The Regression Of A Grand Mercenary

Despite the nightmare of Velorria that still lingered in the back of my mind, I refused to let it sink its claws into me. Her voice still echoed faintly in my ears, her embrace still clung to my skin like frost, but I buried it beneath discipline. Whatever that vision was—a dream, a memory, or some cruel illusion—it would not control me.

Today’s training would strip everything bare. It would look simple to the boys, perhaps even ridiculous at first, but in truth it was crueler and more punishing than any blade or storm.

I divided them into two groups—twenty-five on one side, twenty-five on the other. Their winter clothes were thin, just enough to keep the cold from biting instantly, but not enough to protect them from the slow crawl of discomfort that would come.

“I’m sure you’re curious about what I have planned,” I said, letting my gaze sweep over them. Their breaths fogged in the frigid air, their bodies still eager and restless. “The storm has delayed the lighter activities I had in mind. So instead, today we move to something far more… grueling.”

They shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between one another.

“I want you all lined up in rows of five. Two meters between each of you, forward and to the side. Once you’re in position, sit. Choose the most comfortable posture you can imagine. Be wise—because however you sit now will decide how you endure what follows.”

Astin, always the first to voice what others dared not, frowned. “W-what are we doing, Captain?”

“Nothing,” I said flatly.

He blinked. “N-nothing?”

“Yes.”

“But… why?”

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

There was hesitation in their faces, but no rebellion. One by one they lowered themselves to the ground. Astin was the first, lowering himself cross-legged, still staring at me as though expecting me to reveal the trick.

“Listen closely,” I continued, my tone cutting through the cold. “From this moment until dawn, you will remain in your position. You will not move. You will not speak. You will not sleep. If you must piss, you will piss where you sit. If your bowels betray you, so be it. If you move, if you groan, if you so much as twitch beyond necessity—you will fail. And I punish failure.”

They flinched, some swallowing back nervous laughter, but no one dared break the silence.

“This is not nonsense,” I added, softer now, though my voice carried a weight that pressed on them like the storm above. “This is a lesson I once endured myself. And it taught me more than any battle, more than any book, more than any victory ever could.”

Then came silence.

At first, it was almost easy. For the first twenty minutes, they sat like statues—calm, their breaths steady, the sound of the wind their only companion. In those first moments, they might have thought this exercise was trivial.

But the first hour changed everything.

The cold crept into their limbs. Their spines began to ache from holding themselves upright. Muscles trembled beneath stillness. What had felt like discipline began to feel like confinement. Sweat clung to brows, not from heat but from strain, from the unnatural demand to remain unmoving.

The minutes dragged like hours. The hours dragged like days.

By the third hour, some clenched their jaws so hard their teeth threatened to crack, as though biting down could suppress the fire in their muscles. Others tried to steady their breathing, but it came ragged, uneven, betraying the effort to remain still.

Hours crawled by as the boys sat in stillness, their breaths unsteady, their minds restless. What began with discipline quickly eroded into struggle. Knees stiffened, backs ached, and thoughts wandered like leaves drifting in a storm. By the tenth hour, their numbers had already begun to falter. Some slumped to the side, unable to keep their posture. Others trembled as fatigue clawed at their bodies. A few even groaned in frustration, their spirits giving way long before their strength.

But amidst the wavering sea of boys, Astin sat quietly.

At first, the silence had been unbearable to him. The moment he closed his eyes, the world around him only grew louder—every whisper of breath, every twitch, every creak in the wooden floor beneath them seemed to strike like thunder in his ears. His own thoughts screamed for escape: Why am I here? Why am I doing this?

Yet, he refused to move.

Instead, he focused on the simple act of breathing. In… and out. Each breath became a thread, pulling him deeper into a calm he never thought he could touch. The tension in his body loosened, and though the hours dragged on, he found a strange comfort in stillness.

So this is what it means… he thought.

The burning in his muscles dulled, not because it vanished, but because his mind no longer fought against it. The storm inside him had quieted. Slowly, Astin began to understand that meditation wasn’t about escaping the pain—it was about accepting it, letting it pass through without breaking.

