Excerpt 13

  (Page 56, Section 1)

  To a true warrior, honor is more than just a code—it is the foundation upon which their entire identity is built. Every decision, every battle, and every sacrifice is guided by a deep commitment to personal and communal integrity.

  Honor shapes the way a warrior engages with allies and enemies alike, often determining whether they are remembered as a noble champion or a ruthless brute. Without it, strength becomes meaningless, and victory turns hollow.

  Those who abandon their honor are not simply breaking a code—they are forsaking their very claim to the title of warrior. In our tribe, honor is not a weight to bear but a heavy duty, carried with pride and passed down through countless generations. We believe that only those who fight with unwavering conviction, steadfast dignity, and a clear sense of purpose are truly worthy of stepping onto the battlefield.

  Source: Warrior’s Honor – War Chief Bloodmace

  Excerpt 13 End

  This place was great.

  Hassan looked around, ears open and eyes alert, trying to absorb everything he could. The strange, foreign language spoken here—though composed of short, clipped syllables—seemed dense with meaning, every word carrying weight far beyond its length.

  It had been roughly three weeks since he was abandoned by the caregiver, and during that time, he had learned more about this world than ever before—which, to be fair, meant more than the zero words he had known prior. His progress was slow but steady, and every new word picked up was a small victory.

  Aside from the occasional nuisance of the younger children, who now looked up to him simply because he could stand while they still crawled, and the difficulty in concealing his training due to the ever-watchful eyes of the adults, there were very few downsides to this place.

  The meals were wholesome and filled with nutrients, the environment warm and safe, and—perhaps most importantly—there was always a comfortable bed waiting for him at the end of the day.

  Even better, he had discovered a nearby area where older clothed children were being taught the local language more directly. From a distance, he could observe and pick up words without drawing too much attention. Unfortunately, the children learning there were painfully slow, often struggling with basic vocabulary, and Hassan sometimes couldn’t see what the instructor was pointing to.

  Still, this wasn’t an insurmountable problem. By peeking at even older groups of students from time to time, he managed to expand his vocabulary further. The only catch was that these more advanced classes seemed to require some foundational knowledge of the language—basic words that Hassan was still working to grasp.

  One observation that stuck with him was the shift in the adults’ demeanor over the past few days. They had become tense, uneasy. Something was clearly bothering them. He recalled a peculiar event: a magical barrier or bubble had formed overhead, and dark clouds had started to gather, hinting at an approaching storm. The memory lingered, nagging at him with a sense of foreboding.

  Lost in thought, he almost missed the fact that the language lesson had come to an end. Apparently, the zamongarai had short attention spans—lessons rarely lasted beyond thirty minutes. But there was one thing they could focus on for hours without complaint.

  Combat.

  No sooner had the lesson ended than the same children who were learning words moments earlier erupted into excited cheers. They rushed to grab wooden weapons—swords, axes, spears, and more—and began sparring with each other in bursts of chaotic energy.

  There was no bloodshed, thankfully, but the intensity was real. Some even went for vital areas like the neck. When things escalated too far, an adult intervened with blinding speed, separating the children and preparing them for more structured combat training.

  Hassan continued his mobility exercises off to the side, never missing an opportunity to train. By now, his body moved automatically, the exercises woven into his routine like breathing or meditation.

  He paid close attention as the instructor shouted a name, and a child stepped forward with a spear. With a roar, the child charged at the adult—clearly trying to intimidate or empower themselves with the noise. The attack was easily blocked or sidestepped. Despite the adult’s instructions, the child kept repeating the same attack pattern, showing little adaptability.

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  Eventually, the adult tripped the child, who lost their weapon mid-fall. Undeterred, the child sprang to his feet and launched a flurry of strikes using his bare hands. Surprisingly, he seemed more controlled unarmed than when using a weapon. Still, after a few fruitless attempts, the child hurled himself forward—only to fall flat into the dirt.

  A round of laughter broke out among the children. Red-faced, the boy snapped at them, only prompting more giggles. Furious and humiliated, he turned on his hecklers, but since he was unarmed, they quickly overpowered him.

  This time, the adult didn’t intervene immediately. Instead, he let the child be beaten down—a harsh lesson in control, pride, and timing.

  After a few moments, the adult broke it up and called forward the next child. The pattern continued, each bout different, yet all teaching valuable fundamentals.

  Hassan soaked it all in. Despite the crude and chaotic appearances, each child demonstrated a growing understanding of form. Even imperfect, their moves gave him ideas. If he could observe long enough and compare the various styles, maybe—just maybe—he could develop his own fighting style.

