White lights, white ceilings, white sheets, and a white bed frame. Grant heaved a painful breath through his nose. His chest burned as the stale smell of salves filled his lungs. An infirmary? Don’t they have Healers?

  Harsh light stabbed through a great window and into his eyes. Grant blinked and squinted, his vision adjusting to the brightness. The blur at the foot of his bed slowly sharpened into an old woman wearing white apron that matched the shade of everything else in the room.

  “I see you’re awake,” she said. Grant tried to reply, but his throat closed up and he gagged instead.

  “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. I’ll get an officer.” She turned and left him there.

  Grant lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He checked his Interface clock.

  [5:41am]

  He had only slept a few hours. How he’d arrived at the infirmary was a mystery, but he gave a prayer of appreciation to the Goddess that the men at least had the courtesy to attack him with his clothes on. Being carried across the barracks naked was a humiliation he didn't need. Wincing in pain, he tried to sit up straight, but found his hands were tied to the frame with thick leather straps.

  He collapsed with a sigh, sinking back into the mattress. Every breath was agony, and he set to finding a way of inhaling that didn’t make his ribs cramp and his throat burn.

  A moment later, the curtain around his bed was pulled back with a squeak. A woman he had never seen before stood at the foot of his bed.

  “Private Leeman.” She scowled with distaste. “I am Major Brewer.”

  Unable to respond, Grant just frowned back.

  The woman had a rat-like face, with a bulging nose and small beady eyes. Her black hair was tied tightly back, which made her skin unnaturally taut and expression constantly severe. Her features seemed to mirror her personality in every aspect, from how she spoke to how she looked at those she considered beneath her.

  She walked the length of his bed slowly, fingertips trailing along the side bar. “You had quite the night in the baths. One of your fellow recruits nearly lost his life because of you. You were highly fortunate his comrades got him to a Healer in time.”

  Grant shrugged, then winced. Seeing as he was strapped to the bed, and seeing as they hadn’t even bothered to have him Healed, they must have believed whatever song Col or the other members of his crew sang. It didn’t matter much how Grant felt about it.

  Her frown deepened. “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’re terribly interested. However, your little brawl has caused quite a bit of stress for some very important people. Some would have you disciplined.”

  He forced his face flat again. Whatever they wanted to do, whether it be whipping or flogging, he’d give them nothing more.

  The woman paused, seemingly disappointed with his lack of a reaction again. “Unfortunately, we are out of time. I’m here to lead you to the Portal."

  Now his eyes snapped open. He tried to shout, but the breath caught in his throat again, and only a raspy gasp escaped. He reached for his neck, only for his hands to be yanked back by the bindings. Major Brewer watched with a smile, clearly enjoying his reaction.

  “I see,” the major said, tapping her nail on his bedpost. “It appears you were unconscious for longer than you thought. The other recruits have already lined up, and the Portal is due to open in an hour. We were actually about to wake you with a Healer.”

  His ears rang and his heart thundered. If he were physically capable of screaming, he would be.

  He hadn’t slept through the night. He had slept through the night, the following day, and then the next night. Col hadn’t only left him broken and bloodied on the floor. He had taken away his last day with his friends. The military had done their part too, choosing not to have him Healed.

  Grant trembled with rage. He should have let the dagger kill his crewmate.

  “You are in no condition to move, and therefore we are going to have to expedite the healing process,” Major Brewer said casually.

  With her cue, a portly, bald man stepped out from behind the curtain and approached Grant’s bed. “Please Heal this young man,” the major instructed. She tapped a finger on her chin. “But not too well. Make him able to speak and walk, but leave a bit of the bruising.”

  With a brisk nod, the Healer went to work. He closed Grant’s wounds, mended his broken nose, and uncollapsed his throat. Just when Grant felt the pressure begin to ease on his ribs, the man stopped and stepped back.

  Major Brewer nodded. “Excellent work as usual, Captain.” The man crossed a closed fist across his stomach, turned, and left.

  With a short hand wave from the major, the straps on Grant’s hands unfastened.

  She gave him a dark look. “It’s time to go.”

