"Get up! Get up!" A loud voice jolted Aris awake, pulling him from the best sleep he had experienced since arriving in this world. His eyes snapped open, still heavy with drowsiness. Though his vision was blurry, he quickly made out the figure of the instructor standing at the dormitory door.
He looked more closely and noticed the rod in the instructor's hand. Without hesitation, Aris sprang from his bed and stood rigidly in front of the wooden bed, his posture straight, like a soldier awaiting further commands. Any trace of sleepiness vanished instantly as if it had never existed.
The other squire recruits got out of bed as well. Aris glanced around and noticed that all of them were already dressed in their squire uniforms—a grey shirt and black pants. However, none of them carried the swords they were carrying yesterday though he wasn't sure why.
But that wasn't what truly worried him. What unsettled him was the fact that everyone was already dressed—while he was not.
"Oh, what do we have here?" the instructor said as he stood at the door, his gaze locking onto Aris, who was still dressed in his worn-out t-shirt and ragged pants.
Aris took a closer look at the man to see him clearly, the instructor was tall, muscular, and at least six feet in height. The instructor strode toward him, gripping his rod in a way that suggested he was ready to strike at any moment.
A sense of unease settled in Aris's gut when he saw the instructor come toward him, Something bad was about to happen to him.
His eyes darted toward the other recruits. Though the dim candlelight cast flickering shadows across the room, it was enough for him to make out their faces; and their expressions told him everything.
Aris spotted Chris standing seven beds away, looking at him with an apologetic expression.
"Why didn't he warn me this would happen?" Aris thought bitterly.
But then it hit him—Chris had warned him. "Wear the gear unless you want to get chewed out first thing in the morning," he remembered.
At the time, Aris had brushed it off. Now, standing under the instructor's scrutinizing gaze, he realized his mistake.
The instructor halted in front of Aris, his grip tightening on the stick. His eyes roamed over Aris's ragged clothes, then a slow, almost delighted smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well, look at this," he mused, tapping the stick lightly against his palm. "A lost little slave who doesn't even know how to dress himself."
A few chuckles rippled through the room, low and mocking. Aris's body tensed. He could feel the gaze of a dozen eyes on him, some waiting for what was about to unfold and some Judging.
The instructor lifted the rod higher, readying to strike. Every instinct in Aris screamed to move, but hesitation clamped down on his limbs. Beg? Dodge? Stay still? He needed to decide, fast.
"What should I do?" Aris thought frantically, searching for a way to avoid the blow. If he got hit, he'd be injured—rendered useless until he recovered. And in this camp, as Chris had warned, there was no mercy. Now, he was experiencing that harsh reality firsthand.
Then, the AI chip's voice echoed in his mind.
[Move two steps back in two seconds...countdown until impact: two, one.]
Time seemed to slow as Aris could see the cruel expression on the instructor. Aris's body responded instinctively, following the AI's guidance. He stepped back—one, two—just as the instructor's stick came swinging down, missing him by a hair's breadth.
"What was that?" Aris thought, his mind racing. The AI didn't have these abilities before… But now wasn't the time to dwell on the AI's new capabilities.
The instructor, certain his strike would land, felt nothing but empty air.
"Huh?" He frowned, momentarily thrown off. "Did I miss? No… That's impossible."
His grip on the rod tightened as he rationalized the failure. "Maybe I didn't put enough force behind it… or the dim lighting threw off my aim. That must be it."
Narrowing his eyes, he swung again—this time, fully focused.
[Detected: Lethal attack. Duck immediately or risk severe injury.]
The AI's warning rang in Aris's mind, and without hesitation, he dropped into a low crouch.
Whoosh!
The rod cut through the air just above him, missing by mere inches. The force of the strike stirred his hair, but Aris remained untouched.
