The truck convoy of the 506th didn't stop when they reached the foothills. Instead, the engines groaned as the drivers shifted into lower gears, beginning the long, winding ascent into the Tanaban Mountains. The air turned cooler, smelling of pine and damp earth, a sharp contrast to the dusty city air they had left behind.
Kenlil sat near the tailgate, his fingers white-knuckled as he gripped the wooden slats of the truck. He watched the sprawling cities in the valley shrink until they were nothing more than grey smudges against the green landscape. When the first gate of the military reservation appeared—a simple wooden bar flanked by two soldiers with bolt-action rune rifles—Kenlil finally let out a breath.
"Oh shit," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rattling engine. "We're here. This is actually happening."
James, who had spent most of the ride in a brooding silence, shifted his weight. He looked out at the passing landmarks—the rusted fuel tanks, the rows of identical storage sheds, and the red-dirt roads that branched off into the woods.
"No," James said, recognizing the signs from the stories his father had told him. "This isn't the bootcamp yet. If my guess is right, this is the reception center. This is where they take us to strip us of our belongings and give us the qualification test."
Luke, a younger recruit sitting across from them, looked panicked. "This isn't the camp? Then where the hell are we going after this?"
James smirked, a cold, knowing look in his eyes. "If I was the officer in charge of your training, I would make sure you never saw a city again until you were ready to die for one." He looked back one last time, catching a glimpse of the distant skyline of Juwark before the truck rounded a bend, cutting off the view of the civilian world entirely.
"So, the reception center," Jack said, trying to process the term. "What happens there?"
"Reception center?" Tavros asked, tilting his head. "Sounds like a hotel."
"It's the opposite of a hotel," James replied. "It's a factory. They put civilians in one end and raw material out the other."
The convoy finally lurched to a halt in a massive gravel yard. The silence that followed the engines cutting out was immediately shattered. Tailgates were kicked open with a thunderous clang.
"DISEMBARK! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
The shouting came from every direction. Soldiers in starched fatigues stood at the receiving area, their faces set in permanent scowls. Jack grabbed his suitcase, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hopped off the back of the truck, his boots hitting the gravel with a crunch.
"FORM THREE LINES!" a Sergeant screamed, his face turning a deep shade of red. "HUMANS IN THE CENTER! BEASTFOLKS ON THE LEFT! ELVES ON THE RIGHT! MARCH TOWARDS THE WAREHOUSE AND KEEP YOUR MOUTHS SHUT!"
Jack found himself shuffled into the middle line. To his left, he saw Tavros towering over the other beastfolk, looking more confused than intimidated. To his right, Kenlil was being shoved along by an elven Sergeant who seemed to take personal offense at the way Kenlil carried his bag.
They were marched into a cavernous warehouse that smelled of cosmoline and old paper. Inside, nine soldiers waited behind three long desks—three per desk. One sat at the center with a ledger, while two stood behind him like statues, their arms crossed over their chests.
Jack was the first human in line at the center desk. He watched as the first elf and beastfolk reached their respective stations simultaneously.
"Name and enlistment number," the staff soldier said. He didn't look up; his eyes were fixed on a stack of yellowing cards.
"Jack Khray Sterling, 751992," Jack said.
The soldier's pen scratched across the card with an annoying rhythm. He didn't use a fountain pen, but a cheap dip pen that he stabbed into an inkwell every few words. He wrote the name and serial number onto a blank card and then slid a burlap sack across the wood.
"Put everything in your pockets into the bag," the soldier commanded. "Everything. If it didn't come from a quartermaster, it's contraband."
Jack reached into his pocket and felt the cool metal of his father's ring. He hesitated. "Sir, if I may ask..."
The staff soldier stopped writing. He looked up, his eyes bored and sunken, as if he had seen ten thousand Jacks before this one. "What is it, Sterling?"
"Can I bring my ring with me? It's all I have from my father."
The soldier sighed, a long, weary sound. "Listen close, because I'm only saying this once. If you're a married man, you can keep the band. If you're a graduate from Delker Point and you have a class ring, you can keep the gold. Anything else is a liability. If an officer finds a piece of non-regulation jewelry in your locker, you're the one who's going to suffer the consequences. Not me. You."
Jack felt a lump in his throat. He looked at the ring one last time—the small scratches on the surface, the way it caught the dim warehouse light. With a heavy sigh, he dropped it into the bag. He added his wallet, a small silver necklace, and even a pocket lint-brush he'd brought from home.
The staff soldier took the bag, tucked the written card into the drawstring, and handed it to the soldier on his left. The soldier walked into the shadows of the storage shelves and tossed it onto a rack. It was gone.
"Now, take this," the clerk said, sliding a duffel bag across the table. He also produced a small green booklet. He took a heavy rubber stamp, slammed it into an ink pad, and then slammed it onto the cover of the book.
STERLING, J. - 751992
"This is your handbook. Keep it on you. Inside that duffel is your government-issued military clothing: four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, four sets of basic fatigues, two towels, and one razor. If the sizes are wrong, you don't tell me. You tell your supply officer once you arrived at your bootcamp. You can claim your personal trash after you're discharged or after the war ends—whichever happens first."
