Over the next few days, whispers of the new company's creation swept through the Lower Quarter like wildfire. The audacity of its founders—not even considering to post a single notice in the Commercial Quarter—was seen by some as bold, even courageous. But to the mercenaries dwelling in the Commercial Quarter, it felt like a bitter jest, as if someone had spat in their faces. Many swore they would have nothing to do with this upstart company, while others grew curious about the sort of ragtag individuals who might appear at such trial.
Jamie had anticipated this very reaction; in fact, he relied on it to shape the trial he envisioned. In recent days, besides aiding Knall in assembling the brewing equipment and performing songs in the evenings, Jamie and Thomas dedicated every day to rigorous training.
Beyond the city's edge, near where Thomas lived with his daughter, the two men engaged in constant exercise to prepare for the upcoming trail and the following battles it would have. Each drill and routine was part of a comprehensive training regimen they had meticulously crafted together.
Thomas shared with Jamie the training he had within the Hafenstadt Military Academy. While Jamie attempted to use his blessing [Memories of the Past] on himself for the first time.
To his astonishment, he discovered he could not only access Jay's memories but also explore his own. One memory stood out vividly—when he was merely ten years old, immersed in studying the ancient Roman Empire. It was one of his few passions during childhood, marked by his father's absence and his mother's indifference.
From the pages of those old books, he read about the rigorous training regimens of Roman legionaries. Using this knowledge, he began intertwining techniques from both worlds, forging a basic training program to be implemented over the next three months.
'It could be better, but I've never studied about modern military… who would imagine it would be useful?' Jamie thought bitterly.
Today was one of those rare days when neither Thomas nor Jamie trained. They needed to be at the peak of their strength for the event that awaited them.
Beyond the colossal walls and gates of Hafenstadt sprawled a small village clinging to the hillside. Dozens of timeworn wooden houses with patched roofs stood defiantly, as if locked in an endless battle against the ravages of time and the relentless Monster Rushes. The crooked and uneven structures clustered along a dusty dirt path, where weeds sprouted freely between loose stones. Faded strips of cloth fluttered gently in the breeze, hung on lines stretched from one sagging house to another.
Among the more distant dwellings was one with a vast open space before it—the only one where a little girl played, her laughter ringing out as she ran across the dry, cracked earth.
In this expanse of hardened ground—the closest thing the village had to a square—Thomas and Jamie hammered the last nails into the platform they had constructed. As soon as the final nail was driven, the first onlookers began to gather around them. At first, it was merely one or two curious souls, then a handful more, until finally, hundreds stood waiting around the wooden platform.
The crowd was a tumultuous sea of faces and intentions. From his vantage atop the platform, Jamie surveyed them. He could clearly distinguish the seasoned mercenaries—hardened warriors whose stern and unfriendly expressions were worn as medals. Their hands rested instinctively on the hilts of their weapons, eyes sharp and wary.
Scattered among them were the residents of the Lower Quarter, identifiable by their threadbare clothes and hopeful eyes. Men and women who sought a chance at steady employment, a glimmer of opportunity to lift them from their daily lives.
And woven through the mass were thieves, pickpockets, and various other miscreants. Some lurked at the edges, eyes darting, fingers itching to relieve someone of a coin or two. Others stood boldly among the crowd, perhaps sent by organizations with interests of their own, or merely seeking to infiltrate the new company for purposes unknown.
The air was thick with anticipation and the murmur of whispered conversations. A gust of wind stirred the dust at their feet and set the faded cloths fluttering overhead.
Jamie exchanged a glance with Thomas, who gave a barely perceptible nod. This was the moment they had prepared for—the culmination of weeks of planning and toil.
"Welcome," he called out, his voice strong and clear against the backdrop of the quiet village. "To all who have gathered here seeking a new path, a new purpose—I thank you for coming."
As Jamie stepped forward on the makeshift platform, the crowd's murmur hushed into an expectant silence. Every eye turned toward him, the anticipation palpable beneath the gray morning sky.
"We are about to start the trial for the first members of the Golden Fiddle Company," he announced, his voice clear and steady. "There will be three stages: a basic physical trial, a combat trial, and finally, an interview. For those who are selected, there will be a fixed payment of eighty silver coins per month."
A ripple of astonishment swept through the gathered throng. Even the hardened mercenaries exchanged incredulous glances. The sum was substantial—far more generous than the earnings offered by established companies, let alone a fledgling one.
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"Impossible," someone muttered from the back. "Where's he going to get that kind of money?"
"Even the army pays less than that," another scoffed.
"He must not know how much a campaign actually brings in," a veteran whispered to his companion, shaking his head.
Whispers and doubtful murmurs spread through the crowd, skepticism etched on many faces. The noise grew rowdy as conversations overlapped and concerns were voiced openly.
Jamie remained unfazed. "For those who wish to withdraw or feel that this is not the path for you," he continued, projecting his voice above the din, "you are free to leave at any time. There will be no formal process to quit."
