Requiem of the Forgotten

The sun burned overhead, merciless and unrelenting. Dust kicked up with every step, coating my throat with a dry, gritty taste. The sparring ground was nothing more than a wide, open pit surrounded by wooden barricades, with soldiers—both seasoned and fresh—gathered around to watch the evaluation matches.

Some stood with arms crossed, analyzing every movement. Others whispered among themselves, betting on who'd collapse first. It felt like stepping into an arena, except no one was here for entertainment. This was a test. A reality check.

And I was up next.

A man with a clipboard—one of the training officers—looked at the list, then called out, "Aleksander, you're up. Sparring match against Miguel Ortega."

I exhaled, stepping forward. Miguel was taller, broader, probably at least eighteen. His tanned skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and he spun the wooden sword in his grip like it was an extension of his arm. His stance alone told me he'd fought before.

I hadn't.

The officer didn't waste time. "First bout. Objective: Test reflexes, endurance, and general fighting ability. Fight until someone gets incapacitated or surrenders. Got it?"

Miguel nodded, rolling his shoulders. I did the same, my fingers tightening around my own wooden sword. It felt light in my hands, almost fragile. Like it didn't belong there.

The officer raised his hand. "Begin."

Miguel moved instantly.

I barely had time to lift my sword before the first blow slammed into my ribs. The dull thud of wood meeting flesh sent a shockwave through my body, knocking the wind out of me. I staggered back, coughing, my grip slipping for half a second.

A half-second too long.

Miguel followed up, striking my wrist, forcing my guard open. Then—crack—a hit straight across my shoulder. My muscles screamed. I tried to pivot away, to reset my stance, but he was already there.

He was faster. More precise. I was just reacting.

I swung, desperate to create distance. It was sloppy. He dodged, stepped in, and drove the hilt of his sword into my gut.

Pain exploded through me. My vision blurred. My knees buckled.

I barely heard the officer's voice over the ringing in my ears. "Match over."

I knelt there, hunched over, trying to catch my breath. Blood dripped from my nose, mixing with the dirt beneath me.

Miguel sighed, stepping back. "You're tough, I'll give you that." He held out a hand.

I ignored it, pushing myself up on my own.

The general overseeing the fights glanced at the clipboard and scribbled something down. He didn't even need to think about it.

"Helper unit," he said flatly.

I clenched my jaw. "What?"

"You'll get some combat training, but you're too inexperienced to be in the main force. You'll assist with supplies, food, and camp maintenance."

Support work. Like a fucking errand boy.

The decision stung.

I looked around. Some recruits were smirking. Others just nodded as if they'd expected it.

My hands curled into fists. My ribs throbbed. I couldn't even argue.

The general turned. "Next up, Caelith."

I stepped to the side, still dazed, as Cealith calmly walked into the ring. His silver-white hair caught the light, his movements almost unnervingly graceful. He didn't look nervous. Didn't fidget. Just stood there, completely still.

I swallowed hard, wiping the blood from my nose. At least I wasn't going to be the only one humiliated today.

The crowd had settled, but there was a different kind of tension now—a quiet, almost expectant energy hanging in the air. The last fight had been nothing impressive. Some recruits had shown promise, others had been just as bad as me. A few quit on the spot, realizing they had no business being here in the first place.

But Cealith was next.

I crossed my arms, still wincing as I shifted my weight. My ribs fucking hurt. The dried blood under my nose itched. I wiped at it again, watching as Cealith stepped forward.

He moved like he was gliding. Not nervous. Not rushed. Completely still, yet somehow giving off the presence of a coiled spring.

His opponent was a bulky guy from somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe late teens, with a heavy stance and a clear weight advantage. He cracked his neck and gripped the wooden sword tight.

Cealith didn't even seem to care.

The officer overseeing the fight barely raised his hand before dropping it.

"Begin."

The bigger recruit lunged first.

Cealith just... moved.

It wasn't dramatic. No flashy dodges, no wasted movement. He simply wasn't there anymore, his feet shifting with inhuman precision. His opponent's wooden sword sliced through empty air, his overextended movement leaving his ribs wide open—

Crack.