  ***

  Recruits spanned as far as his eyes could see. Most wore the standard issue tunic and pants, while others wore their own clothing. Fortunately, Grant was given one last pair of clothes and boots, and he wouldn’t be walking through the Portal in a hospital gown. Perhaps the Evenonian military thought that would border on too cruel, or maybe it was just for appearances.

  The chairs and platform had been removed from the Shrine of the Goddess, making the structure look far larger than it already had. All that remained from the Reading Ceremony was Her statue, hovering in the center. The recruits stood in groups, looking around and talking among themselves.

  There were officers around the perimeter and stationed at every door. Grant reckoned they'd had issues with last-minute deserters before and deemed it appropriate to deter them.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “So,” Grant said, standing on his toes to see over everyone’s heads. He thought he caught a glimpse of Roland’s short, black hair in the thick. “I think I can take it from here.”

  Major Brewer scowled at him. “You’re entering the Portal in groups of 50. Come. Your group is this way.”

  He fell in behind her, offering no objection. His ribs still ached, and he had a splitting headache, but all he wanted was to see his friends again. Every minute spent arguing was a minute spent not looking for them. The surrounding recruits all watched him being escorted with interest, and there were a few comments about his bruises.

  “Here’s your group,” the captain announced, sweeping out a hand. He narrowed his eyes at them. They seemed just like every other group: they were visibly between the ages of 18 and 30, there were both men and women present, and they even wore the same clothes as most recruits.

  The only difference was their hands and feet were manacled.

  Grant snorted. Whenever they stopped at a larger city on their journey to Athemore, there were always a few prisoners joining their caravan. Someone had apparently decided Grant was one too, now.

  However, if the last few days had taught him anything, it was that the laws in Evenon were imaginary and their enforcers corrupt. It was all performances and appearances. There was no good or bad, only noble and common. He gritted his teeth, stopping when he tasted copper again. They had considered executing Grant for using his Goddess-given Spell on a dagger of all things. Was this supposed to be one final slight towards his pride? It fell on deaf ears, and he wanted them to know that.

  “Thank you for the escort!” Grant said, giving his best smile. “Are you going to remain with me until I enter the Portal?”

  The major’s face screwed into a snarl. “I have far more important things to do,” she snapped, her voice laden with icy anger.

  “Oh, sincerest apologies. I did wonder why an important major would be babysitting a private like me, but we all have our duties.”

  Her rage seemed to be at its boiling point. She began to say something, but spluttered, glared, and then stormed away.

  Grant shrugged and turned to meet his group. Their eyes were sullen and their bodies frail. They clearly had not been trained and fed as he had, and he would bet his left hand that none of them had even visited a Reader. They had most likely been locked in a cell for the past month with no clue of what was to come, other than that they'd be sent through on a Campaign. They stared despondently at him, their eyes half-closed.

  If this was his group, he was going to make the most of it. When the empire wanted him to die, he would live. When the empire wanted to punish him, he would treat it as a reward. He was minutes away from walking through the Portal to be defenseless on the other side, and he intended to live out his final hours on his own terms.

  “I'm Grant,” he said with a wave. A few of them mumbled and nodded. “It looks like we’ll be in the same party, so I hope we can be friends.”

  Before anyone could answer, the air shimmered, and all conversation went silent. Grant checked his Interface.

  [The Sixth Campaign will begin in nine seconds.]

  The Goddess statue seemed to flicker and illuminate, and the space under it turned dark. A cube the size of a large house slowly emerged from the floor. Its walls were a shade of black so intense that it seemed to pull the rooms light to its center in wispy trails. The Mana crystals on the walls and ceiling of the Shrine flickered and guttered as they warred with the enveloping darkness.

  A few recruits shrieked and ran for the doors, but the guards were there to block their exit. One noble woman squatted on the floor sobbing with her head limply resting on her palms, another tried to comfort her. A young man crumpled near the wall, ripping at his hair. Several soldiers stomped toward him.

  Grant looked across the Shrine, searching for someone he knew, but there were just too many people—too many faces to sift through. He saw hundreds of nameless recruits, only occasionally recognizing one or two from the Reading Ceremony or the yard.

