Chapter 614: Shame and Humiliation(1)

Merza couldn’t make sense of it, no matter how many times he turned it over in his head.

Why had he passed?

He’d had his face hammered into the dirt. Thrown down like a sack of wheat and pounded until he could barely breathe. There was no glory in what he did. He hadn’t won. He hadn’t even come close.

So why?

he wondered, brow furrowed, lips curled in confusion.

Did they just want us to fight hard? To not run away?

He might’ve sat brooding all night if not for the sharp shove in his back and a nasal voice that followed, rough and irritated:

"Move your ass, man! We’re starving here!"

Merza blinked back to reality. The line ahead of him had already cleared, and he was the last one still standing dumbstruck. The men behind were restless, some nursing split lips and swollen cheeks, all of them hungry.

Mumbling an apology, he stepped forward and held out his wooden bowl. The cook didn’t even glance at him, just sloshed in a ladle of steaming soup.

Merza’s eyes widened the moment he saw the chunk of meat bobbing at the surface.

Real meat.

It wasn’t that he’d never eaten it—he grew up on a farm, after all, and they kept sheep and goats—but the last time he’d tasted meat was months ago, when a lamb had broken its leg and his father had reluctantly slaughtered it.

His stomach clenched with anticipation, and he swallowed thickly. The savory aroma was like a warm hand on his shoulder. He barely registered the four pieces of coarse bread dropped onto the side of his bowl. That was more bread than his entire family shared in a day.

Do the prince’s soldiers eat like this every day?

he wondered, dazed.

What he didn’t know was that this was just a recruit’s portion—generous to lure them in, yes, but still basic compared to what the Black Stripes, the elite of Yarzat’s White Army, enjoyed.

Their rations were a point of pride and policy. Balanced meals, fresh produce, rich stews, hearty loaves, and—once a week—pasta. Yes, pasta. The new delicacy of Yarzat’s court kitchen, so prized that even the wealthiest merchants had to grovel or bribe their way for a taste. But for the Black Stripes? It was routine. Standard issue.

Not out of decadence, but design.

Pasta lasted long when dried, required little water to cook, and filled a belly fast—perfect for the logistical nightmare of wartime marches through scorched valleys or storm-drenched hills. It was a commander’s dream and a soldier’s salvation.

But Merza didn’t know any of that. He only knew that this was the best thing he’d smelled in weeks, maybe months. And he didn’t care if his body ached or if his face looked like he’d lost a duel with a hammer.

He had meat. He had bread. He had passed.

And for now, that was more than enough.

He soon sat down at one of the long, rough tables beneath the canvas of the mess tent, the steam rising from his bowl curling in the cold air like ghosts dancing before him. He took his seat alone, his limbs aching and face sore with every blink. The bench creaked under his weight, or perhaps it groaned in sympathy.

All around him were strangers. The thirty fellows he had marched into the capital with—friends, neighbors, men he had known since he could walk—were gone.

Not a trace of them in sight.

Apparently, he was the only one of his village left standing.

Merza’s eyes drifted over the sea of recruits. No longer did they number in the thousands. Now they were barely more than a few hundred. Less than half of the half they had once been. Culling was swift and merciless.

As apparently the White Army had no need for the timid or soft.

He picked up a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, the surface parting like a curtain, revealing the boiled meat beneath. His stomach growled loud enough to be impolite, but no one looked up. Everyone was too busy nursing their wounds and chewing like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

He was halfway through his bowl when he noticed movement across the table.

He looked up and blinked—then blinked again to be sure.

A boy with a swollen jaw and a blackened eye was lowering himself onto the bench opposite him. His face wasn’t quite as purple as Merza’s, but it was still a shade best suited for bruised fruit. He squinted one eye and grinned lopsidedly.

"Knew it," the lad said, pointing a finger at Merza. "My eyes don’t lie. I knew I recognized that sorry mug."

Merza stared for a moment, stunned, before recognition hit him like a slap. "You’re the one who kicked my ribs in."

