The future Ranger Legion had trained at its temporary camp for several days when good news finally arrived: a scattered Rat Swarm, some hundred thousand strong, was approaching.
"Everyone, stop training! Take three days' rations and fifty rounds of ammunition each. Prepare to move out!"
Orders passed down the ranks. Centurions ran through the camp gathering their men, and the place came alive.
Everyone was going except Pike.
He had to stay behind for special training with the elf instructor.
When Pike learned he couldn't go to the front, he protested at once. "Fighting Ratfolk would be training too!"
"You can't even hit a stationary target. How will you hit a Ratfolk running around?" the elf instructor scolded. "Even the most gifted poet's first sound was a cry, not a fine poem."
"Talent is only useful to those with patience."
Faced with her stern words, Pike gave in. "Then how long do I have to practice?"
"Judging by how long young elves in my clan practice on targets, you'll need five years of it—"
"That long!?" Pike cried.
"I said elves."
Before Pike could breathe a sigh of relief, the elf instructor continued, "You're human. It'll take you dozens of times longer."
A vision rose in Pike's mind: fifty years from now, he emerged from the Forest with his training complete. As the oldest soldier still on active duty, he demonstrated his skills before recruits young enough to be his grandchildren. He raised his Musket with trembling hands, paused for several breaths, then pressed his farsighted eye to the sights. His withered finger pulled the trigger, and the massive recoil knocked him onto his backside and dislocated his shoulder—
No...
They'd laugh me to death...
Pike took a deep breath and said solemnly, "Ma'am, I'm part of the Hell... the