With that, he descended from the platform, the wooden structure creaking under his boots. The crowd parted before him as he began to walk through the village, heading toward the towering walls of Hafenstadt. Thomas fell into step beside him.
Curiosity tugged at the assembly, drawing them along like a tide. Feet shuffled, and the murmurs subsided into a quiet pursuit.
"Every day," Jamie called back over his shoulder, "we run three laps following the southern walls."
The statement hung in the air, heavy with implication. Eyes widened, and a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
"Three laps?" a young man blurted out. "That's nearly twenty kilometers!"
"He's mad," an older mercenary grumbled.
"Even seasoned soldiers don't run that far daily," someone else chimed in, disbelief coloring his tone.
Jamie stopped and turned to face them. His gaze was firm, unwavering. "In a fight for life or death," he said, "Maintaining your strength from the first strike to the last in a battle is critical. If you aim to stand alongside us, we expect nothing less than the stamina to keep up."
A few in the crowd looked away, daunted by the challenge. Others squared their shoulders, determination flickering in their eyes.
"So, to pass this first phase," Jamie continued, "it's quite simple: complete three laps around Hafenstadt."
"Impossible," a voice called out.
"They're looking for fools willing to kill themselves," another sneered.
Jamie took a breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. "Begin!" he shouted.
Without another word, he launched into motion, his stride strong and measured. His light attire billowed slightly with each movement.
At first, the crowd of over a hundred stood uncertainly, watching as Jamie and Thomas took off at a steady pace down the dusty path. A hush fell over them, and the only sounds were the soft rustle of the sea breeze and the distant cry of gulls. Then, as if breaking free from an invisible tether, a handful of men and women broke into a jog, pursuing the two figures ahead. This movement sparked others into action, and soon dozens more joined, the assembly transforming into a determined group as they began to run in earnest.
Thomas ran just a stride behind Jamie. Behind them, the foremost group struggled to keep pace, already falling dozens of meters behind. Neither Jamie nor Thomas seemed concerned about the others; for them, this was nothing more than their daily regimen.
The landscape encircling Hafenstadt was barren yet serene—a flat expanse stretching toward the horizon, punctuated only by the glittering expanse of the sea to their left. The air was crisp, tinged with the salty tang of the ocean. As they reached the point where the path curved along the coastline, the rhythmic crashing of waves provided a steady cadence to their strides. Upon reaching this juncture, they began their return, tracing the route back toward the towering silhouette of the city walls.
High atop those formidable ramparts, soldiers on duty paused to observe the spectacle unfolding below. The sight of two men leading a vast cohort of runners was an unusual one, stirring whispers among the guards. Some leaned on their spears, shading their eyes against the sun to get a better look.
"By the gods, look at 'em go," one soldier remarked.
One of his companions replied. "I heard they're starting some new company."
"A company, eh? Looks like they're whipping those folks into shape."
As the runners passed beneath the walls, the soldiers shouted down words of encouragement, while others wagered on who would endure.
Completing the first lap, Jamie glanced over his shoulder subtly, his eyes assessing. To his mild surprise, about sixty people still kept up the pace—a far greater number than he had anticipated at this stage. Sweat glistened on their brows, and their breaths came heavier, but determination was etched on their faces.
"More than we expected," Thomas grunted, matching his gaze.
Jamie nodded. "They've got spirit; I'll give them that."
But as the second lap wore on, the weariness began to show. The relentless pace and distance started to take its toll. Runners began to drop off, some slowing to a walk before stopping entirely, leaning on their knees or collapsing beside the path. The once-unified group fragmented steadily, the gaps between runners widening like cracks in a drying riverbed.
By the time they embarked on the third and final lap, only a hardy few remained in sight of Jamie and Thomas. The sun climbed higher, the heat pressing down upon the land like a heavy cloak. The scent of the sea intensified, mingling with the dust kicked up by their feet.
Two hours after they had set off, Jamie and Thomas crossed the makeshift finish line back at the village square. The wooden platform awaited them, and they climbed atop it, their footsteps echoing on the planks. Settling down, they drank deeply from their water skins, their gazes fixed on the horizon where the path stretched back toward the city walls.
They waited.
Time stretched on, the quiet broken only by the rustling of the wind and distant calls from within the village. It was a full half-hour before the first runners came into view—a lone figure, staggering yet resolute. As he neared, his steps faltered, and upon reaching the platform, he collapsed onto his back, chest heaving as he gulped in air.
Ten minutes later, another runner appeared, then another. Each arrival was met with quiet acknowledgment. Some fell to the ground in exhaustion, while others remained standing, their gazes distant as they wrestled with their fatigue.
Gradually, the trickle of returning runners ceased. Only twenty had completed the grueling trial out of the original hundred. They gathered near the platform, some sitting, others sprawled out on the dry earth, all united by their shared ordeal.
As Jamie's keen eyes scanned the weary faces, he noted two young figures among them, the boys from the Cutpurses.
[author]
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[/author]