Rashan set a firm pace, deliberately controlled—steady but relentless. He ran at the front, flanked closely by Jalil and Cassia, each wearing their standard armor, light enough to move freely but heavy enough to test their endurance. Behind them, nearly a hundred volunteers trailed across the harsh, unforgiving landscape.
When most imagined a run, they envisioned flat roads, even surfaces, easy ground beneath their feet. But this wasn't an Imperial highway—this was Hammerfell's desert. Loose sand shifted treacherously with every stride, sapping strength and slowing momentum. Every mile demanded twice the effort, each step swallowing ankles, pulling muscles, draining stamina at a brutal rate.
As they pushed deeper into the wilderness, the ground rose and fell unpredictably. Hills of gritty sand loomed large, slopes steep enough to punish untrained legs. Rashan watched silently as the volunteers behind him began to struggle, faces twisted in exhaustion, lungs heaving for breath. Sweat soaked their tunics and armor, stinging eyes and leaving salt trails on reddened faces. Already, the weakest began to fall back.
Around mile four, Rashan caught sight of the Nord who'd challenged him earlier. The man's determination was admirable—he stumbled on doggedly for another half-mile, eyes glazed, body shaking from pain and fatigue. Finally, with an anguished grunt, he pitched forward into the sand, consciousness fading. Rashan didn't stop or even slow. Two others immediately halted beside the fallen Nord, kneeling to assist.
"Leave him," Rashan called coldly without breaking his stride. "He tried—but he wasn't strong enough."
Over the next miles, the heat intensified, the sun blazing mercilessly overhead, a punishing presence. Volunteers dropped steadily—one by one, then in pairs and small clusters. Rashan paid no heed, continuing onward, testing their resolve as much as their physicality. This was precisely what he needed: warriors who wouldn't falter, wouldn't yield, no matter the obstacle.
He glanced briefly at Jalil. The young warrior was handling the run impressively well, breathing steadily, eyes focused straight ahead, his new strength from the potion clearly making a difference. Cassia, too, moved with smooth determination—though her brow was damp with sweat and her breath quickened by the pace, she showed no sign of slowing, her eyes fierce and determined. They'd trained years for exactly this—unweighted, twenty-mile runs weren't unusual, even after hours of combat drills and heavy lifting.
Finally, after a brutal slog, the oasis appeared. Its distant trees were a faint promise of relief against the endless golden horizon. When they arrived, around seventy volunteers remained. The Redguards fared best, faces showing only moderate strain, accustomed as they were to desert marches and harsh training. Several Orcs stood silently, breathing deep and steady, their bodies built for endurance and hardship. Rashan noted the father-son Nord duo Jalil had specifically recommended. They breathed heavily, leaning forward, hands braced on knees, but their eyes still glinted with steely resolve. Considering their heavier builds and unfamiliarity with Hammerfell's deserts, it was commendable. Rashan made a mental note of them.
Nearby, an older Dark Elf stood quietly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He was definitely among the oldest present, yet his breathing was remarkably controlled, his gaze clear. Impressive.
A few volunteers collapsed to their knees, retching into the sand, faces pale and drenched in sweat. Others sprawled on their backs, eyes shut tight, chests heaving desperately. Rashan allowed it; they'd earned a moment's rest.
But Rashan himself wasn't resting—nor were Jalil and Cassia. Without a word, he signaled them to begin a combat-entrance drill, something vividly remembered from his SEAL days. Rashan knew his volunteers were exhausted, their minds stretched thin. He understood they were young and needed to see what true dedication looked like.
The trio moved seamlessly, disciplined steps matching flawlessly, every maneuver executed with practiced precision. Sweat glistened visibly on Rashan's forehead, streaming down the side of his face; even he felt the intense exertion from the combined efforts. Jalil's breathing quickened noticeably, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes bright with exertion but fiercely determined to push through. Cassia, silent as always, moved smoothly and precisely, though her breathing had also grown ragged, and sweat soaked strands of her red hair clung to her forehead and neck. They were exhausted, just like the others, but refused to show weakness, their pride and training pushing them forward.
For years Rashan had pushed Cassia and Jalil relentlessly. Unweighted runs of this length in normal armor were standard Tuesday afternoons. Today's pace was another one of their usual brutal training sessions. They'd conditioned themselves meticulously—lifting, swinging, sprinting, sparring—until their bodies and minds reached heights others scarcely imagined.
