Chapter 132: Graduation Part 1
The week passed in a blur of drills, bruises, and brief, rare moments of rest.
Morning bells rang before the sun even breached the hills. Nights ended with limbs sore, boots caked in mud, and lungs aching from wind sprints and command shouts. Rain came twice—once a steady drizzle that turned the course to soup, and once a downpour that soaked even the gear packed in oilskin. But not once did Inigo let them stop.
"You don’t choose your battlefield," he’d said, the rain dripping from his soaked collar. "So you train for every one."
And they did.
They learned how to fight uphill with wet rifles. How to fall and recover without snapping ankles. How to pass orders with a gesture or a whisper. How to stay calm when the fog was so thick they couldn’t see each other, only hear the thump of boots and the click of safeties disengaging.
Meryl’s SAW drills had become smoother. She no longer fumbled with the barrel change. Brenna could link belts in her sleep. Sark and Hal took point now with practiced eyes and tighter formations. Lio, once the jokester, became the group’s rhythm keeper—reminding others to hydrate, reload, and press on when morale flagged.
Even Lyra, despite never calling herself a soldier, ran her lines with unflinching precision. Her crossbow was replaced with a scoped rifle, and her calm demeanor under stress made her a natural spotter and support shooter.
And Inigo?
He watched. He adjusted. And only sometimes, he allowed himself to feel proud.
On the seventh day, the clearing was empty.
No drills. No yelling. No JLTVs revving through the trees.