Rashan returned to his tent, feeling a familiar, satisfying ache of fatigue deep in his muscles. Inside, his teacher, Adrien, lounged comfortably, feet propped casually on a wooden crate, sipping from a steaming cup of tea with a lazy grace that suggested he'd been relaxing all day. The older man glanced up, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Rashan recalled vividly how, when he'd first laid out the intense selection trials and half-seriously invited his teacher to join, the man had burst into unrestrained laughter—laughter so hearty tears rolled freely down his cheeks.
"Kid, you really do have ambition, but no—absolutely not," he had wheezed between bouts of laughter. "You invited me, remember? Not the other way around. If any of your warriors question my place here, well…" He'd punctuated the statement with a playful flicker of lightning dancing in his eyes—a casual reminder of his immense power.
Now, back in the present, Rashan let out a soft, weary sigh as he met his mentor's amused gaze.
"So," his teacher began leisurely, swirling the tea gently in his cup, "how many actually survived your little desert outing?"
"About forty," Rashan replied steadily, though pride briefly lit his eyes.
The older man raised an eyebrow, expression mockingly skeptical. "And after this brief respite you've so generously granted them, how many do you honestly think will drag themselves back here to continue what passes as your normal Sundas routine?"
Rashan hesitated thoughtfully, then shrugged lightly, the hint of a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe thirty. Possibly thirty-five, if stubbornness gets the better of exhaustion."
His teacher chuckled deeply, setting down his cup and stretching theatrically, feigning a dramatic yawn. "Well, my young taskmaster, while you continue to push your volunteers beyond sanity, I'll take this opportunity to call it an early night." He rose smoothly, picking up his ever-present wine flask—a flask Rashan had never once seen him actually drink from.
"See you bright and early tomorrow, Rashan," the older man added cheerfully, sauntering casually toward the tent flap with an exaggerated wave.
Rashan shook his head, half in exasperation, half in affection. His mentor, endlessly powerful and undeniably brilliant, seemed determined to remain playfully irreverent about the entire ordeal. Yet, Rashan knew the man had earned every bit of his carefree confidence.
Drawing a steady breath, Rashan steeled himself for the evening ahead. More trials awaited—more warriors to test, decisions to weigh, and expectations to surpass. He wouldn't have it any other way.
Rashan returned to find that only thirty-three volunteers had made their way back, exhaustion already clear on their faces. He felt a pang of respect for those who had come this far but knew his work wasn't done—he still had to narrow it down further, to the twelve who would form the core of his elite unit.
He gathered them in a circle, placing a small bronze bell deliberately at the center. His eyes scanned the group slowly, noting their fatigue, determination, and lingering doubts.
"This next phase isn't mandatory," Rashan said firmly, his voice clear and authoritative. "You don't have to be here. If at any point tonight it becomes too much, just ring this bell. No shame. No judgment. Walk away with your pride intact."
The volunteers exchanged cautious glances, some visibly swallowing nerves, others steeling their resolve. Without further words, Rashan began.
Night descended swiftly, and with it came the grueling trials Rashan had meticulously planned—painstakingly modeled after the infamous 'Hell Week' of his previous life's SEAL training. It began with brutal, relentless sets of calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, burpees—all performed rhythmically, pushing muscles to their breaking point. Rashan himself led every set, demonstrating perfect form, his own sweat mixing with the dirt beneath him as he forced himself through every agonizing repetition.
Minutes stretched into hours, each second an eternity, as volunteers' bodies quivered under strain, faces contorted in silent pain. Occasionally, a soft ring echoed through the darkness as another volunteer reached their limit, quietly standing, ringing the bell, and leaving without looking back. Rashan would pause briefly, offering a respectful nod, before continuing without mercy.
As the night deepened, the volunteers moved on to timed obstacle runs under torchlight, hauling sandbags and heavy logs across uneven, rocky terrain. The endless repetition was merciless, designed not only to break the body but to test mental resilience. Blisters burst within boots, feet grew numb, and muscles burned ferociously with each agonizing step. Rashan's constant presence—unwavering, tireless, and resolute—kept morale from collapsing entirely.
Devan, the seasoned Dark Elf, felt each brutal exercise tearing at his aging frame. His muscles screamed for mercy, yet his seasoned pragmatism kept him going. He recognized the harsh wisdom in Rashan's methods, valuing the ruthless clarity of weeding out those who couldn't endure. War demanded strength—physical and mental—he understood that truth intimately. Rashan's relentless regimen affirmed Devan's own conviction that true strength could only emerge from such harsh trials.
Nearby, Gorrun and his father Dorran, the Nord duo recommended by Jalil, battled silently through each grueling phase. Gorrun, youthful yet fiercely determined, drew strength from his father's unyielding endurance, while Dorran maintained a quiet, stoic resilience. Both recognized Rashan's unwavering discipline, their earlier skepticism giving way to deep, newfound respect. Every order Rashan gave was mirrored in his own actions, reinforcing their growing loyalty and resolve.
