The Regression Of A Grand Mercenary

After the meditation exercise, I moved quickly to what would be the last—and hardest—test I could provide for the boys.

They had endured much already: scouting the wilderness, facing goblins in tactical skirmishes, wrestling with exhaustion and silence during the meditation. Each trial had cut away at their weakness, leaving sharper edges behind. But this final task… this would be the true measure of whether they were ready.

In front of me, the boys stood waiting, restless but eager. Their eyes carried the gleam of youth—hope mixed with fear, pride mixed with uncertainty. Outside, the storm that had battered us for days was finally fading, leaving the sky in restless shrouds of gray. We had three days before the week’s end—three days, and it would be enough.

“Listen closely, all of you,” I said, letting my voice settle into the silence. “This final test is not a game. It is not another drill. You have three days to complete it using only the strength, skills, and discipline you’ve gained in the past few days. I will not intervene. I will not shield you. And yes… it is possible that one of you may die.”

A few of them stiffened, but no one spoke.

“But that will only happen,” I continued, “if you forget the lessons you experienced under my teaching.”

“What are we to do, Captain?” Mario asked. His eyes burned with eagerness, though there was a tremor in his voice.

In answer, I unfurled a large parchment and held it up before them. The inked names on its surface caught their eyes immediately. Murmurs spread as they read the list. Surprise flickered first, then confusion, then dawning realization.

“Those are… monsters,” Astin whispered. He stepped forward, squinting at the parchment. His voice cracked with unease as he read aloud. “Fifteen goblins, fifteen wolves, five mother wolves, two two-headed ogres, five harpies, five Thornhide Maulers… and…” his throat caught, “a Frostbound Colossus?”

The boys stirred uneasily, their expressions tightening. For some of them felt the pain of having to face some of these monsters head on.

“Yes,” I said plainly. “But take heart that this is not a task you will face alone. You will move as one. All of you will hunt this list together, and you must complete it within three days. It doesn’t matter who leads the project, what I expect in the end of it all is that you will come back to me with the corpses of these monsters in the list.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung. Then one boy muttered, almost carelessly:

“This seems… doable.”

I snapped my gaze to him, letting my glare fall heavy and sharp. The cave seemed to chill again.

“Doable?” I repeated, voice low. “You look at these names as if they are lines of ink. Tell me, how many of you have truly faced the fangs and claws of what’s written here?”

Silence. Then, slowly, one boy raised his hand. His posture was stiff, almost guilty.

It was Malvoy—the shaven-headed boy whose eyes always seemed older, heavier, than the rest. His eyes showed an expression I saw in many tired mercs and adventurers. Some who have seen death in the eye and survived.

“I have.” he said at last, his voice carrying the weight of memory.

The others turned toward him, curious, uncertain.

“You were an adventurer, weren’t you?” I asked, though I already knew.

Malvoy nodded. His gaze fell to the ground. “Yes. I left the village years ago, thinking I would carve my path as an adventurer. But that road gave me more than I could bear to witness. I saw things I wish I hadn’t. Felt the weight of things I couldn’t carry. I watched companions die… and I cried for souls who never came home.”

He raised his left arm, pulling back the sleeve.

Gasps echoed through the cave.

“!!?”

His forearm bore a deep, ragged scar, the kind only teeth could carve. The flesh was torn, uneven, as though ripped away rather than cut.

“Is that—?” one boy stammered.

Malvoy’s jaw tightened. His voice trembled, but anger underpinned every word.

“A goblin. It sank its teeth into me while I was bound in their cave. They kept me there for three days, tied up like a ration. I prayed I wouldn’t be eaten, prayed that someone would find me before I became nothing more than meat. This scar is all I kept from that pit.” His fists clenched. “A mercenary team rescued me before the end. But I’ll never forget those three days. I’ll never forget the screams. Or the eyes of the ones who didn’t survive.”

He looked up at the others, his expression grim.

“So don’t you dare underestimate goblins. Nothing good ever comes from looking down on them or any other monster.”

The cave fell into silence. The bravado of moments ago was gone, replaced by a cold awareness that what they faced was no simple tally of monsters—it was a brush with death itself.

“Although you have faced goblins before, that was only under my command,” I said, my voice steady, but final. “This time, you will act on your own will, without my guidance. So for those of you who dreamed of adventuring… know this: this is the reality of it. This is what it costs.”

I turned and walked toward the cave’s mouth. None of them called after me. The silence of their breathing filled the chamber.

“You have three days,” I said, my back to them. “Three days to settle the list.”

And then I left them.

I did not return.

Instead, I rose above, into the realm of clouds, watching quietly as they set forth. Step by step, they would now taste the weight of their choices, the edge of their training, and the cruelty of the world that awaited them. No hand would guide them. No voice would steady them.

Only themselves.

***

The next day…

Mario came out of the cave with Astin, and behind them…the boys were out wearing nothing but clothes that were similar to their first day in the forest.