When the tenth hour arrived, many had already failed. Bodies lay slumped, their faces pale with exhaustion. Yet ten remained upright—steady, calm, unmoving like rooted stones. And among them, Astin sat with his eyes closed, his breathing steady, his expression serene.

For the first time, he felt as though he had touched something beyond himself.

By the eleventh hour, the rows had thinned, and by the fifteenth, only ten remained.

Ten boys, unmoving.

Their breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Their eyes half-lidded, their faces blank, their presence unsettling. It was no longer endurance—it was something else, something that hovered between torment and transcendence. The pain had twisted into silence. The silence had twisted into stillness.

They looked less like boys in training and more like monks carved into living statues.

The wind howled faintly beyond the cave, but within, time no longer seemed to flow.

The forty who had failed stared at them in awe and unease. How could their peers endure such a thing? Some whispered to themselves, others clenched their fists, ashamed of their weakness. Yet none could deny what they saw: ten boys who had crossed into something strange, something inhuman.

And among them, Thill was the most unsettling of all.

He sat in the lotus position, spine straight, eyes closed. He had not moved a single muscle since the moment they began. His stillness was not human—it was absolute, suffocating, like sitting in the presence of a slumbering beast. Even with his eyes closed, the boys felt as though he were watching them, pressing down on them with a weight that could not be described.

When the twenty-fourth hour arrived, something shifted.

The ten boys still remaining opened their eyes, all at once, as if compelled by something greater.

And before them, they saw him.

“…”

The air around Thill pulsed. The very wind trembled against his skin, as though recoiling from the presence rising within him. A soft glow radiated from his chest—his core, pulsing like a living heart, its rhythm deep and resonant. It was not sound, but a vibration, a groan that resembled the distant roar of a dragon.

In that stillness, in that silence, Thill was evolving.

The boys felt it. They lost their focus, their breath caught in their throats, their fragile meditation shattering in the weight of his awakening.

And then—his eyes opened.

In that instant, it was as though another man sat before them. No—something more than a man. His appearance had not changed, but his presence had. He no longer felt like flesh and blood. He felt ascended—something untouchable, something that had stepped beyond the threshold of what they understood.

The boys stared, unable to breathe.

Thill, silent and unshaken, had broken through to another level of his pure core.

“Hmm… I feel… stronger.” Thill whispered, his voice almost carried away by the quiet of the training ground. He lifted his hand, watching with quiet awe as the faint shimmer of his core extended toward his palm with nothing more than a simple thought. It was subtle, yet undeniable—the living energy within him obeyed, flowing like a stream that had always been there but was now finally visible.

He could feel it—the very power that had always been present, unseen, shaping and changing the world around him. It was no longer distant, no longer unreachable.

When he turned his eyes toward the others, what he saw made him pause.

“…”

Ten boys sat before him, their forms quiet, their postures steady. Their eyes, though tired and heavy from the long trial, carried a sharpness, a maturity that had not been there before. Something within them had shifted.

Though Thill could not sense even a trace of energy spilling from their bodies—drained as they were from the endless hours of meditation—he could still feel it. Their presence had changed. Their minds had grown, refined, tempered in silence. They had touched something deeper than strength of body—they had grasped discipline of spirit.

“…I see,” Thill murmured, his voice carrying both weight and respect. “So only ten of you were able to withstand the pain of silence and thought.”

One of the boys, slumped yet still respectful, lowered his head. “I’m sorry, captain. We… we couldn’t endure the test.”

Thill shook his head, his tone firm yet gentle. “It’s alright. I know it isn’t as easy as it looks. Silence is heavier than any blade, and the stillness of thought can wound deeper than steel. If anything, I’m impressed—some of you were actually able to withstand all twenty-four hours. That is no small feat.”

He looked at the boys who had lasted only until the tenth hour, their shoulders heavy with shame, and continued with a steady calm.