The squires waiting to witness the drama of Aris being struck were dumbfounded, their mouths agape, each displaying different reactions. "Did he just dodge that? How did he move so fast?" one of the squires, who was watching intently, exclaimed, surprised and certain that Aris would be hit. "Impossible! No one can avoid a strike like that so easily; it must be luck," thought the squire standing next to Aris. His experience was different from the others, as he could see the instructor's expression clearly, so he knew there was no way he could be mistaken.
"How did he do that? Was it a trick? No one else has ever avoided a hit like that on their first time" Chris thought then he remembered Aris saying to him that he learns fast " I will ask him later" he thought.
The instructor's face twisted in anger. How? A mere slave—a malnourished boy with no training—had just dodged his attack and twice at that. The air in the dimly lit room was thick with tension.
Impossible.
The instructor tightened his grip on the stick, his knuckles turning white. He could already feel the eyes of the squires on him. If he let this slide, they would start doubting him. Fear is what keeps them in line. "If they see weakness, they'll start thinking they can challenge me," he thought.
Aris slowly straightened from his crouched position, his breath coming in quick bursts. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the adrenaline still coursing through him. His mind raced as he analyzed the situation. The instructor wasn't angry anymore, but he was in a far worse state; his pride had been hurt, and that meant Aris was in real danger.
Aris's eyes darted to the instructor, who was already winding up for another strike. Dodging again would only push him further into a rage. This wasn't punishment anymore but a lesson and the instructor was ready to carve this lesson into Aris's flesh.
"I need to take a hit," Aris thought. He realized that he shouldn't dodge any longer; if he continued dodging, his adrenaline would wear off after just a couple more attempts. Furthermore, if he avoided another hit, the instructor would likely become even angrier and might not stop until he had broken a bone. However, Aris believed he could manage how much he was hit if he used Zona's new ability effectively.
The AI chip sensing his thoughts said in its mechanical voice[ Analysis: Incoming attack. Acceptable damage threshold: Upper back. Strategy: Collapse before impact to lessen force. ]
The stick made a whooshing sound as it came down. Just before it hit him Aris let his legs go weak and fell forward as if he finally succumbed to exhaustion. His upper back bent slightly, meeting the strike at an angle rather than head-on.
CRACK!
Pain shot through his back, but because he fell, the hit wasn't as strong as it could have been. If he had stood still, it would have been much worse. It still hurt, of course, because he had to make it look real.
One of the squires made a sharp, surprised sound. The instructor frowned. He landed the blow but Aris fell like a rag doll instead of screaming in pain. Aris coughed, pressing his palms against the cold floor, his face twisted in just enough pain to look convincing.
The instructor stood over him, still gripping the stick. Aris kept his head down and his body loose, appearing weak and helpless as if he wasn't worth hitting again. "What the hell just happened?" the instructor thought, tightening his grip on the stick. The attack had landed, but something felt off. He believed the first two attacks had missed either due to luck or the dim light in the dorm, but this strike should have made Aris, an untrained slave boy, cry out in agony.
But the way Aris moved was too smooth, too perfect. The first time and the second time, it might have been luck. But the third time? No one moves like that without training. Then, he deliberately let the stick hit him—not on his head or ribs, but on his back, the safest place to get struck.
"Maybe it was just luck," the instructor told himself, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Aris, this small slave boy, had chosen where to be hit. The thought was unbelievable, and it filled him with rage. This was not merely disobedience; it was a form of resistance disguised as obedience. It was a challenge hidden beneath a facade of compliance.
A few seconds passed. "I should hit him until he cannot think anymore." he thought. But the dorm was quiet. The squires, who had expected Aris to crumble under punishment, now stared in surprise. Some even seemed impressed. "Damn it. If I keep hitting him, they'll think he's a hero."
Then, with a scoff, the instructor stepped back and said "Tch. Get up." Aris stood up, thinking about what just happened. He had taken a hit—just enough to satisfy the instructor's authority—while ensuring he could still move it was a calculated loss and also a quiet victory.