The older boy chuckled and sat down fully, setting his bowl in front of him. "And you’re the one who got up afterward. Good punches, by the way."

Merza snorted. "You beat the piss outta me."

"I said good punches, not that you won," the boy replied with a wink, already bringing a chunk of meat to his mouth. He chewed noisily, eyes rolling back slightly with pleasure. "Gods, it’s been

months

since I had meat."

Merza nodded solemnly. "Likewise." He returned to his own meal, dipping his bread again, this time with a little more joy. The moment felt strange—two battered boys, enemies for a minute, allies for who knew how long. Sharing silence and soup.

Steam still drifted lazily from both their bowls as the older boy leaned forward and extended a hand, knuckles still raw and reddish. "Name’s Darnel," he said, voice rasped from the day’s exertions but still carrying a friendly lilt.

Merza took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "Merza. Good to meet you properly, now that we’re not trying to break each other’s faces."

They both gave a tired chuckle before reaching for the dented metal cups at their sides. The soup was hearty, but so hot it clung to the tongue like molten glue. In perfect synchrony, they both gulped their water to cool their scorched throats, slamming the cups back down with a shared hiss.

After a moment, Darnel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned closer. "Mind if I share a thought about that last test?"

Merza raised a curious brow, tilting his head. "Go on."

Darnel glanced sideways as if checking for eavesdroppers, though the other recruits were far too busy nursing bruises and devouring their rations to pay attention. "Been asking around a bit. Turns out, sometimes the one who

won

the fight was the only one to fail. And sometimes the loser passed alone. Hell, in a few matches, they failed both. So I figure—who wins or loses don’t mean squat."

He paused, scooping some more soup, then pointed his spoon at Merza. "I think the real test was if you took the hits and kept swinging. That’s what they wanted to see. How we handled pain. Whether we froze up or fought back."

Merza considered that momentarily, chewing on a chunk of bread before nodding slowly. ’’Mafe fenf’’ he said with a mouthful of bread before swallowing. "I guess if you’re going to wear the prince’s colors, you better be willing to bleed a little for them."

"Exactly," Darnel said, grinning now. "Anyway, just wanted to make sure there weren’t any bad feelings between us. Wasn’t personal, you know?"

Merza gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Would be beyond stupid to hold a grudge over that. We both got knocked around—no shame in it."

Darnel leaned back a little, blowing gently on his soup before asking, "So, what brought you here? Why’d you try your luck?"

Merza looked up from his bread, surprised by the question, but not annoyed. Instead, a faint grin crept across his bruised face. "Who

wouldn’t

have tried?"

He gestured vaguely around them, as if the answer was obvious in the very dirt they sat on.

"The White Army," he began, his voice gaining a quiet strength, "they’re not just any soldiers. They’re the Prince’s own hand. The Legion of Yarzat.

You serve in their ranks, and you’re not just some poor boy from the fields anymore. You get coin—not copper, but silver. Food like this," he said, lifting a piece of meat from his bowl, "every day. Your family gets protection. Respect. You go from working the land to shaping it with a sword." He paused, eyes distant for a moment. "It’s the kind of chance that only comes once, and only to those willing to bleed for it."

Then he looked back at Darnel, brow furrowing. "And you? I imagine you didn’t come just for meat and silver."

Darnel stirred his soup quietly before answering, his voice low and a little more serious. "You’re right. What you said—it’s all true. It’s a damn fine reason to be here." He hesitated, then met Merza’s eyes. "But for me, it’s... personal."

Merza raised a brow. "Oh?"

Darnel gave a short nod. "I was saved by them once. The White Army. I have got a debt to repay them, and most importantly, I have to meet someone, and this is the best chance that I will ever get."

He didn’t elaborate right away. He didn’t have to.

There was weight in his words, enough to let Merza know that behind Darnel’s easy manner and swollen face, there was a story heavy with blood and fate—one not yet told, but burning quietly behind his eyes, providing him with the grit that Merza had never seen in anyone up until that point.