Clothes that made it possible for them to scout.

Light, enduring clothes that blended itself into the snow.

They divided themselves into ten groups yet again and decided to move out to the forest in different directions.

When watching this, Thill watched with intrigue.

‘Hmm, now then, what will happen now?’

With that…he watched with a clear head.

The first group went north, where the snow was thickest. They trekked cautiously, blades ready but orders clear: observe, not engage. Hours passed before they spotted movement—three goblins huddled around a crude fire beneath the hollow of a fallen tree. The scouts counted quietly, marked the spot, and pulled back before the creatures could scent them. Their nerves burned with the urge to strike, but they remembered Astin’s command: information first.

The second group cut east, where the ground sloped into a frozen riverbed. There, they found the deep paw prints of wolves. Following them led to a den tucked beneath jagged rock. The boys watched from afar as a pack of seven wolves circled the entrance, snapping and howling at the wind. One inside was larger, heavier—their first glimpse of a mother wolf. The scouts marked the den and retreated before the beasts caught their scent.

The third group ventured farther south than the others dared. The forest grew quiet there, almost too quiet. By midday, they stumbled upon claw marks etched into tree bark higher than any man could reach. They didn’t see the harpies directly, but their screeches echoed faintly across the snow-laden woods, confirming the presence of the winged monsters. Their report would be invaluable.

The fourth group’s search brought them west into rolling hills of snow. At first, they found nothing—only silence and barren land. But as dusk began to settle, a distant roar thundered through the air. The ground trembled slightly beneath their feet. The boys froze, pale with fear. They didn’t need to see it to know. Somewhere beyond the veil of snowstorms… a giant stirred. A Frostbound Colossus. And behind it, three Thornhide Maulers were following it under its protection and order. They fled before it could sense them, their breaths ragged with terror.

The fifth group returned empty-handed. No tracks, no monsters, no signs of life at all. Their frustration weighed on them, but at least they returned unharmed.

The sixth group nearly made a fatal mistake. They stumbled upon a pair of Thornhide Maulers feeding on the carcass of an elk. The beast’s spined hide gleamed with frost, its massive claws tearing flesh like paper. The scouts nearly panicked when it lifted its head, scenting the air, but they retreated silently, hearts hammering. Information gathered. No lives lost.

The seventh group had more success—they found a cluster of goblins near the river’s edge, fishing with crude spears. Fifteen, just as Mario predicted, though one bore scars across its face and seemed to command the others. The scouts marked its presence and followed it back to its cave before retreating. This amount of goblins were small compared to the camp they attacked.

The eighth group was not so lucky. They found nothing until late in the afternoon when a harpy’s shadow swept over them. Its screech cut the air like glass. Though the monster swooped low, the scouts ducked into the trees and remained still, breath held, until it finally passed. Shaken, they returned with only its direction noted.

The ninth group stumbled across ogre tracks—massive, two-toed prints that crushed the snow deep into the earth. They followed just long enough to confirm there were two, both lumbering in the same direction. The sight of one ogre’s silhouette against the setting sun nearly broke their courage, but they lived to return with certainty.

The tenth group, smallest and most cautious, returned with nothing more than notes of silence—empty woods, no monsters. Yet still they would know even that had value.

***

The search lasted the entire day, and when the boys finally returned to camp, they carried with them more information than anyone had expected.

To an outsider, their findings might have seemed almost too impressive for a single day’s effort. Yet in truth, their success did not come from luck or chance—it was the result of experience. This was the same scouting group that had gone out before, and their first attempt had taught them more than they had realized at the time. They now moved with sharper instincts, eyes more watchful, steps more cautious. Every rustle of the leaves, every snapped twig underfoot carried meaning to them. Their earlier mistakes had made them wise, and wisdom was their greatest weapon.

And then there was Thill’s map.

Though drawn with nothing but ink, patience, and the boy’s steady hand, it was more valuable than any sword. The scouts themselves knew that half—perhaps more—of their discoveries today could only be credited to its existence. Landmarks, elevation changes, the subtle bends of the forest paths—it was all there in careful strokes of ink. Its accuracy was nothing short of remarkable. With that map as their guide, they moved as though they were no longer blind in enemy territory, but soldiers reclaiming ground that belonged to them.

By nightfall, with their findings laid bare before them, the boys began preparations for the second stage of their campaign.

Rest was not in their vocabulary that evening. Their bodies longed for sleep, but their hearts refused to allow it. It was as if the whole camp had transformed into a blacksmith’s forge, each boy hammering his will into something harder, sharper, unbreakable. Spears and swords were pulled from their sheaths and honed until their edges gleamed in the firelight. Pieces of battered armor, dented and torn from the last battle, were patched with whatever scraps and ingenuity they could muster. The boys were no blacksmiths, yet their determination gave clumsy repairs the weight of steel.

