Our Family Has Fallen

Outside the training camp, beyond the town, a long line had formed. Everyone who met the criteria and wished to enlist was here.

All were brimming with enthusiasm; some even lied about their age in hopes of joining.

It had to be said, in these times, the birthdates of commoners were a mess; even they themselves might not know their precise age.

No one had a solution for this issue; one could only roughly judge based on appearance and physical condition.

But vision, strength, stamina, willpower, medical exams… a series of tests would definitely filter out most of the unqualified, leaving behind only the truly eligible recruits.

Lance was no fool; he wouldn't give those opportunists a chance to mooch benefits.

After the completion of the training camp infrastructure, a closed management system was adopted. These recruits received only one day of rest in seven; their remaining time was wholly consumed by training and learning.

The relentless, high-intensity training was meant to refine the truly elite. Anyway, even if they suffered hidden ailments, "Flesh Reconstruction" would take care of them once they graduated. Such injuries, not being critical, did not consume much power—treating five hundred wouldn't cost much.

Not to mention he wasn't short on such things now. What he lacked was—faster! More! Stronger! Fifty good brothers.

All those selected for reserve duty would enter the training camp, guided by the veteran soldiers to familiarize themselves with the place.

The ten soldiers who had previously been with the unit were retained by Lance to assist in managing these new recruits. Though they only had about a month more experience, having survived so many battles, they could certainly be considered veterans.

"You see, this is the equipment My Lord wore when he led us to exterminate the bandits," a veteran soldier said with obvious pride, bringing them before a displayed suit of armor.

The reservists looked at the dark brown armor. It was almost entirely covered with dried bloodstains, with only a few parts revealing the silver-white color of the metal. A single glance was enough to make one feel a chilling aura of carnage.

What was more astonishing were the myriad weapon marks on it, provoking curiosity about the kind of fierce battles that must have been fought, and how My Lord, who wore this armor, had managed to survive.

Nearby, a two-handed Great Sword was displayed. Its blade was nearly devoid of any intact edges, covered in the marks of various battles, with dried blood clots clinging to it, giving one the impression it thirsted for blood.

"And then?" a keen new recruit inquired, their interest piqued. The veteran, not holding back, began to recount the tale in a loud voice.

"In that battle, My Lord led thirty of us to surround a hundred bandits, but those bandits were no pushovers…"

Soon, everyone was engrossed in the story, their minds painting vivid pictures of the scene, subconsciously inserting themselves into it.

When the tale reached a perilous turn, they tensed. But hearing how My Lord charged through the bandits brought a refreshing thrill, as if they too were there, enjoying the elation of triumphant vengeance.

Oddly, upon hearing such an outlandish story, their first instinct was not to question its authenticity.

But on reflection, it made sense. Some of them had seen Lance combat pirates, while others had witnessed him liberate the convoy; in both cases, he had demonstrated extraordinary battle prowess.

And some, inspired by the tale, even entertained a few interesting ideas.

"I want to be just like My Lord!" exclaimed one of the recruits.

Hearing this, the veteran couldn't help but chuckle at the youngster's naiveté.

Many had thought the same when My Lord first joined the camp to train with them, but soon, they'd all understand the gap.

"Who do you think you are to even compare yourselves to My Lord? His story is far from that simple," the veteran soldier said, leading them towards the record board of training achievements. "Look here," he continued, pointing. "There might be corrections below, but the top name has never changed. That record is a level beyond the reach of ordinary folks."

"Back then, My Lord only took less than…" the veteran began. Even in Lance's absence, his legend continued to spread.

As for the armor and weapon, they were beyond repair, so Lance had simply set up a room to display these items.

Honor could often move people more than money. Anyone who entered the room would be captivated by the legendary stories; his influence would not wane, but only grow more pronounced.

After touring the facility, when they finally assembled in the square and saw My Lord, his figure seemed somehow taller than before.

Lance surveyed the uneven recruits with a hint of resignation in his eyes.

Out of five thousand carefully chosen, this is the best I could muster. It can't be helped; they were previously refugees with nothing to eat. I hope that by nurturing them, I can draw out a few top-tier talents.

"First, I want to congratulate you!" Lance bellowed. "Congratulations on standing out from so many and earning the opportunity to become an honorable soldier."

These words thrilled the recruits. Many felt lucky to have been chosen, attributing it somewhat to luck and skill, and for a moment, they were slightly carried away.

But Lance's next words brought them crashing back to earth.

"However, this is just an opportunity. It doesn't mean you're guaranteed to join. You must pass the trials. Otherwise, get out, because my army does not take in the worthless!"