A Recruit's First Battle

The recruits formed up as they advanced.

No orders, no command. None of them realized what they were doing. Their feet never stopped, yet their weapons had already shifted into the best positions to repel the enemy.

Their bodies found the most fitting positions among their companions. In groups of three, they formed five columns that supported one another, like five throwing spears driven deep into the sand.

Miko stood in the spear position of the leftmost group, gripping the shaft, the butt braced against the inside of his right foot, the spearhead angled forward.

The angle was even more precise than Captain Karl had demanded in training. The three of them formed a solid triangle, shield and sword in front, long weapon at the side.

Miko suddenly realized something. It had not been like this when they practiced in camp.

Just days ago, Karl had stood in the courtyard roaring at the recruits. "Your spearhead's too low! Move left! You fucking stick close to the shieldman! Don't make me say it twice! The shield is your life! If the shieldman goes down, you're next!"

Back then, his body had been stiff, his mind crammed full of tactical commands. He had to think through every movement before he could react, sluggishly.

He gripped the spear too tightly, his palms sweated, his feet tangled beneath him, and the groups often crashed into one another.

Spears jabbed into the backs of their own men, shieldmen tripped and fell. It was a complete mess.

Karl had stood at the edge of the field, the fresh wound on his face not yet scabbed over, veins bulging from his forehead to his neck.

But now, it was different. He had not even thought about it. His body was already moving.

The spearman beside him, Cole, was a blacksmith's apprentice, with arms thicker than Miko's thighs. During training, he could never remember his position. Tell him left, and he went right. Tell him to fall back, and he charged forward.

Now he stood to Miko's right. Their spearheads formed a crossing angle, matched in height and direction, even the curve of their spear shafts tilted exactly the same way.

Fifteen recruits completed their formation at once, their shields striking the ground in unison.

Ron did not look at the bandits on the beach. The battlefield command interface hovered in the upper-right corner of his vision. The formation panel was lit, but only one icon shone: "Shield-and-Spear Assault Formation," a standard basic formation.

The other icons were gray—wedge formation, circular formation, conical formation—all gray, like a row of unlit lanterns.

"Currently available formation: Shield-and-Spear Assault Formation." He lifted his gaze from the interface and looked again at the backs of the fifteen recruits.

It seemed there had not been enough time. They had only managed to practice the assault formation.

But it was enough.

The bandits across from them had already scattered from around the campfire.

Some crouched behind the sides of the ship, while others knelt on one knee in the sand. The bows and crossbows had been looted from the cabin. Crossbowmen crouched behind overturned barrels, stocks pressed to their shoulders, fingers resting on the triggers.

"Fuck."

The scar-faced man who had been rolling dice snatched up a curved blade from the sand.

"Soldiers," he squeezed out through clenched teeth. "Those are fucking soldiers."

The bald man was already dead, his corpse still sprawled beside the campfire. No one had time to look at him.

"No shit." An old bandit at the rear rested his crossbow on the ship's side, his one eye pressed close to the mechanism. "Who the fuck else would come at us in a formation like that?"

He pulled the trigger. The bolt snapped out with a brief hum that shook the air. It flew over the beach, grazed the heads of one group of recruits, and buried itself in a tree trunk behind them with a dull thud—at least three feet off.

The old bandit cursed, set the crossbow against the ship's side, and lowered his head to reach for his bolt case.

"Too fast!" Scarface gripped his curved blade. "When I served in the Temeria army, I only saw formation coordination this terrifying among the king's guards!"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Who the hell did we piss off? Did some bastard kidnap a noble?!"

No one answered him. Fiona's bowstring rang.

It was not a volley. It was a sniper shot. With a single twang, a bandit crossbowman toppled backward, an arrow driven through the front of his neck and out through the back.

The second twang targeted a bare-chested bandit who was about to draw his bow. The arrow plunged through his open mouth, its fletching still trembling uncontrollably.

At the edge of the bushes, five Fiona champion archers knelt in a line.

The leftmost archer released his bowstring. It snapped back as he drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew, and released—without the slightest pause.

"So we were called in to play babysitter," he said, his lips brushing the fletching and making his voice slightly muffled.

"We never got treatment like this when we were soldiers." The second archer spoke as his hand continued toward his quiver.

"No shit," the Fiona archer on the right replied.

"How could it compare? There are only a few little brats now, and they're supposed to become veterans who train recruits later."

"Conserve them," the third archer said, reaching into his quiver to feel how many arrows remained.

"We won't run out." The leftmost archer rested his hand on the bowstring. "Look at those little brats."

Miko's group was the first to meet the enemy. Three bandits rushed out from behind the campfire, two with short blades and one swinging a hand axe.

The axe struck the shield, jolting the shieldman's body. Its blade sank into the shield face and would not come free. The bandit wielding it yanked backward with all his strength, but the axe was stuck. His chest was completely exposed.

Miko's spear thrust forward with the motion.

The spearhead pierced the leather armor and burst out through the man's back. Thousands of repetitions had carved the movement into his instincts. He twisted his wrist, wrenched the spear free, and withdrew it.

The spearhead brought out a spray of blood, like a brief rain.

Miko's face was deathly pale, but his body did not pause. He withdrew the spear, angled it forward again, and aimed at the next target.

He remembered Karl's words: hit the target, reset immediately, next.

Cole's spear stabbed into another bandit's thigh from the side.

The man screamed and dropped to his knees. The shieldman stepped forward with the motion, thrusting his sword out from the edge of his shield and through the man's throat. He withdrew, and the shield returned to position.

Three bandits, three breaths. All down.

The beach rang with the clash of iron and the screams of spears piercing flesh.

A soldier had been hit by an arrow. Fiona had already cleared out most of the bandit crossbowmen, but this bolt had come from the shadow at the stern, at a tricky angle, driving into the thigh of Pete, a spearman in the far-right group.

The shieldman reacted quickly. He immediately turned his shield sideways, covering the spot where Pete had fallen. But a gap had still opened in the formation. The bandits in that direction saw it and began pressing toward it.

At the edge of the bushes, a Fiona archer released his bowstring. A dull thud sounded from the shadow at the stern, and a crossbowman tumbled out from behind the mast with an arrow lodged in his throat.

The leftmost archer slung his bow across his back, rose, and ran in a crouch across the beach.

He reached the wounded recruit, grabbed the back of his collar with one hand, and dragged him behind the nearest dead tree.

The archer lifted his leg and examined where the arrow had struck. "It won't kill you," he said.

He pulled a dagger from his waist, cut the shaft, separating the tail from the arrowhead. Then he tore a strip from the hem of his padded coat, folded it over, pressed it against the wound, and tightened it with another strip of cloth.

"Hold it." He pressed the recruit's hand onto the cloth. "Don't let go."

The recruit nodded, his lips still trembling.

The archer glanced at him, said nothing more, then turned and ran back to the edge of the bushes. He knelt again, nocked an arrow, and drew his bow.

There were not many bandits left. Their eyes gleamed frighteningly in the firelight, their pupils contracted like a pack of wild dogs cornered against a wall.

Spears closed in from three directions. Their tips gleamed coldly beneath the campfire's light. Then the cabin door opened...