The heat hit like a wall. Sand, sweat, and sun baked together until the air itself felt thick enough to chew. Wooden dummies stood in crooked lines across the yard, their shadows short and sharp. Every few seconds came the sound of fists striking them, followed by a grunt, a laugh, or the sharp snap of effort done right. The smell of oil, dust, and leather mixed with the dry tang of sweat and sunlight until the whole place smelled like motion itself. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t elegant. It was honest. Alive.

  The guard who had walked me through the gate pointed toward a figure near the center of the yard. “That’s Greta,” he said. “Your instructor for your time here. Try not to die.” Then he left, shutting the gate behind me with a sound that felt final, like it was closing on childhood itself.

  Greta was an orc. Broad, heavy-muscled, gray-green skin darkened by years of sun. Her bright red hair was tied in a short, frayed braid, and her arms bore more scars than some battlefields. One ran from shoulder to elbow, smooth and pale against darker skin, the kind that told a story she didn’t need to repeat. Her tusks were capped in dull copper, her eyes a sharp amber that didn’t miss much. She stood with her feet planted like roots, the kind of stance that said she could take a storm head-on and win.

  She noticed me immediately. “Hells,” she muttered, hands on her hips. “That can’t be my new trainee. That’s a baby.”

  “I’m three,” I said, steady as I could manage.

  Her brow rose. “Three? You sure you’re supposed to be here?”

  “My parents agreed that I could start as soon as possible.”

  Greta stared another heartbeat, then huffed out a short laugh. “Your parents are either brave or tired of you. Fine then. Three’s the youngest the guild allows, so I guess that makes you legal. Don’t expect any sympathy.”

  She crouched down, her knees popping like old wood. “Name?”

  “Azolo.”

  She grinned, one tusk catching the light. “Pretentious, but I’ve heard worse.” Straightening, she raised her voice so it carried over the yard. “Welcome to the Martial Adventurers Training! You’ll be with me for as long as it takes to make a real adventurer out of you, or until you hit adulthood and fail out. So, three years old, you said? That means you’ve got nine years before you hit twelve. For a reincarnator, that’s your window. Nine years I’ve got you for, unless you somehow make it before that. But legally, you won’t be allowed to take contracts until you’re twelve anyway, so you might as well stick around. Some of you will. The good ones usually do. By then, maybe you’ll find out what it really means to be an Adventurers Guild member by helping train the younger kids. But that’s a long time from now.”

  Her voice carried easily, deep and commanding. Even the rowdiest of the older kids went quiet to listen. The yard was full of them, children between five and eleven, with one tall orcish boy who looked at least twelve. They were taller, louder, already forming little rivalries and alliances. I was the smallest by far, still short enough to be mistaken for someone’s sibling dragged along by accident. Some of them leaned against posts or crossed their arms like miniature adults. Others just fidgeted in the heat. When Greta turned her head their way, though, silence followed like a shadow.

  “All right, runt,” she said to me. “First lesson’s balance. Everyone starts the same way.” She dragged a wooden beam into the sand and dropped it with a solid thunk. “Walk it. Heel to toe. Eyes forward. Fall three times, you do push-ups. No shortcuts.”

  I climbed up, testing the surface. The beam wobbled slightly beneath my feet, but it didn’t matter. Balance came naturally to me after all the practice I had done. My steps were slow, but sure, and deliberate. I reached the end, turned, and walked back the other way without stumbling once. Greta’s eyes narrowed, then she smiled, impressed despite herself.

  “Well, that’s new,” she said. “Guess we found one thing you won’t need my help with.” She tapped the beam with her boot. “Great footing, kid. Balance is the foundation of everything we do. Balance is what keeps your head out of the dirt.”

  Around me, the others struggled. A few toppled off immediately, grumbling. Greta corrected them one by one, barking quick, sharp advice. “Look ahead, not down. Breathe steady. The body follows the eyes.” Some tried to argue, others muttered, but they always got back up. The yard filled with the rhythmic thuds of children hitting sand and trying again. She watched all of us, never looking away for long. There was no cruelty in it, just a kind of honest attention that made everyone move harder.

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  When we finished, she nodded once. “Better. Now you’ve got legs under you, let’s see what you can do with them,” she said to one of the older trainees who had nearly managed a full pass without falling. “You’re starting to look like a person instead of a sack of nerves.”