“And those who endured only until the tenth hour—do not lower your heads. You have nothing to be ashamed of. This kind of training cannot be conquered in a single day. It takes time… and more than that, it takes patience. Each hour you sat in silence was a victory over yourselves, and that is where true strength begins.”

A faint murmur spread among the boys, their shame softening under his words. Yet Mario, his eyes sharp though his body was weary, spoke aloud what many wondered. He had been among those who lasted the full twenty-four hours, and yet confusion lingered in his mind.

“…Tell me, captain,” Mario said, his voice low but steady, though his eyes still reflected exhaustion from the ordeal. “What was the purpose of this kind of training? This… silence, this stillness. I thought practices like these belonged only in churches and temples. I never knew that warriors, too, would endure such things.”

Thill exhaled slowly, his breath curling into a faint mist against the cave’s cold air. Even now, his chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm, as if he were still tethered to the meditation’s lingering calm. He turned his hand over, watching with quiet fascination as a faint shimmer of energy flickered across his palm. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just a subtle vibration of the air itself, a whisper of power that had awakened within him.

He flexed his fingers once, testing the feeling, then closed his hand with quiet resolve. For a moment, his gaze swept across the boys who remained. Their faces were pale, weary, and yet touched with an odd mixture of relief and uncertainty. Most had failed to endure, but those who remained had caught a glimpse of something more—something beyond mere survival.

Without answering Mario right away, Thill rose to his feet. His movements were deliberate, steady, and carried a newfound presence that made silence fall over the chamber.

He turned toward the cave’s entrance, the light of the outside world filtering in faintly. He paused only once, glancing back at Mario and the others, and spoke in a calm, firm tone:

“…Follow me.”

There was no hesitation in his stride as he stepped out into the world of snow and storm. The bitter winds struck his face, but he welcomed them, as though greeting an old companion. Before him, the entrance was sealed by nearly two meters of snow, packed solid by the unrelenting weather. The sight drew no fear, only a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

Thill lifted his palm, pressing it forward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then came the shift—a sudden pulse of force. A shockwave of wind surged outward from his hand, roaring with invisible strength, and the snow before him exploded apart in a flurry. The path that had once been buried now lay clear, dirt and rock showing beneath the powder.

The boys behind him stared, their weariness giving way to awe.

With each step forward, Thill pressed his hand outward again, sending bursts of controlled wind to sweep the path clean. The ground revealed itself in patches, and for the first time since they had entered the cave, progress seemed possible.

Then, as if struck by a thought, Thill halted. He raised his hand once more, but this time, he compressed the air tightly into a small sphere the size of his fist. The winds swirled and howled, collapsing inward until a perfect, invisible ball of pressure floated in his palm. With a single, almost casual tap against the snow-packed ground, the compressed air detonated outward in silence, clearing the area in a flawless circle.

The snow fell away in sheets, leaving behind a ring of earth exposed under the falling white flakes. It was here, within this circle of dirt surrounded by snow, that Thill turned to the boys.

He stepped into the center, his presence commanding even without a shout. The snow drifted lazily from the sky, settling on his hair and shoulders, yet he stood unbothered, as though the storm itself bent around him.

His eyes scanned the group once more before settling on one boy in particular.

Mario.

Thill raised a finger toward him. His words were plain, steady, and without flourish.

“Draw your sword… and fight me.”

“!?” Mario’s eyes widened at the sudden command. For a moment, his breath caught in his throat, and he struggled to mask the unease surging inside him. Still, he did as ordered. With deliberate care, he reached for his sword and drew it, the faint rasp of steel against scabbard echoing under the falling snow.

His grip felt heavier than usual, weighed down not by the blade but by uncertainty. He kept his gaze on Thill, trying to read the intent behind those calm, unflinching eyes. Why would the captain—just after leading them through meditation and silence—suddenly demand combat? Was this another lesson? A test? Or something far harsher?

Nervous but unwilling to falter before his comrades, Mario steadied himself, tightening his hold on the hilt as he faced the man before him.