Cealith struck, clean and decisive, right in the exposed side.

The crowd murmured. His opponent gritted his teeth, whipping around and charging again, but Cealith didn't even blink. Another step, another simple parry, another counterattack.

No wasted strength. No unnecessary effort.

His opponent kept swinging wildly. Cealith just kept stepping aside, letting him make mistakes.

And then, in one smooth motion, he shifted inside his opponent's guard, lifted his sword—

And slammed the hilt into his jaw.

The bigger guy hit the ground like a felled tree.

Silence.

Then—murmurs.

"That was clean."

"What the hell? Is he trained?"

"That was like... Elven-level technique."

I swallowed. I'd seen Cealith fight once before, but even then, it had been more like watching an animal react than an actual warrior. This? This was something else.

The general overseeing the evaluation didn't even need to think.

"Standard Combat Unit," he called out.

A few approving nods. Some mild surprise. But no arguments.

Cealith simply blinked, nodded once, and stepped back. No emotion. No reaction.

I exhaled slowly. At least one of us wasn't a total embarrassment.

More fights. More recruits proving themselves—or proving they didn't belong. I barely paid attention. My ribs still ached from earlier, and a dull pounding had settled behind my eyes.

I kept glancing toward Cealith, who stood near the edge of the ring, completely unreadable. Not proud. Not smug. Just... watching.

And then—

"Nikita Volkov."

I looked up.

Oh. Shit.

The guy standing across from Nikita had the unfortunate look of someone who didn't know he was about to get annihilated.

The match began.

It lasted ten seconds.

Nikita moved once. A clean sidestep, a pivot, and then—

His opponent's sword was gone.

A heartbeat later, he was on the ground.

The crowd barely even reacted before it was over.

The general took one look at Nikita, exhaled sharply, and muttered something under his breath before marking his clipboard.

"Elite Unit."

And that was that.

I sat there, watching them. Cealith. Nikita.

They were somewhere else already.

And me?

I was still at the fucking bottom.

The Helper Unit was exactly what I expected—and worse. The barracks were smaller, the atmosphere heavier, and the people... well, they weren't soldiers. Not really. It was clear from the way they moved, how they sat hunched over their meals, avoiding eye contact, speaking in quiet voices. Some were injured recruits who had already accepted they wouldn't be fighting anytime soon. Others were too weak, too slow, or simply too afraid to handle combat. And then there were a few who just didn't belong in a battlefield, no matter how desperate the war effort was.

I dropped my bag on the nearest cot, scanning the room. Nobody looked up. There was no energy here, no drive. Just resignation.

My fingers curled into fists. This was where they thought I belonged?

I exhaled sharply, shoving my frustration down before it could boil over. Getting pissed off wouldn't change anything. If I was stuck here, I might as well figure out what I was dealing with.

I walked over to a group sitting in the corner. Three of them—one older guy with gray in his hair, muttering to himself, and two younger ones, one of whom looked barely old enough to be here. The third caught my eye. Broad, round face. Thick glasses. Nervous posture. He looked about my age, maybe a little older, but the way he sat, shoulders slumped, made him seem smaller than he actually was.

I cleared my throat. "Yo. Anyone here actually planning on doing something, or are we just gonna sit around waiting to die?"

The older guy didn't react. The kid flinched. But glasses looked up, blinking as if surprised someone was talking to him.

"Uh…" He hesitated, pushing his glasses up. "I guess… some of us are just trying to figure things out."

I sat down across from him, ignoring the way the bench creaked under my weight. "Figure what out? You're here. Either you fight, or you make yourself useful in other ways."

His lips pressed together, like he was debating whether to say something or not. After a moment, he exhaled. "I didn't expect to make it this far."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated again, then shook his head, more to himself than to me. "My name's Lukas," he said finally. "I'm from Germany."

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"When… when the Darkness came to Earth, my older brother saved me." His fingers clenched into his pants, knuckles turning white. "He got me out. But he… he didn't make it."