After an hour of nonstop drilling, Rashan finally allowed himself, Jalil, and Cassia fifteen short minutes to hydrate and rest. They drank deeply from waterskins, their bodies visibly fatigued, shoulders rising and falling deeply, muscles aching fiercely—but still, their expressions remained focused and resolute.
The reason he did this was to show off. Jalil, Cassia and himself were really young; there was no if, ands, or buts about that. He needed to show the volunteers they were exceptional.
"Alright," Rashan announced calmly, standing once more, brushing sweat from his brow. "We're moving out."
One of the Redguards stepped forward respectfully. "My lord, may we ask—where are we headed next?"
"Back," Rashan said simply, pointing in the direction they'd come. "To the military encampment."
Several faces paled, realization setting in.
"But," Rashan added evenly, nodding toward a horse and carriage that had arrived at the oasis. A driver waited silently, watching the volunteers without judgment. "There's your way out. Anyone who wants to quit—the carriage will follow us. Step onto it whenever you've reached your limit. No questions, no shame. All you have to do is walk over and climb aboard."
The volunteers exchanged uneasy glances. Rashan recognized those looks; he remembered Hell Week from his SEAL training—how easily trainees would quit when the grind became unbearable. All anyone had to do was ring the bell, and their suffering would end. The carriage was their bell.
Rashan set a deliberately slower pace on the return journey, an endurance jog he expected every capable warrior to manage. The sun had risen higher, its blazing heat oppressive, bearing down relentlessly upon the volunteers. The sand, already churned and unstable from their earlier passage, felt even more treacherous beneath tired feet, each step threatening to betray their balance.
Fatigue settled deeply into the volunteers' muscles, their initial adrenaline and determination now severely tested by exhaustion. Rashan listened to their labored breathing behind him, the ragged inhales and exhales of warriors pushing themselves beyond known limits. He knew this slower, sustained pace was just as punishing—perhaps more so—as the faster one they'd set earlier.
The first few miles back passed quietly, marked by grunts and heavy breathing, broken occasionally by a muttered curse or an encouraging whisper between comrades. Rashan noted the first volunteer to fall back—a Breton whose knees trembled before finally giving way, sinking into the sand with a defeated groan. Without judgment, Rashan continued forward, the carriage soon pulling up beside the Breton to offer the quiet dignity of retreat.
Mile after mile wore steadily at the volunteers' spirits. The desert's merciless heat drained them, blisters formed and ruptured painfully inside boots, and sweat stung their eyes and blurred vision. Rashan deliberately maintained a steady pace, his own breathing controlled, though even he felt the lingering fatigue from the day's exertions. Beside him, Jalil and Cassia continued without complaint, determination etched clearly across their sweat-drenched faces, refusing to show weakness to the volunteers who followed.
Around mile ten, another small group faltered. A pair of Redguards slowed, their bodies pushed to the brink, followed shortly by an Orc whose powerful frame finally succumbed to dehydration and fatigue. Rashan watched without comment as they drifted toward the carriage, their faces filled with quiet resignation.
By mile fifteen, the group had diminished further, more dropping out at a steady rate, their minds finally overtaking their bodies. The relentless monotony of the desert landscape, the harsh sun overhead, and the sheer pain in their limbs chipped away at resolve. Still, those who remained pressed onward, clinging stubbornly to pride and determination.
When the encampment finally came into sight, only forty volunteers remained. Rashan gradually slowed, allowing those who'd survived the trial to ease their battered bodies into a gentler pace. The volunteers who reached the encampment staggered and collapsed gratefully onto the sand, their chests heaving deeply, limbs shaking with exertion. Rashan surveyed them quietly, respect glinting in his eyes.
Among the survivors, Rashan noticed the father-son Nord duo Jalil had recommended, their heavy breathing a testament to their endurance, yet their eyes still burning with determination. The older Dark Elf remained upright, his breathing steady, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation—his resilience remarkable. Rashan also noticed a short Breton, standing barely over five feet tall. He chuckled softly, impressed and amused; the little warrior's legs moved in a blur during the run, his revolutions per minute astonishingly high, a testament to sheer stubbornness and willpower.
The remaining volunteers were a mixed group, dominated mostly by sturdy Redguards accustomed to the desert's harsh conditions. Several Orcs stood among them, their powerful builds ideal for enduring grueling physical challenges. A few more Bretons and Nords also made it through, each demonstrating notable resilience despite their obvious discomfort and fatigue.
"Well done," he said, his voice calm but carrying clear approval. "Today, you've proven you possess the endurance and willpower needed to continue forward. Rest now—you've earned it. Get some food and hydrate; the selection process continues through the night."