  Of course, that path would be long. For one, he hadn’t even decided on a weapon yet. But one had caught his eye.

  The flail.

  Not just any flail—but one with a sharp, edged blade at the base of the handle.

  To Hassan, it seemed like the most versatile and effective weapon available. The flail’s unpredictable arc made it nearly impossible to parry, and it could smash through shields with raw momentum. The added blade offered a quick-cutting option in tight quarters, or when finesse mattered more than brute force.

  Better still, the handle-blade could function as a dagger, while the chain and spiked head could be used for parrying, disarming, or even shielding. He had once seen an adult demonstrate its usage, and the elegance with which it was wielded left a deep impression.

  Its only drawback was the steep learning curve. Without precise control, a careless swing could just as easily injure the wielder as the enemy. But Hassan wasn’t concerned. His mastery over the flail had been steadily growing, honed through relentless practice within the system space. Day by day, his coordination and reflexes sharpened, turning potential danger into refined technique.

  As the final child sparred with the adult instructor, the others were paired off to fight one another under supervision.

  Then, something unexpected happened. One child landed a cheap blow—directly to his opponent’s groin. The strike was effective but dishonorable.

  The instructor didn’t take it lightly. He stormed over, yelling furiously in the child's face for a solid minute before calling over the victim and instructing them to return the blow. The resulting strike left everyone wide-eyed. Even Hassan, whose legs instinctively tensed at the sight, had to look away.

  Needless to say, after that, everyone became far more cautious about where they aimed.

  Strangely, none of the children ever showed signs of exhaustion, no matter how long or rough the training. Even injuries that should have left them limping were gone within hours. Hassan once witnessed a boy take a blow to the face, his eye swelling shut—only to see it completely healed by the afternoon. That confirmed what he had begun to suspect: the others possessed the same Zamongarai’s Physique talent as he did. In fact, some of them might already be ranked higher than him.

  Eventually, the training ended, and meals were distributed. Children his age were force-fed, usually because they wanted to play instead of eat or insisted on doing it their own way.

  Except him.

  He ate quietly and efficiently, no fuss, no mess. The adults only observed.

  He still remembered the first time they saw him eat by himself. The adult assigned to feed him looked on in shock as Hassan took the bowl and fed himself peacefully. Their expression was priceless.

  Even more amusing was when he first stood and walked. The adults practically panicked—gathering together and yelling in disbelief. The moment was almost comedic.

  By now, he had counted around fifty adults, each with their own roles—teachers, caretakers, cooks, cleaners, and others with miscellaneous tasks. There were also ten child groups, sorted by size and apparent age, ranging from smaller than him to nearly as large as the adults themselves.

  One thing he still found bizarre was the fire at the center of the tent. At first, it seemed like a normal large flame, but that illusion was quickly shattered.

  The fire was alive.

  Whenever a child defecated, the fire would incinerate the waste into dust. The first time he witnessed it, he had nearly fainted. Over time, he became desensitized, though a hint of discomfort still lingered.

  From the Basic Tracking Manual, he suspected the flame was a fire spirit—sentient, and possibly bound to this place. He spent hours observing it, trying to learn its behaviors. But outside of reacting to excrement, it didn’t move. Eventually, he gave up.

  Although he tried to blend in with the other children, acting close enough to his age, his growth was becoming hard to ignore. Babies who were once his size were now noticeably smaller.

  He worried that the adults might begin to question it. But if they noticed, they said nothing. Maybe they chalked it up to natural differences. Maybe they simply didn’t care.

  Just as he was lost in thought, an adult suddenly approached and scooped him up. For a moment, Hassan assumed he was being taken for cleaning or some other mundane task.

  He was wrong.

  The adult carried him to a group of older children. Clearly, his rapid growth and behavioral differences hadn’t gone unnoticed. The caretakers had decided to bump him up a group.

  The children here were more mobile, some crawling, a few walking clumsily. They gathered around and stared at him, expressionless. It made him uneasy.

  Fortunately, they lost interest quickly, going back to smacking the floor or each other for no reason. This was much better—less clingy.

  Smack!

  Pain flared on the side of Hassan’s head. He turned and saw a child giggling nearby, clearly pleased with himself.

  Hassan’s hand twitched, tempted to retaliate—but he stopped himself. He was beyond that. Turning to leave, he was slapped again.

  This time, he clenched his teeth and walked away, resisting the urge to respond. He needed to return to training—and maybe, if he worked hard enough, he’d get moved up to a group with children less prone to petty antics—and more like true warriors in the making.