Hours blurred together, and bodies grew numb with exhaustion. Rashan finally called the survivors together, his voice steady and commanding despite evident fatigue.
"Sit. Cross-legged, backs straight. Do not move, do not sleep. My command will be watching."
Silently, the battered survivors obeyed, arranging themselves on the cold, unforgiving ground. The sheer exhaustion pressed down on their shoulders like an invisible weight, heads nodding heavily as sleep whispered seductively in their ears. Rashan walked slowly around the perimeter, observing their wavering forms as the minutes painfully stretched into hours.
He knew that wars were not won by strength alone but by vigilance and mental fortitude. A lapse in focus, even briefly, could cost lives on the battlefield. Those who couldn't remain alert through exhaustion would be a liability—no matter how skilled physically. Periodically, the silence was broken by someone quietly standing, stiffly walking to the bell, and ringing it softly—a melancholy surrender that resonated through the darkness. Rashan acknowledged each departure with a respectful glance, never breaking the intense silence.
Dawn crept agonizingly slowly over the horizon, golden light illuminating the grim-faced survivors who remained upright, their eyes bloodshot but fiercely determined. Only fifteen volunteers now remained, their bodies wracked with exhaustion but their spirits hardened by the night's brutal trials. Rashan quietly dismissed those few who had succumbed to sleep, recognizing that mental resilience was just as crucial as physical stamina.
Rashan finally spoke, his voice quiet yet filled with clear pride. "Well done. You've proven yourselves resilient beyond expectation. Rest briefly now. We are not finished yet."
As dawn fully broke, bathing the exhausted volunteers in soft golden light, Rashan addressed the fifteen remaining warriors. They stood quietly, fatigue etched deeply into their faces, yet eyes sharp and alert despite their grueling ordeal.
"There are only twelve spots available," Rashan began, his voice steady and firm. "With fifteen of you left, three more must be eliminated."
A quiet ripple of tension passed through the group, eyes flickering uncertainly.
Rashan continued, deliberately calm. "I can create a harder test—one guaranteed to push you even further, break you down. Or… three of you can simply walk away now. If you choose to leave voluntarily, you will take a gold ingot with you."
Jalil stepped forward at Rashan's nod, revealing three hand-sized gold ingots gleaming brightly in the early sunlight. "If you force my hand and fail the next test, there will be no gold, no honor—only disappointment."
Silence hung heavy over the group. Rashan studied each candidate carefully:
Devan, the seasoned Dark Elf, stood stoically, his piercing eyes cold, calculating, and unreadable. Beside him stood another Dark Elf, younger and leaner, eyes darting with cunning awareness.
Gorrun and his father, Dorran, the Nord duo recommended by Jalil, stood resolute and proud, their Nordic features set in determined defiance—Gorrun's youthful fire matched by Dorran's steady calmness. Two other Nords stood close by: one tall and broad-shouldered, his face etched with battle scars, the other slightly shorter, wiry and agile-looking, eyes glinting fiercely.
Two imposing Orc warriors towered silently, their broad frames and powerful muscles rippling beneath their armor, eyes dark and fiercely disciplined.
A single Breton stood out vividly—a short, wiry man whose astonishing speed and stubborn determination had carried him through the trials, his eyes bright with relentless determination.
The remaining candidates were Redguards, each displaying the desert-born resilience and endurance characteristic of their people. Their varied builds ranged from lean and agile to muscular and sturdy, all sharing the same unyielding intensity and quiet confidence.
For a long, tense moment, no one moved.
Rashan pushed further, "I really think you've earned it. Tell you what—I'll double my offer. Two gold ingots each. Take them."
Still, no one stepped forward.
Rashan raised the stakes again, voice sharper now, testing their resolve. "Fine. Three ingots each—or I will make another test to decide who stays."
Dorran spoke up, voice gruff and decisive, "May I speak, my lord?"
Rashan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Sure."
The Nord's voice was fierce, unapologetic. "I'm here to kill some damned fur-lickers, tree-huggers, and arrogant knife-ears." The offensive tone was unmistakably Nord, deeply rooted in lore and tradition. "I don't know about these other blokes, but you can kindly take your gold and sh—" he caught himself sharply, realizing just who he was addressing. Clearing his throat, he adjusted hastily, "—and keep it. We don't want it."
Rashan grinned broadly respect evident in his gaze, he liked how candid the Nord had been.
Finally Rashan spoke I suppose I could keep my gold… beside I could always make three more masks."
He looked proudly over the remaining fifteen warriors. "Welcome to the Anbu, each of you. Rest today, because tomorrow the work starts.