The next morning was brutal. I was jolted awake by the sound of metal striking on metal and a shout:

  “Wake up you pieces of shit!“

  My body ached everywhere, and I felt like I was coming down with a cold. Within seconds we were al herded outside into formation -minus our buckets, of course. The fucking buckets!

  “We don’t tolerate sloppiness in this army. A sloppy soldier is a useless soldier. Now everybody get your buckets!”

  A few moments later, we stood in line again, each of us with a bucket at our feet. The ‘bucket instructor’ how I’ve come to call him in my head, gazed at us with an expression that suggested we were causing him nausea.

  “Good good. Now lift the buckets and pour the water over your heads.”

  In the freezing of the morning we did what we were told. The cold water hit me like an ice wall. One boy hesitated, just standing there.

  “What is the matter with you, are you deaf? Take that bucket and start pouring. Wake that dumb brain of yours, piglet.“

  The boy snapped back, “I will not stand for this abuse. Do you have any idea who my father is?“

  Big mistake. The instructor measured him with a sneer, then just planted his boot in the boys’ face making him fly backward a few paces.

  “Well, you might go back to your father, then. You’re done here. The rest of you, go refill your buckets at the river. Then come back for breakfast.”

  We dragged our buckets back to the river, muscles burning, water sloshing. When we returned, the mess area held a long table piled with meat, bread, and boiled eggs, a lot of protein. At last something good was happening in this damned camp.

  “You have five minutes. Eat as much as you can, and don’t take anything with you. Now move, piglets!”

  We all rushed to the table without waiting for another invitation. My hunger from last night’s fast made my mouth stretch beyond belief. I shovelled food in until the instructor screamed, “Stop! Everybody, follow me.”

  We trailed after him—nobody left their bucket behind this time—into a wide courtyard.

  “Spread out. Today we go through the basic cultivation steps. You should all be familiar with the process. You’ve all had some success with drawing meridians, or you wouldn’t be here. Begin.“

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  SO the only prerequisite was having some meridians drawn, while I was already at the Ki Condensation stage. Apparently I was ahead of most of my peers when it came to cultivation levels even though I was much younger. I was already smiling at the thought of hiding my true progress and finding a way to profit from this, until a rhin ruler cracked against my butt.

  Daydreaming, little shit?” the instructor barked. I snapped to attention and assumed the posture, focusing on breath and stance just as I had every day. Around me, the other children used similar moves—standard technique, I guessed, for our region.

  I remembered from my geography and history lessons that the world held some three hundred billion people, and the local kingdom in which my family lived was just a tiny unit on a small continent.

  After about an hour, some kids were already gasping and collapsing, their breath ragged, unable to hold posture. Unlike me they did not seem to have trained their endurance enough when it came to cultivating.

  I felt a surge of pride—despite being two years younger, I was still standing.

  “Break time from cultivation“ the instructor suddenly ordered. Before we could rejoice his next order came:

  “Now place your buckets on your heads—no hands. Keep them balanced and resume cultivation. Spill it, and you earn a trip at the river.”

  This was insane! I barely managed to steady the heavy bucket on top of my head, let alone cultivate. After spilling it more than a dozen times and refilling it the training session finally came to an end. I was soaked, exhausted and angry. Even though I lived a full life before I never went through such a disciplinary process. Though I could see the long-term benefits, right now squatting in a puddle of water I could not give a fuck about any benefits. I longed only for a warm bed to rest in for the rest of my miserable life.

  Our moment of respite ended too soon for our taste. A new voice barked orders. A lean man with a hunter’s gaze stalking its prey stepped forward.

  “Listen up, pups. I’m Ostrom, Master of Arms. Oh yes I am going to train you in combat from now on. Today we start with staves.”

  He led us to another yard area rimmed with tall baskets overflowing with wooden swords, daggers, spears, maces—and, of course, staves. Were we going to learn all of this?

  “All right, everybody grab a staff.”

  Ostrom was much more composed than the ‘bucket instructor‘. He did not raise his voice and he did not need to. He radiated authority demanding respect and obedience just by existing. We each picked a wooden staff. Far too big for my frame I clumsily moved with the staff around. Ostrom the pulled a staff of his own, metallic, etched with strange runes.

  “Watch me closely. Copy every move.”

  He flowed through ten intricate steps as if dancing, the staff slicing the air. We were in awe of the demonstration. For most of us this was a first time witnessing a demonstration from a master. After a while we tried following, but our stances were clumsy and our arms shook.

  Whenever we lagged, Ostrom tapped us with his staff—gently for him, painful as a brick for us. Although, we only had to learn these ten steps for now, it felt like a hundred.

  By early evening, my arms trembled so badly I could barely grip the staff. When Ostrom finally dismissed us, we collapsed onto the ground. It was, without question, the worst day of my young life.