From the commander's words alone, James understood the true weight of the decision he had made.
He was being cornered—deliberately.
The restriction was subtle, almost reasonable on the surface, yet brutal in practice. By forcing him to dedicate half of his time to studying rune scriptures, the commander was effectively limiting his growth in other paths.
And without an instructor, studying alone was not enough. Knowledge without practice was fragile, and practice without guidance invited countless failures.
Trial and error, James thought bitterly. That will cost time. And mistakes.
He exhaled quietly.
How could it ever be easy?
Books demanded patience. Runes demanded precision. And without someone to correct him, every misstep would carve itself into his body and soul. Still, the path was not without its advantages.
Merit.
The word echoed in his mind.
Back on Earth, James had been a voracious reader—especially of fantasy novels and cultivation stories. Systems differed, worlds varied, but one truth remained consistent: merit-based economies were always brutal.
If his intuition was correct, merit within this camp would be scarce, tightly controlled, and painfully difficult to earn. Every item, every scroll, every opportunity would come at a cost far greater than coin.
And if books are locked behind merit…
A bold idea began to form.
If he could leverage his intellect—if he could extract more value from knowledge than others—then studying was not a weakness. It was an investment.
A dangerous one, but potentially decisive.
James lifted his head and met the commander's gaze.
"I agree," he said firmly.
The commander nodded, then added coldly, "I will give you one final chance to reconsider."
James stiffened.
"Before we reach the camp, I will ask you again. That will be your last opportunity to choose another path."
The implication was clear.
Once they arrived, there would be no turning back.
James understood now why so many mounts were present. This field was not the true training ground of the Hunter Apprentice Program—it was merely the starting point.
After the earlier commotion, the commander rose to his feet and regrouped everyone with a sharp command. The blood lion stirred beside him, its massive form radiating dominance.
"Listen well," the commander said. "From this moment onward, your training begins."
The air grew tense.
"You will not ride the mounts."
A murmur rippled through the group.
"You will run."
The murmurs died instantly.
"The distance to the camp is two hundred kilometers," the commander continued calmly.
"The mounts will travel ahead and establish camp. They will wait for you there."
James's heart sank.
"At this same time tomorrow, the mounts will move again. If you are not present at the finish line, you will be left behind."
Two hundred kilometers.
James did the calculation instinctively.
On Earth, a trained teenage athlete could maintain an average speed of sixteen kilometers per hour under ideal conditions.
Even then, it would take over twelve hours of nonstop running.
That's without terrain. Without injuries. Without monsters.
His mouth went dry.
Am I even going to survive this?
"And one more thing," the commander added casually.
James felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"James. Mike."
Both of them stepped forward instinctively.
"In addition to running," the commander said, "you will carry weight."
James's heart sank further.
"For the crime of waking me while I slept," the commander continued, tapping his chin as if considering, "let me think…"
He scanned the surroundings, then his eyes fell upon a massive boulder.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.
"James—fifty kilograms. Mike—one hundred fifty."
"What?" Mike blurted out.
The commander strode toward the boulder, unsheathing his sword. With terrifying ease, he sliced the stone cleanly in half—one large section, one small. The blade never faltered.
Then, with precise movements born from decades of mastery, he carved the stone into crude yet functional armor pieces.
Minutes later, the stone had been transformed.
He weighed them, adjusted them, then called James and Mike forward.
"Put them on," the commander ordered.
James clenched his jaw and obeyed.
The weight crashed down on him like a mountain.
Mike staggered as the heavier armor was strapped onto him, his face paling instantly.
"And tomorrow," the commander said flatly, "I want to see you both still wearing them."
"Commander," Mike protested, his voice tight with anger, "James is the only one who offended you."
The commander laughed.
"Hahaha. Boy, if you don't like it, you may back down."
His eyes gleamed dangerously.
"I will personally send you home."
Mike froze.
Pride warred with reason.
Slowly, painfully, he swallowed his anger and nodded.
James said nothing. He had already accepted his fate.
As they turned to leave, the commander spoke once more.
"Remember this, youngster."
James stopped.
"If you do not wish to obey another's command," the commander said quietly, "then gain the strength to defy the one giving it."
His voice hardened.
"This is your first lesson in hell training."
The commander turned his back.
"Strength speaks louder than words."
For a brief moment, as the commander walked away, James thought he saw his lips move—forming silent words without sound.
He couldn't read them.
Deep within the forest, far from the formation, a man watched silently.
His presence was concealed, his breathing shallow, his aura suppressed to nothing.
Then—
A whisper brushed against his ear, carried not by wind, but by something older.
"Redeem yourself."
The man stiffened.
"Watch over those two," the voice continued softly. "Ensure their survival. Do not reveal yourself."
A pause.
"Intervene only at the final moment."
The man closed his eyes.
"Yes," he whispered.
And from the shadows, he began to follow.