Most of us made it."

Darnel’s eyes lowered to the table.

"But most are not none, my little sister was among those that did not."

Merza’s stomach twisted.

"She’d wandered off on her own that morning. We didn’t have time to search for her, we prayed for the best and went well into the trees. By then, it was too late. She’d been taken."

A long silence hung between them.

"But," Darnel went on, "luck was with us that day. Turns out a detachment of the White Army had been stationed not too far off, probably as a deterrent. As soon as word reached them, they didn’t wait. Horses, mules, boots pounding earth—they rode straight for the village."

He leaned forward slightly, animated despite the weight of his story.

"When they reached us , some of us—me included—grabbed hoes and hatchets, figured we’d help. Brave, maybe. But stupid, too. I learned quickly the difference between courage and recklessness. I swung twice before I found myself flat on my back, blood in my mouth, and a pirate towering over me with a blade."

Merza held his breath.

"And just as he raised it," Darnel continued, "I saw something fly past. A javelin—straight through the bastard’s gut. Dropped him like a stone. I looked up through the haze and saw a man standing there, tall and armored. Black and white , crimson plume on his helm catching the wind."

His voice softened.

"I never saw his face. But that plume burned into my memory. He didn’t say a word, just kept moving, cutting down pirates like stalks of wheat. Later I’d learn his name, Darthio."

"That day, I was saved twice," Darnel said with a tired smile. "Once by that soldier, and once more by the army physician who patched me up before I bled out. And my sister..." his eyes gleamed, "they found her in the hold of one of the ships. She would’ve been sold off like cattle if they’d been a moment later."

Darnel sat back and picked up his spoon again, stirring the soup as if the memory still simmered there. "So yeah," he said, voice quiet now. "That’s why I’m here.As soon as I heard about the White Army recruiting," Darnel said, his eyes distant, "I packed what little I had and came running. Not just for the pay, not just for the honor—though those mattered—but because I wanted to meet the man who saved my life."

He gave a small, crooked smile. "Thought maybe if I made it far enough, they’d let me into his unit. Maybe he’d recognize me. Maybe I’d get the chance to say thank you."

Merza remained silent, not wanting to interrupt.

"When I told my parents," he continued, "they didn’t try to stop me. Probably figured I’d come crawling back with a broken nose and bruised pride." He tapped his still-swollen cheek. "Well... I did get half of that right."

He chuckled softly before shaking his head. "But I’m still here. Still standing. Guess I’m doing better than they’d expected."

Merza shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to say. Darnel’s story was much more meaningful than his , making Merza’s own reasons for joining feel a little smaller and a little less noble by comparison.

"...What a story."

That was all he could manage.

The rest of the meal passed quietly, the early awkwardness replaced by a simple, worn-down silence. Both boys, exhausted from the day’s trials, focused more on sopping up the last of the broth with their bread than on conversation. Their bodies ached, their bruises throbbed, and the heat of the food had already begun to make them drowsy.

Eventually, the order came for the recruits to rise and prepare for rest. Much to their shared surprise, they weren’t being split off into individual quarters or paired in bunks, as some might’ve hoped. Instead, they were herded toward massive, canvas-covered tents that sprawled like low hills across the training grounds.

Inside each one were rows of thin animal rugs, packed side-by-side on the floor like sardines in a jar. Fifty, maybe more, crammed into one space. There was no privacy, no division, and certainly no comfort.

Still, despite the cramped quarters and the chorus of snores, it was a marked improvement from the night before—when half of them weren’t even sure they’d be sleeping under a roof at all, let alone on straw bedding with their bellies full. The food had dulled the ache in their limbs, and the thick, soldier’s ointment smeared over bruises and cuts brought just enough relief to drift off into slumber.

And drift off they did—fast and deep, most for the first time in days.

Of course that peace did not last.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The sharp, metallic bellow of metal against metal shattered the quiet like a thunderclap.

"WAKE UP, MAGGOTS!"

The voice was hoarse and guttural, roughened by years of screaming orders at half-asleep recruits and no doubt breathing too much battlefield smoke. The clang of the cooking pot—viciously abused by a large iron spoon—continued in rhythm as the examiner stormed through the rows of sleeping men like a one-man army.

"OUT OF BED AND AT ATTENTION! I WANT YOU STANDING BEFORE YOUR FEET EVEN WAKE UP! MOVE IT!"

Blankets were thrown aside with frantic hands. Groggy recruits stumbled over each other, crashing into boots, limbs, and stray bedrolls in a flurry of disorientation. Some cursed. Others whimpered. A few blinked into the darkness like newborn calves, unable to tell if this was still part of a dream—or nightmare.

Merza was among them, wide-eyed and dazed, clutching his tunic as he staggered upright. He could hear the rasp of nervous breath, the shuffling of dozens of bodies moving in chaotic unison.

Within minutes, they were all outside. All recruits, barefoot or half-dressed, lined up like livestock under the still-dark sky. The horizon had only the faintest hue of dawn—deep purple bruising the edge of black.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, some swaying slightly from the abrupt awakening, others stiff as boards, hoping to look less like prey.

Scarred men—grizzled, silent, and clearly not fellow recruits—walked slowly between the rows. Inspectors. Veterans. Their gazes were cold and sharp, drifting over the bruises, the cuts, the stances, the posture.

Merza swallowed dryly, eyes darting as one of the veterans passed near. He couldn’t make sense of it—why they’d been pulled from their sleep like criminals in the night, made to stand shivering under the open sky. The idea of another test crept into his mind like a spider.

And like everyone else, the not-knowing was the worst part. The uncertainty coiled in their guts tighter than hunger or fear. Every sound—a boot scraping gravel, a cough, a snort—was amplified. freёnovelkiss-com

The examiner paced slowly in front of them, his boots crunching against the gravel like the ticking of a cruel clock. His voice, when it came, exploded through the ranks like a warhorn.

"YOU WILL STAND HERE—" he barked, turning on his heel and pointing a scarred, weather-beaten finger toward the distant horizon, "—WITHOUT MOVING, WITHOUT TWITCHING, WITHOUT WHINING, UNTIL THE SUN IS COMPLETELY OUT!"

He jabbed the air again for emphasis. Everyone’s heads turned.

It was barely more than a glimmer.

Just the faintest bead of orange was poking above the distant hills, a thin sliver of fire smeared across the horizon like someone had scratched the sky. It was the smallest sunrise Merza had ever seen—more suggestion than sun, something so fragile and slow he might have mistaken it for an illusion if not for the examiner’s conviction.

Then came the silence. Long. Awkward. Cold.

The scarred veterans resumed their slow patrol through the lines, staring down the recruits like wolves eyeing cattle.

Merza clenched his jaw and kept his spine straight. His legs ached, sure, but he could handle that. He could handle the wind cutting across his bare neck, and the bellowing voices, and the fear scratching under his ribs.

But that wasn’t the problem.

After just a few minutes, he felt it creeping in. A pressure—insistent, rising, and utterly inescapable.

He had to pee.

Badly.

He shifted slightly, but the moment he did, one of the veterans snapped his head toward him with a snarl. Merza froze again, beads of sweat blooming on his temple.

And as he did so , he turned around looking at his left and right.And it appeared , clear as the sun that was to rise:

He wasn’t the only one with the urge.

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