The clerk gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "Proceed to the next area for your qualification test. Just beyond those shelves. Move."
Jack picked up the duffel bag. It was surprisingly light. He walked past the rows of shelving, glancing back. He saw Natalia standing at her desk, her expression unreadable as she surrendered a small locket. James was already through, waiting by the exit of the warehouse with a look of grim satisfaction.
The testing area was another large room filled with rows of cramped wooden desks. At the front, a single elven officer stood behind a mountain of blue booklets.
"Come forward, grab a book and a pen, and find a seat, Private," the officer said, his voice echoing in the rafters.
Jack took his materials and sat at a desk in the third row. The wood was carved with the initials of recruits who had sat there years before. Once the room was full, the officer checked a silver pocket watch.
"You have exactly one hour to answer the one hundred and fifty questions inside that booklet. It doesn't matter if you finish or not; when the whistle blows, you submit the book and proceed through the door behind me to the waiting pen. Your time starts now."
Jack opened the book. The first few pages were Spatial Logic—diagrams of folded boxes and rotating shapes. Then came Arithmetic Reasoning—calculating the lead time for an artillery shell based on wind speed and distance. Finally, there was the 'Grit Test.'
The questions were strange. 'If an enemy tank is charging your position and your sergeant is dead, do you stay in your hole or run for the trees?' or 'You see a comrade stealing bread from the mess hall. Do you report him or ask for a share?' Jack realized these weren't just math problems; they were trying to map his brain.
Recruits continued to trickle in, filling the empty desks. The room was silent except for the scratching of pens and the heavy footfalls of Sergeants patrolling the aisles.
Jack felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see how Tavros was doing. He spotted the beastfolk at the very back, struggling to fit his large frame into the tiny desk. Next to him, Kenlil was scribbling furiously.
"PRIVATE!"
The voice was like a thunderclap right next to Jack's ear. He jumped, his pen skidding across the page. A human Sergeant was standing in the aisle, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"You will not turn your head by another degree! Eyes to your own paper only! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"
"Y-yes sir, sorry sir," Jack stammered, his heart hammering.
A beastfolk Sergeant from the other side of the room marched over, his heavy boots shaking the floorboards. He leaned down until his snout was inches from Jack's face. "You will answer to me only with 'Yes, Sergeant.' Is that clear, Private?"
"Yes, Sergeant," Jack said, trying to steady his voice.
"I said stand up and face me when I'm speaking to you!"
Jack scrambled out of his seat, nearly knocking his duffel bag over. He stood at what he hoped was attention.
"Are my words clear as day to you, Private? Or do I need to write them on the back of your eyelids?"
Jack inhaled sharply and raised his voice. "YES, SERGEANT!"
"I can't hear you! You sound like a damn kitten!"
"YES, SERGEANT!" Jack shouted, his voice cracking with the effort.
"Good! Now sit your ass down and return to your work!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" Jack sat, his hands trembling. He didn't look up again. He didn't even look at the clock. He just focused on the questions, his mind racing. The outburst had been a performance—a way to show everyone else in the room that their old lives were over.
When the hour was up, a whistle blew. Jack stood, grabbed his duffel, and handed his booklet to the elven officer. He walked through the back door and was met by another Sergeant who pointed toward a covered walkway.
"Private, go to the waiting pen. That hall with the benches. You will wait for your name to be called. No talking. No sleeping. Just sit. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sergeant," Jack said.
The waiting pen was a long, bleak hallway with rows of uncomfortable wooden benches. Jack found a spot near the middle. Slowly, the others began to join him. It was a miserable sight—hundreds of young men and women, stripped of their civilian clothes and their dignity, clutching green handbooks.
A few recruits in the back tried to whisper to each other. Within seconds, a Sergeant was on them, screaming so loudly the veins in his neck looked like they were about to burst. The recruits were dragged out of the line to do push-ups in the dirt outside.
Jack looked across the aisle and saw Natalia. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw set. He caught her eye and forced a small, tight smile. She didn't smile back, but the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease just a fraction. Tavros sat a few rows behind them, looking remarkably calm, while Kenlil sat nearby, his knees bouncing up and down rhythmically.
They waited for what felt like hours. The sun began to rise higher into the sky, emitting considerable heat across the gravel yard and the recruits being punished. Finally, a soldier emerged from a nearby office holding a thick stack of manila folders.
"Sterling, J.!" the soldier called out.
Jack didn't move at first. He wasn't used to the name yet.
"STERLING, J.!" the soldier yelled again, louder this time.
Jack raised his hand and stood up. The soldier gestured for him to follow. Jack picked up his duffel bag and walked out of the pen, feeling the eyes of the other recruits on his back.
He was led to a smaller building on the right. The soldier handed him a folder—his folder. It was thick, heavy with the results of his test and his medical records.
"Don't open that," the soldier said curtly. "Carry it to the officer in the third door on the left. Your entire future is inside that paper flap, Sterling. Try not to drop it."
Jack gripped the folder. His palms were sweaty, and the manila paper felt rough against his skin. He walked down the quiet hallway, his boots echoing on the linoleum, knowing that whatever happened behind that third door would decide the rest of his life.