Mario took a steady breath, raising his sword. His stance was decent, the kind of foundation drilled into him by months of training, but there was hesitation in his feet and the faint quiver in his shoulders betrayed his nerves.

“Come,” Thill said simply, his tone neither commanding nor mocking—just calm.

Mario lunged. His blade cut the air in a clean, practiced arc, the snow crunching under his boots. It should have been threatening, yet Thill moved as if brushing aside a stray branch. A single step forward, a subtle shift of his body, and the blade passed harmlessly by.

Before Mario could adjust, Thill’s hand tapped his wrist—light, almost playful—yet the impact jolted through him, forcing his grip loose. The sword clattered into the snow. Gasps rose from the boys watching, but Thill made no move to strike further.

“Pick it up,” Thill said.

Mario obeyed, flustered, gripping tighter this time. He slashed again, faster, desperate to land even a scratch. But Thill’s movements were effortless, his body flowing around each attack with the grace of water. A sidestep here, a lean there, and every strike seemed to meet nothing but air. When Mario overextended, Thill would push a shoulder or tap his balance just enough to send him stumbling. It was never cruel, never aggressive—just deliberate.

Minutes passed, Mario’s breath growing ragged while Thill hadn’t even broken his posture. Then, in the lull between swings, Thill spoke.

“Do you feel it, Mario? The frustration? The noise in your head?”

Mario gritted his teeth, charging once more. Thill’s palm caught the flat of his blade and, with a twist, sent it spiraling from his hands again. The sword landed farther this time, snow muffling its fall. Thill did not press forward—he simply stood, hands relaxed at his sides.

“Before today,” Thill continued, “you would have drowned in that noise. Your blade would be heavy with doubt, your steps tangled by fear. But what did you feel, just now, between your swings?”

Mario hesitated, breathing hard. His chest burned with exhaustion, but in the haze of his fatigue, there had been moments—brief flashes—where the noise quieted. His arms had moved without thought, his body responding sharper, faster than before.

“…I could sense it,” Mario admitted quietly. “For an instant, I felt where you were going. My body wanted to follow, but…” He glanced down at his trembling hands. “…I wasn’t fast enough.”

Thill gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “That is the beginning. Meditation was not to make you still—it was to clear the mud from the water. Only when your mind is calm will your instincts shine through. And only then will your blade carry weight.”

Mario’s chest heaved, sweat steaming against the cold air. But for the first time, he understood. Thill wasn’t humiliating him—he was showing them all that their training had opened a new door.

Thill turned his gaze to the rest of the boys, who sat in stunned silence. “This is what you must seek. Not strength alone, but clarity. A warrior’s mind sharper than his steel.”

Thill lowered his stance, one hand loosely at his side, the other resting calmly over his chest as if steadying his own heartbeat. His gaze swept over the circle, his presence commanding but not oppressive.

“Come,” he said, voice even, unshaken. “Not just you, Mario. All of you who endured. Step into the circle.”

The nine boys who had managed to endure the long hours of meditation looked at each other. Hesitation flickered in their eyes, but they obeyed, stepping forward one by one until they stood shoulder to shoulder with Mario. Their bodies were tired, their minds still adjusting to the calm they had grasped in meditation, yet something about Thill’s presence pushed them past fatigue.

“You sat for twenty-four hours in stillness,” Thill said, his eyes sharp but not unkind. “That silence you held onto—that is your weapon. It clears the noise, opens the instinct, and lets the truth of battle find you. But without clarity, numbers mean nothing. Even ten of you will crumble.”

Astin clenched his fists and inhaled deeply, remembering the rhythm of his breathing during meditation. That calm he had found—he held onto it now, letting it steady his nerves. Out of all the fifty, he was the strongest among the boys, the fastest, but for the first time, he felt his thoughts sharpen like a blade. This felt like growth to him yet again.

“Ready yourselves,” Thill commanded.

The air grew heavy with anticipation. Then, as though a string had been cut, the nine boys rushed forward with Mario at their lead, their voices shouting in unison, steel ringing as blades were drawn.