  All he wanted was to talk to Roland, Ayers, and Lira one more time.

  A Notification flashed.

  [The Sixth Campaign has begun! The Portal will close in 45 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, and 0 seconds from the present time.]

  With one final pulse, the Portal seemed to stabilize. It towered over the thousands of recruits, and its walls still glimmered, but it stopped growing. For some, it promised of power and riches beyond comprehension. For others, it was certain death.

  Everyone in the room but Grant gazed into it. His eyes searched the crowds.

  “Group One, in!” a voice called. Grant stood on his toes to see over the sea of heads. He picked out Emperor Genus’s children, Belal and Raella, at the very front. Among them were the Royal Guard, other nobility, and commoners.

  And at the very back of the line stood Lira.

  He was running before he could stop himself.

  “Lira!” he screamed. She couldn’t hear him. He tried to shove his way through the crowd, but it was too thick. He pushed harder, and someone elbowed him back. “Lira!” he coughed out, but there were too many bodies in the way.

  His head still throbbed, and the elbow had landed directly on his cracked ribs. He put the pain to the side and looked for another way through, but there were too many bodies in the way.

  Before Lira crossed into the cube, she paused and examined her surroundings, as though she had heard something. A soldier pushed her with the shaft of his spear, and she stumbled a few steps, then vanished into blackness.

  Grant fell to his knees. Those noble bastards had put her in the same group as the Emperor’s children. They had marked her, and they had requested her to be sent in with them. She was only there to be sacrificed to them—to disappear, the only remnant of her existence Points for them to use to empower themselves.

  And Grant would be a fool to assume it had nothing to do with him. He looked behind himself, searching for her. For the major who had brought him here, who had chosen to keep him unconscious, who had taken away his last days.

  She stood at the entrance. Her sneer confirmed what he'd already known. They had planned to put Lira in Belal and Raella’s group, and it was his fault.

  You did this, the voice chided. You just had to rise above your station, didn’t you?

  “You’re right,” he whispered back. “You were always right. About everything.”

  Don’t feel down. None of it will matter soon. It paused. For you or Lira.

  An officer stepped forward, looming over him. “Return to your group,” he said brusquely.

  Grant refused to meet his eyes. It wasn’t just casual cruelty from the voice. There were hundreds of commoners with more Points than Lira. She was sent in with the most dangerous Campaigners because of him.

  “Boy, are your ears busted?” the guard continued. He held his spear sideways, his expression dripping with eagerness to use it.

  Grant wouldn’t care if he did. “Piss off. I’m going.”

  He skulked back to his group of prisoners, whose manacles and chains clanked as they shifted from side to side. They watched him with muted curiosity. One woman opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to change her mind at the last second.

  “Group Two, in!” Grant didn’t bother looking. By the time he went through, Lira was going to be dead. Maybe she already was.

  Recruit after recruit and group after group shuffled through the Portal. Nobody tried to run, and nobody fought back. Seeing it manifest before them had sent some into fear-induced mania, but now they remained calm. Perhaps watching others go through had hardened their wills. Perhaps they had just given up hope.

  “Group 193, in!” It had been nearly an hour when the call finally came. Only 50 recruits were left: 49 prisoners and Grant. In other words, 50 prisoners. As they approached the Portal, a man with a key unlocked their manacles and sent them in, one by one.

  Grant approached the Portal, gritting his teeth. The officers watched and waved him along. With the crowds gone, he was able to spot Captain Nickel standing at the front, looking up at Grant with triumphant grin on his face.

  As he stood in front of the Portal, Grant could think of a million different insults he could dol out, a thousand different threats he could make. He had spent the last few days imagining everything he wanted to say to the man, after all, and his well of curses was deep after growing up in an orphanage.

  But now, the man seemed insignificant. Cursing his name would be little more than a dog barking through a fence. And while Lira, Roland, and Ayers had slipped from their grasp, they could still get to Dan and Mr. Nerelot. Grant stayed silent as he looked past them, set his jaw, and walked through, leaving Evenon behind forever.