"Virgo, Dahlia, Omen," the Colonel's voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade. "This is Lieutenant Kristen. He oversees the battalion of special-ranked battle slaves. Any questions you have for me must be reported to him." She gave them no time to respond, no chance for questions. She turned on her heel and left, the door slamming shut behind her, leaving the three of them alone with Kristen.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Kristen immediately headed to his seat and glared at the trio from there. His good eye scanned them, lingering on each face with a mixture of disinterest and scrutiny. When his gaze finally landed on Omen, it was as though the air in the room shifted, thickening with a kind of invisible weight.
"So, you're the recruits," Kristen said, his voice rough, as though each word scraped against his throat. He stepped closer, his scarred face a mask of cruel indifference. "Special-ranked slaves… You've already been through hell, but here," he gestured to the room around them, "here is where you'll learn what real hell is."
Omen scoffed inwardly 'What sort of orientation is this? I reckon Haelkrie would have done this better
Kristen's lip curled into a humorless smirk as he studied them. "You will fight. You will bleed. And if you're lucky, you won't die." His voice was sharp, unyielding. "The arena outside is for training but make no mistake—every fight you have here will be as real as any battlefield. If you can't handle that, you're better off dead."
"You," Kristen's good eye locked onto Omen, piercing him with a cold intensity. "I've heard about you. Black aura. Taken from the Obsidian border. Interesting. But your past won't save you here if you can't command it. Lose control, and it'll be the end of you. Understand?"
Omen nodded slowly, inwardly amused. What on earth is this bastard even saying? Kristen turned his attention to Virgo and Dahlia. "You two are seasoned, I can tell. But that doesn't mean anything here."
"Your real training starts tomorrow. Get some rest tonight—if you can. War waits for no one." His tone was full of indifference as he dismissed them with a flip of his fingers, as if they were livestock getting slaughtered.
'War waits for no one. Does this bastard think war is some sort of prize or opportunity? Well he is a lieutenant and that couldn't be pretty high if he intends to use this period to grapple for power', he scoffed as he stared ahead 'Typical human greed, even while people are dying and others are getting enslaved here this bastard lies plotting his steps to power.'
Kristen's words hung heavy in the air to the others though as the door creaked open, revealing the towering figure of Captain Don. He stepped into the room, casting an imposing shadow that seemed to swallow everything in its path. Seven feet tall, his bulging muscles strained against the confines of his leather armor, as though the very fabric struggled to contain the sheer force of the man. His face, though rugged and scarred, carried an unsettling calm, like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Omen's eyes flickered to Virgo and Dahlia, gauging their reactions. Dahlia's jaw tightened, her hand twitching as if instinctively reaching for a weapon she didn't have. Virgo, ever composed, stood perfectly still, her eyes betraying nothing, it was as if she knew him well enough not to feel anything.
Don's gaze swept over them, lingering on each one before returning to Kristen. "You want them tested?" His voice was a low rumble as if the very ground beneath them trembled when he spoke.
Kristen nodded, leaning back against his desk, arms folded across his chest with a look of mild amusement. "Yes, Captain Don. I need to know if they're worth the trouble. Arthur may see potential in them, but potential doesn't mean shit if they can't hold their own in battle."
Don grunted in response, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the trio. "You heard him," he said, his voice laced with quiet authority. "Prove your worth, or you'll be no better than the rest of the cattle we cycle through here."
He turned on his heel and gestured for them to follow, his massive form filling the doorway as he led them out of the office and down the winding corridors of the enclosed arena. Omen could see the training grounds through the transparent glass from his high position. There were more battleslaves down there now than before. The building itself was a fortress of stone and iron, designed to keep the slaves in line while molding them into deadly weapons for the king's army. Each floor held a different purpose, some dedicated to training, others to confinement, and some filled with weaponry and armor, all meant to forge recruits into soldiers of war.
"The entire army is organized under the command of five generals, each presiding over different brigades. The Fifth General, who is responsible for your battalion, oversees about three thousand soldiers. Below him are the Colonels, each one responsible for training, disciplining, and ultimately deploying these forces." The huge captain began saying with a stoic expression. 'Now this was how to do an orientation'
"Colonel Haelkrie is tasked with shaping raw recruits into warriors, refining their abilities before passing them on to the Second Colonel for more advanced training. This tiered system ensured that by the time a slave is fully trained and ready for battle, they are sharpened to a lethal point."