The words hung in the air between us. He didn't look up, just stared at the floor, his jaw tight.

I leaned back slightly, processing that. I didn't have siblings. I didn't know what that kind of loss felt like. But guilt? Yeah. That was something I understood.

"I shouldn't be here," Lukas muttered. "He should be. He was strong. He knew how to fight. I'm just—" He let out a humorless laugh. "I don't even know why I'm trying."

I studied him for a moment. The way his hands trembled slightly. The way he sat, like he wanted to disappear.

And yet, he was here.

"Sounds like bullshit to me," I said finally.

His head snapped up, eyes widening behind his thick lenses. "W-what?"

"You're here, aren't you?" I gestured at him. "You could've given up. Could've sat in some corner waiting to die. But you didn't."

Lukas swallowed, but didn't argue.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Look, I don't know your brother. But I know this much—if he was anything like you say, he wouldn't want you sitting around acting like you don't deserve to be alive."

He stared at me, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I just… don't know if I can do this," he admitted.

I shrugged. "Neither do I. But I guess we'll find out."

For the first time since I sat down, Lukas almost smiled.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of mindless tasks.

We cooked for the real fighters, which mostly meant chopping up whatever unholy mix of vegetables and dried meat they gave us and tossing it into a massive pot. I stirred the boiling mess with a wooden ladle that was probably older than I was, sweat dripping down my back from the heat. It smelled awful, but at least it was food.

"This is demeaning," one of the other helpers muttered, wiping his forehead. "I didn't come here to play house."

Lukas, standing beside me, scoffed. "You think this is bad? Try actually messing it up. You don't want to know what they did to the last guy who burned the stew."

The guy paled slightly and shut up.

I barely paid attention to the conversations around me. My mind was elsewhere.

I was here to fight. To get stronger. Not to stir soup.

By the time dinner was over, I was ready to scream. The fighters ate, barely acknowledging us. Some of them cracked jokes, laughing with their comrades, already forming bonds in a way we never would.

And I was just… here.

I clenched my jaw. Fuck this.

When the meal was done and the sky had turned a deep shade of blue, I slipped away, my feet moving on instinct. Away from the barracks. Away from the laughter. Away from everything.

I needed to train.

The air was cooler out here, a light breeze cutting through the trees at the camp's edge.

I rolled my shoulders, shaking out my arms, then picked up a wooden practice sword someone had left behind. It wasn't much. But it was better than nothing.

I took a stance, tightening my grip. Breathed in. Swung.

The impact against a nearby wooden post stung. I grit my teeth and swung again.

Harder.

Faster.

Again. Again.

But no matter how much I hit, no matter how hard I tried—it wasn't enough.

I could still hear them. The laughter. The judgment. The absolute certainty that I didn't belong. That I'd never be more than a glorified errand boy. That I would never be strong enough to matter.

I hated it.

I slammed the sword against the post with everything I had. My arms ached, my breath came in ragged gasps, but I didn't stop.

I had to get stronger. I had to change.

Or else…

A voice in my head sneered. Or else what? You'll always be weak. Always be useless.

I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the sword so tightly my knuckles turned white. No. Not this time.

Then—

A sudden sound.

A distant horn.

I froze.

A second later, the camp exploded into motion. Shouts rang out, boots thundered against the dirt.

I turned toward the noise, my heart hammering.

And then I heard the words that made my blood run cold.

"Raid! Dark creatures spotted near the southwestern settlement!"

My grip tightened on the sword.

Before I could even process it, soldiers were rushing past me—armed, armored, moving with purpose. Among them, the Legends. Velana, her silver hair catching the moonlight. Gorvak, his massive axe resting on his shoulder. Antoine, his flawless face set in grim determination.

This wasn't a drill.

And then—

A voice called out over the chaos. "We need a volunteer to carry supplies—bandages, rations, medical kits. Someone from the Helper Unit."

I didn't think.

Didn't hesitate.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I stepped forward.

"I'll do it."