The interior of Iron Dragon Fortress felt like an entirely different world.
The clang of hammers striking metal rang out from every direction, dense and relentless like a torrential downpour. As far as the eye could see, nearly every building lining the streets was a blacksmith's workshop.
Bare-chested craftsmen swung heavy hammers beside blazing furnaces, forging swords and armor in the red glow of molten metal. Sparks flew in all directions, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of coal smoke and scorched steel.
There were no civilians.
At least, Raine didn't see a single person who looked like anything other than a soldier.
Everyone here—whether blacksmith, cook, or medic—carried the same indelible aura of gunpowder, vigilance, and bloodshed.
"Go straight to the recruit registration office."
Aaron spoke to the group, his tone as cold as ever.
"If you get lost, no one's going to look for you."
"And I definitely don't have time to haul you out of prison!"
They were led to a relatively isolated area on the eastern side of the fortress.
The buildings here were lower, clustered around a massive dirt training ground.
On the field, hundreds of young people about the same age as Raine were in training.
Formations. Running. Paired combat drills with weapons.
Shouts, curses, labored breathing, and the dull thud of bodies colliding filled the air without pause.
Inside the registration office sat an elderly officer.
Without even lifting his head, he tossed several forms and quill pens toward them.
"Name. Age. Whether you've awakened any abilities. Any combat experience."
He spoke rapidly.
"No nonsense. I won't read it."
Raine quickly filled in his name, eighteen years old, then hesitated briefly at the section labeled Awakened Abilities before finally checking No.
Awakeners capable of controlling Nex weren't particularly rare—roughly one in ten people had the potential.
But those who possessed actual supernatural abilities were entirely different. Only one in a hundred could be considered truly gifted.
Uncle Kyle, who was traveling with them, had awakened a fire ability during an escort mission.
As for Raine himself, being able to control Nex and having a basic means of self-defense already made him more than satisfied.
And now, with the system and a talent like Blood Devourer, the future stretching before him was nothing short of a sea of stars.
Kyle and the others filled out their forms in much the same way.
The officer glanced over them, then reached behind him and took out five thin iron plates along with several neatly folded sets of coarse gray clothing.
"Temporary ID tags and uniforms. Your numbers are already engraved. From now on, that number is your name."
The ID tags were forged from black iron, each etched with a string of numbers.
Raine's read:
Seventh Training Camp – Recruit – 9230
"From this moment on, you are recruits of the Seventh Training Camp of Iron Dragon Fortress."
The officer finally raised his eyes, a hint of amusement flickering within them.
"Three months of training. Survive, and you become regulars. Die, and you get buried in a mass grave. Get crippled, and you're sent to logistics to wait for death. Understood?"
The five of them nodded in silence.
"Barracks Three. Find your instructor. He's on the training field."
…
On the field stood a lean, dark-skinned middle-aged man with his hands clasped behind his back.
A vicious scar ran from his brow down to his chin, giving his face the permanent look of a cold sneer.
He wore tight black combat attire, and at his waist hung a straight-bladed longsword with no scabbard.
This was Black Falcon.
When Raine and the others jogged over to report in, there was already a group of recruits training nearby.
Black Falcon's gaze swept calmly across their faces.
"I'll be your instructor for the next three months," he said.
"You can call me Instructor, or Black Falcon."
His voice was icy.
"But don't expect me to remember your names. I have no interest."
He paced in front of them, eyes sharp and unforgiving.
"Most of you came here for the same reasons—no way to survive, nowhere else to go, revenge, or just a death wish."
"Why you're here doesn't matter."
"Once you're here, you have only one job: become something that can kill alien races—or at least something that can take a blade for an elite soldier."
"The rules of the training camp are simple: obey, fight like hell, and stay alive."
"Wake up at five every morning. Ten-kilometer weighted run. Breakfast at seven. Then four hours of formation drills, physical training, and basic combat techniques."
"In the afternoon: weapons training, tactical instruction, and live sparring."
"After dinner, you get free time. Lights out at twenty-one hundred."
"Evaluations every three days. Fail, and you get extra training. Live combat drills every half month."
Black Falcon paused, the scar at the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
"And your opponents will be real alien races."
The five exchanged glances.
"Scared?"
Black Falcon sneered.
"It's not too late to quit. Go wash clothes and cook meals in logistics. You might live a few extra days."
"My old back can't take that kind of labor!"
"Hahaha, Gore, you read my mind!"
"Living a few extra days doesn't matter much—but killing alien races? That sounds pretty damn good!"
Seeing no fear on their faces, Black Falcon nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Good."
He unhooked the longsword at his waist and held it in his hand.
The blade was straight, single-edged, simple, and brutally practical.
"This is the training version of the standard military saber, Iron Cleaver. For the next three months, it'll be your closest companion—or the thing buried with you in your coffin."
With a flick of his wrist, the blade hummed low as it cut through the air.
"The military doesn't care for flashy sword techniques. You only need to learn three things: how to grip it properly, how to drive it into an alien race's vital points, and how to stab a few more before you die."
…
Over the next two days, Raine and the others were plunged into a numbing regimen of brutal training.
They were dragged out of bed before dawn and forced to run laps under heavy loads.
Then came endless physical conditioning. Any slackness was punished with a crack of the whip.
In the afternoon, weapons training began.
Black Falcon taught only the most basic movements: thrust, slash, parry, sweep.
The requirements were simple—fast, accurate, and stable.
"Alien races won't give you time to pose!"
"And you don't need it!"
"Remember how to generate force. Remember the angles. Then practice!"
"Practice until you can't lift your arms—until these movements become instinct!"
The simplicity of the drills didn't make them easy.
Repeating a single movement thousands of times was far harder than it sounded.
Especially since the training saber wasn't ordinary steel—it was a heavy alloy weapon.
It was meant to ensure that, three months later, they wouldn't be unable to wield a real standard issue blade.
Young Matthew often hit his limit after just dozens of swings, drenched in sweat as he struggled to maintain proper form.
The other four fared slightly better, but not by much.
What surprised them, however, was Raine.
His adaptability and endurance were clearly superior, and he learned faster than the rest.
His previous life's tactical training had given him an exceptional understanding of body control and force generation.
What Black Falcon taught might have been basic, but it was brutally efficient.
Every concise slash eliminated unnecessary movement, aiming directly at the essence of killing.
Raine could tell—these techniques were forged through countless life-and-death battles. They were true battlefield kill moves.
He etched every detail into his muscle memory.
At the same time, he observed the other recruits, the instructors, and the way the fortress itself functioned.
Not everyone in the recruit camp came from the bottom.
Some carried themselves with unmistakable nobility. Their equipment was better, and they were housed in different barracks with seemingly different training programs.
He also noticed the three Arcanist Towers rising above the fortress.
At night, their glow intensified, the crystals at their peaks pulsing rhythmically—as if transmitting signals into the distance.
Along the city walls, massive ballistae and catapults were always manned.
This was a war machine under constant tension, every gear spinning at full speed, never allowed to rest.