As Don explained he turned to the silent trio walking behind him before continuing, "Each battalion is divided into five distinct grades based on combat proficiency—Special Grade, High Grade, Medium High Grade, Medium Low Grade, and Low Grade. You and your companions are being placed into the Special Grade Battalion, that alone shows how highly valued you are but that doesn't mean you're the best."
Omen listened calmly; no knowledge was a waste afterall. They were joining a platoon of less than forty battle-hardened special-grade slaves, all with similar outstanding strength and abilities. These weren't ordinary recruits; these were slaves who had already survived brutal trials, and had proven their ability to kill or be killed.
They finally stopped at a large metal door as the huge captain effortlessly pushed it open "Welcome to your new home."
Omen scanned the room. The room had a sterile feel to it, the rows of beds lined with military precision, yet it felt eerily empty in its stillness. The beds were neatly made but yet nothing felt right here.
Dahlia moved cautiously, her feline ears twitched, constantly on alert. Her eyes lingered on the right side, where feminine underwear hung in plain view. It seemed careless, but perhaps that was the point—this wasn't a place where modesty mattered.
"This place is awful" Dahlia scoffed as she caught sight of one of the underwear with bloodstain.
"Well this awful place is where you'll be for the next three months, so get a space and prepare", Don said with mild anger as he turned to close the huge metal doors behind him.
"What's up with him" she scoffed in reply, but the captain was already gone. Virgo looked at her and shook her head silently, then she turned to the only boy in their group.
Omen, however, paid them no attention as he was taking in as much as possible, for some reason this place reminded him of the entity's artificial dimension. The left side, where the men slept, was far more utilitarian, They soon went their separate ways and surveyed the room.
"It's better than I expected," Virgo said, her voice slightly muffled as she rummaged through an empty wardrobe. Omen moved towards his own empty bed space, opening the wardrobe with a quiet click.
"What were you expecting?", Omen questioned absentmindedly. The hinges groaned, the metal door creaking slightly as it swung open to reveal the neatly packaged clothes inside. They were still wrapped, untouched by the wear and tear of combat or daily use. He picked up one of the green uniforms, his fingers brushing the stiff fabric, still rigid from being packed away for who knows how long.
"I don't know, at least something more befitting our status…you know bloodied cells, no different than the slave market", Omen heard her say. He unfolded it, noting the markings. Two green uniforms, identical except for the bold black numerals stitched into the material. '3B. 1B. 1C. 1P.' His mind processed the information quickly as he soon interpreted.
' Third brigade under General Arthur. First battalion, led by Lieutenant Kriston. First company, Captain Don's command. Then the first platoon'….
"Don't be fooled by all these Virgo. You've seen the fifth general's qualities firsthand. He isn't as righteous as he seems", Omen turned his mind once more to what he was doing.
…Then there was the number—3111—his designation. Number 37, in stark black lettering and then in a much smaller one S17. He could practically hear the cold, emotionless voice of a staff sergeant calling him by this number, erasing any semblance of his former identity. He caught Dahlia's angry reply to Virgo
"…It wouldn't be a surprise if he trains us to the bone. Afterall our main purpose is basically to commit suicide while defending this useless kingdom against the horde of invaders"
'How fascinating, from what he could piece together both from her response and intonation, it would be safe to assume that Dahlia was one of the captured invaders, she basically knew more about this war than him' his gaze turned to Virgo who was also doing something similar as she arranged her new clothing 'but this one was a princess once, whether it was from the enemy side or the allied side he didn't know'. This wasn't supposed to go this way, his plan was to escape the dimension and then find a way back home and that was still his plan. He had no desire to be ensnared in this mess of war that had nothing to do with him.
Omen sighed, inspecting the second set of green clothing, identical to the first. A spare, likely for when the first was too bloodied or torn to be usable anymore. It wasn't unusual for soldiers to need replacements quickly in this place, where combat was probably a near-daily affair.
The third set of clothing caught his attention. It was simpler, made of plain cotton, a softer material than the rough uniforms. This was meant for rest, for the rare moments they were given a reprieve from their duties.
His hand then lingered over the fourth and final uniform. This one was different—deep red, with his designation number and call number embroidered in gold. The material was finer, more polished. This was the uniform that signified their status as battle slaves under the fifth general, an insignia of servitude they would wear during formal occasions or when they ventured outside the palace.
'Seems like the pawns are arriving', Omen gave himself a knowing smile. The noise gradually swelled as the platoon returned in waves, small groups of four or five soldiers entering the sleeping hall.