Thill did not move at first. His eyes followed each boy carefully, noting every step, every swing, every hesitation. When Mario lunged forward with his sword, Thill’s hand shot out, seizing the boy’s wrist before the blade could strike. With a twist, Mario was disarmed, his sword flung harmlessly into the dirt.

The others attacked all at once, but to Thill, it was no more than a slow-moving storm. He weaved between their strikes with graceful precision, each motion effortless, each counter measured. A sweep of his leg sent two crashing to the ground. A gentle shove to the chest sent another stumbling backward. He caught a blade with his bare palm, turned it aside, and tapped its wielder on the forehead with a flick that dropped him to his knees.

They fought as if numbers would carry them, but one by one, they fell short.

Astin struck with all his heart, his body guided by the clarity he had felt in meditation. His movements were sharper, his eyes keener, but even still—Thill’s hand caught his punch midair. There was no mockery in Thill’s expression, only approval.

“Better,” Thill said quietly, before pushing him back gently, setting him on his feet once more.

The circle filled with the sound of heavy breathing, groans of effort, and the dull thuds of bodies meeting the ground. Thill remained untouched, his bare hands speaking louder than any blade.

At last, all ten lay scattered around him—panting, exhausted, defeated. Yet their eyes were wide with realization, their hearts pounding not with fear, but with understanding.

Thill straightened his back, breathing calmly, his voice cutting through the silence like steel through air.

“Do you see now?” he asked them. “Meditation is not idleness. It is the sharpening of the spirit. When the mind is still, the body listens. When the heart is calm, the blade obeys. You lost today not because you lacked strength, but because for a brief moment, I could tell that all of you clouded yourselves with the thought of victory through numbers. Clear your heads, and your chances in this world will rise.”

The boys, still catching their breath, looked to him with renewed respect. For the first time, they understood.

But as for the forty who had only endured ten hours of meditation, their heads hung low and their shoulders slumped, unable to mask the weight of their own disappointment. They looked somewhat ashamed, their eyes darting between the ten who remained seated in calm composure and Thill, who now stood at the center of the training ground like a quiet storm.

Some clenched their fists in frustration, others bit their lips, as if berating themselves for giving up too soon.

It wasn’t that they lacked strength of body—they had survived many drills, sparred countless times, and taken their share of bruises. But the meditation demanded more than physical endurance; it demanded stillness, patience, and the willingness to face one’s own restless mind. That, more than anything, was what had undone them.

Thill’s gaze swept over them briefly. He did not scold, nor did he belittle. Instead, his silence was heavier than words, as though telling them that this shame they carried would not break them but could become a lesson, if only they chose to bear it well.The forty stood at the edge, watching as the chosen ten rose to their feet, breathing evenly, their eyes clearer than before. For the first time, the divide between them was visible—not of talent or strength, but of discipline.

The bitterness of it all stung their pride, and deep down they could feel it: this was failure…

And Thill made it very clear to them.

He walked past them in the rising light of the day, his steps measured, his presence unshaken. The silence stretched with every step he took, the air heavy with the unspoken truth that lingered in all their hearts. Then, without ceremony, he spoke the obvious.

“…This is your failure.”

His words landed like stones thrown into still water, sending ripples through the group. A few flinched, some clenched their jaws, and others lowered their heads further. Not a single one dared to protest, for Thill’s tone carried no mockery, no cruelty—only the cold edge of truth.

And he spoke more…

“But don’t give up. Meditation is all about time and patience. If you cannot endure today, then tomorrow you try again… and the next, and the next. Discipline is not born in a single night—it is forged, slowly, like steel under fire.”

With that, he turned and walked back into his cave, leaving the boys to sit with the weight of both his rebuke and his encouragement.

The forty stood in silence, their shame heavy, yet within it flickered a fragile spark—hope. They had failed, yes, but failure was not the end. His words made that clear. And so, though their pride stung, they carried back with them a resolve: next time, they would endure longer.