Those who lacked strength or confidence stood before their comrades and were drilled relentlessly. Swing after swing, thrust after thrust, their arms burned, but they endured. Others sat cross-legged in silence, meditating with the fervor of monks. They sought calmness in the storm, praying for clarity, for a strength that came not from muscle but from within. A few rummaged through the spoils of their last raid, salvaging fragments of powder and chemicals to craft crude explosives. They were far from skilled alchemists, but desperation sharpened creativity.

The air was thick—not with despair, but with a fragile tension. They were afraid, yes. Every single one of them. But fear had become fuel.

Tomorrow, they would attack.

And though the thought made their hearts race and their stomachs twist, none of them let it show. They didn’t want to die—not here, not now, not in some nameless clearing against goblins. They didn’t want glory or recognition. What they wanted, more than anything else, was simple. To go home. To survive this madness. To walk away from it all, alive and together.

Malvoy, the ex-adventurer among them, sat slightly apart from the others, observing. His sharp eyes scanned the camp, watching how each boy moved, how they poured themselves into preparation. What he saw stirred something deep inside of him.

These weren’t adventurers. They weren’t the carefree, swaggering men and women he had once known at the guild, laughing as they planned their next job, their eyes gleaming with dreams of riches. No—these boys looked nothing like that. They reminded him instead of soldiers. Soldiers preparing for war.

They were too young for this. And yet, watching them, he could not help but feel a spark inside his chest.

For so long, his heart had been chained by fear—by the scars of the past, by the memories of failures he could not erase. He had thought himself broken. But here, in the glow of the campfire, surrounded by the determination of boys who refused to give in, he felt something he thought he had lost forever.

Hope.

His reason for joining this strange company had been simple: to face his own trauma. He had expected hardship, regret, maybe even death. But not this. Not inspiration.

Because in Thill—captain, teacher, comrade—Malvoy had found a guide. In Thill’s careful words, in the way he carried himself, in the way he could instill confidence with nothing more than a glance, Malvoy saw the leader he had once needed but never found. Under his influence, he was not the same adventurer who had once run from his demons. He was twice the man he had been.

“Again,” Malvoy whispered to himself, a mantra that slipped through his lips before he realized it. His hands clenched tight. “Let’s do this again.”

And with that thought, he bent to his preparations, heart steady, mind clear.

Around him, the boys worked until the fires burned low and the stars ruled the night sky. No one spoke of fear. No one spoke of doubt. There was only the quiet rhythm of sharpening blades, the soft hum of meditation, the crackle of fire.

Tomorrow, they would march. Tomorrow, they would fight.

And tomorrow, they would be ready.

***

By morning, the boys marched outside like a walking battalion. The crunch of boots against snow echoed faintly through the forest, their breaths forming pale clouds in the icy air. Dressed in heavy equipment, each carried spear, sword, or shield at the ready. Their eyes, though filled with determination, betrayed nervous flickers whenever the cold wind cut across their faces. None of them spoke—only the sound of their gear clinking together filled the silence.

They gathered in the open clearing before the cave, their ranks uneven as they were divided.

Mario stepped forward, sword at his side, and turned to face the twenty who would follow him. “We head to the eastern caves. That’s where the goblins make their nest. Stay sharp, and don’t break formation.” His voice carried authority, but the edge of unease could not be completely hidden. Twenty young men straightened, nodding quickly. They knew goblins were dangerous in numbers, but at least they were not unpredictable beasts. In some cases, as long as they were not the targets of the Goblin’s attack, they would do fine.

Astin, on the other hand, took a heavier burden. Thirty boys stood behind him, faces taut as they gripped their weapons. His spear gleamed faintly in the morning light as he scanned them. “Our path is harder,” he admitted. “The wolves are cunning, and the mothers will fight to the death. But that is why we are more in number. Rely on each other. Don’t scatter. We’ll come back alive.” His words carried a grim honesty that weighed on every chest.

Thill watched quietly from the top of the cave, his arms folded as both groups prepared to depart. His eyes followed Mario, then Astin, before drifting toward the horizon where the forest stretched endlessly white. Good… let’s see how you fare. Don’t waste lives unnecessarily.

The battalion broke apart, splitting into two columns that trudged into different directions.

Mario led his twenty eastward, toward the rocky paths that wound deeper into the rivers. The snow crunched beneath them, and shadows loomed larger with each step toward the cavern’s mouth. Already, the faint smell of smoke and ash carried through the wind—a sign of goblin habitation.

Astin, meanwhile, turned his thirty southward. The woods thickened there, branches hanging low with ice. The tracks of beasts were half-buried in the snow, claw marks gouged into bark and paw prints sinking deep into the frozen ground. The boys tightened their grips, knowing that each print led them closer to their quarry—the wolves, and worse, the mothers that guarded them.

Two paths. Two leaders. Two different dangers.

And for Thill, this was only the beginning.