  The rest of the morning blurred into a rhythm of motion. Stretch, breathe, stand, fall, repeat. Greta called out corrections with clipped authority. “Breathe through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t lock up your joints. Stop thinking about falling and move.” She didn’t waste words. She didn’t waste anything. Each motion she made had purpose, like a craftsman working the forge. Whatever she believed in, it wasn’t prayer. It was practice.

  We broke for a quick meal, bread, stew, and water. It wasn’t fancy, but after hours in the sun it might as well have been gold. Greta ate with us, sitting cross-legged in the sand. She didn’t separate herself. She watched, listened, occasionally tossing a joke toward the louder kids. When one of the smaller girls complained about the heat, Greta only grinned and said, “Good. Means you’re working hard. That’s your body thanking you.” Even the girl laughed.

  After the meal, she stood, brushing sand from her knees, and brought us to a row of training dummies. They were roughly human-shaped, about six inches thick through the torso, packed with sand and wrapped tight in hide. Most had already been patched a dozen times.

  “Lesson two,” she said. “Follow-through. A punch doesn’t stop at the target. You don’t punch the dummy; you punch through it. Always through your enemy.” She stepped forward, drew a breath, and struck. The dummy splintered. The impact echoed across the yard. “See that? You follow through, you end what you start.”

  She made us line up. The older ones looked confident. They knew this part. The younger ones fidgeted, whispering. I waited, watching the way Greta’s hips moved, the way her shoulders turned just before impact. She wasn’t swinging her arms. She was using everything from the soles of her feet to the tip of her knuckles.

  When my turn came, I copied her stance as best I could. I had never thrown a punch in either life. I tucked my thumb into my fingers, swung forward, and felt pain explode through my hand. “I think I broke something,” I said, clutching it tight.

  Greta crouched beside me, shaking her head with a low laugh. “Yeah, you probably did. Thumb goes outside next time. Go see the healer, get fixed, and when you’re done, come back and try again. We keep at it until you all get it right.”

  I nodded, grimacing. “Okay.”

  She gave a faint smile. “At least you were trying to follow through. That’s the most important step. Never forget to follow through.”

  The guild healers worked fast. My knuckles stopped aching within minutes, the magic dull and warm like a hand pressed against fire until the pain melted away. They didn’t scold me. They just smiled, said, “First time?” I nodded and he waved me back toward the yard. That small kindness meant more than I expected. It meant they cared about all of us.

  When I returned, the group was already deep into their drills. Greta stood nearby, arms folded, watching them like a hawk. One of the older boys, maybe nine or ten, built broad for his age, wound up and struck his dummy clean. The sound cracked across the yard. The hide split, sand spilling out like blood. The whole class froze, staring. Then Greta started laughing.

  “Finally!” she shouted. “You see that? That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a punch!”

  The boy flexed his hand, eyes wide with disbelief and pride. The rest of us broke into cheers, the sound rolling through the yard like thunder. Even I couldn’t help it. Watching him succeed proved it could be done. It was possible even if he was bigger than me it was possible to get there.

  Greta clapped once, loud enough to silence the celebration. “All right, back to it. If one of you can do it, all of you can. Break your limits before you break your bones.” Her grin widened. “And if you do break something, that’s what the healers are for.”

  The rest of the day stretched long and hard. We practiced until our arms went heavy and our voices rasped. The sun drifted lower, painting everything gold. Greta’s voice never softened, but there was pride beneath the roughness. Every correction she gave carried the weight of experience. She didn’t just train us; she shaped us, one movement at a time.

  By the time the final horn sounded, my arms trembled from exhaustion, and my hair was plastered to my face with sweat. Greta dismissed us with a wave. “Go eat, drink, and rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, we start again.”

  That moment stayed with me long after the others had gone. The guild’s healing magic meant none of us went to bed broken or scarred, and that simple care, the fact that they fixed us when we failed, proved something important. The guild wanted us to survive. They wanted us to learn. I liked that. I liked that a lot.

  And I understood something else as I watched the sunset fade behind the walls. The body could be repaired, but the lesson stayed. Every mistake left a mark somewhere you couldn’t see, and I planned to earn all of mine.