Over the next thirty minutes, others began trickling into the hall, each new arrival taking a seat at the long table. First came a pair of elves, a male and female, who settled quietly at the far end. They were strikingly similar: angular features, the same pale, silvery hair braided down their backs, and an aloof composure that made Brett guess they were probably siblings. Neither made eye contact with anyone else, their posture stiff, eyes watchful. Brett wondered if all elves were naturally that poised, or if these two just didn’t feel like socialising.

  Next came a gnome, who practically launched himself into the seat beside Josh with theatrical flair. The contrast between the two made Brett do a double take, Josh, tall and broad, looked like a boulder beside the small, wild-haired gnome who barely cleared the table’s edge. The gnome’s eyes sparkled with mischief, his untamed brown curls bouncing as he grinned up at Josh like they were old friends.

  “Hey there! Name’s Torrel!” the gnome said, his voice pitched high with enthusiasm. “You guys here for the training too? Adventurer hopefuls and all that? You from here?”

  Brett nodded politely as Josh grinned and answered. “Yeah. I’m Josh, and this is Brett. We’re kind of… new here. Not even sure where we’re from would make sense to anyone.”

  Torrel tilted his head and squinted up at Josh with a confused smile. “Huh. That’s fair. I suppose not everywhere needs a name!” He let out a quick laugh and elbowed the dwarf who’d sat beside him. “Met Sig here on the road a few days back. He’s strong as an ox and quiet as a rock, aren’t ya, Sig?”

  The dwarf grunted in acknowledgement, his beard twitching. He was clad in sturdy leathers and had the build of someone who could wrestle a bear and win. The double-headed axe on his back looked more ceremonial than practical, polished and obviously well cared for. Brett thought he spotted a small rune etched into the handle, though he couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m a healer,” Torrel continued, clearly not one to let silence creep into a conversation. “Hoping to pick up some druidic magic down the line, actually. Both my folks were druid-healers, worked out in the Grovemire Forest for years. That’s where I grew up! I want to be just like them. As for Sig, his pa gave him that axe, but he’s still waiting on a proper fight to test it.”

  Brett tried to stay engaged, but Torrel’s energy was relentless. He spared a glance at Sig, who looked like he’d already endured hours of this chatter on the road and was now resigned to it continuing here.

  As Josh and Torrel kept talking, Brett’s eyes wandered across the table. There were sixteen of them now, an eclectic mix of humans, elves, dwarves, and beastkin. A few others trickled in late, most taking seats with people they already knew, greeting them with familiarity or casual waves. Some clearly had history, shared stories, shared laughs, while others, like Brett, sat on the edges, listening more than participating.

  He noticed Torrel was the only gnome present. Curious, Brett leaned forward and asked, “Hey, Torrel. Just wondering… how come you appear to be the only gnome adventurer here?”

  Torrel laughed, a high-pitched chortle that turned a few heads. “Oh, most of my folk don’t see the appeal, to be honest. My auntie always says, ‘With legs this short, every mountain feels like a bloody continent.’” He laughed again. “So we stick to the towns, focus on support stuff like cooking, enchanting, tinkering, you name it. Help out from the side-lines. But me? I’ve always had too much energy for that. My ma says I came out sprinting. Adventuring’s perfect for me. I might be small, but I’ll bet I walk faster than this big guy!” He smacked Josh’s forearm for emphasis, laughing again.

  Brett smiled despite himself. The gnome was exhausting, but endearing.

  As the conversation carried on, Brett mostly listened. People began sharing snippets of their lives, what towns they came from, why they’d signed up, what they hoped to learn. Some were here to follow in family footsteps. Others were trying to prove themselves, or escape their pasts. A few just seemed excited by the idea of seeing monsters and treasure.

  Brett tried to take it all in. Each story reminded him that this world was real, that these people had lives and homes and pasts he couldn’t understand yet. It felt overwhelming, but also oddly comforting. Everyone here had chosen this life, at least most of them. Maybe, just maybe, he could choose it too.

  His gaze drifted to the person sitting to his right, a human male. His platinum-blond hair was pulled into a high ponytail, not a single strand out of place. They wore tightly fitted leather armour over clothing that looked more expensive than practical, and a slender, elegant sword rested against their hip. There was a sheer aura of superiority radiating off the man. Torrel had tried to greet them earlier with a chirpy hello and a compliment on their sword. The blonde man hadn’t even responded, just turned their head away with the dismissiveness of someone ignoring a fly.

  Okay then, Brett thought. Not everyone’s here to make friends.

  Still, most of the group was friendly enough. The noise level at the table had risen to a steady hum of casual conversation and new introductions. Laughter drifted here and there. It reminded Brett of the first day of university, strangers pulled together by circumstance, sizing each other up, not yet sure who they’d end up trusting.

  But this wasn’t a lecture hall. This was training for adventurers. And Brett had a sinking feeling that before too long, he might see some of these faces would be covered in dirt and blood.

  Or worse not seen again at all.

  Eventually, food arrived at the table without anyone having ordered it. A few of the group blinked in surprise, but that didn’t stop the delicious smell from drawing everyone’s attention. Plates were laid down in front of them by quiet, uniformed servers: flaky sweet pastries, sizzling sausages still steaming from the pan, and a warm drink that resembled tea. Brett reached for the cup with hope in his eyes, gave it a sniff, and smiled. Not quite English breakfast, but definitely close enough.

  He glanced around the table and saw relief and hunger in equal measure. Everyone dug in. Josh, true to form, devoured a heroic amount of food, stacking a mountain of empty plates in front of him within minutes. To his surprise, Torrel was keeping pace with him, which looked ridiculous given the gnome’s size, Brett half expected the little guy to burst from the pressure, like an overstuffed balloon.

  Brett nibbled at his pastry more cautiously, half-listening to Torrel’s ongoing chatter with the others. As he chewed, he let his gaze drift again across the group. There was a clear divide in preparedness, some looked like they’d come straight from military service, with gleaming weapons and fitted armour, while others, like Torrel, carried little more than hope and a stick. That staff really did look like someone had just yanked it off a tree, glued a gem to it and called it good enough.

  His eyes settled once again on the aloof elf seated beside him. The stranger hadn’t touched the food. They simply sat with that same air of silent superiority, posture perfect, eyes half-lidded, as if the meal and those eating it, were beneath them. Brett gave up trying to determine their gender; everything about them was too elegant to pin down. Still, the sword at their hip was undeniably real, and likely very expensive.

  Conversation continued in low murmurs until—

  “Morning, you lot!”

  The booming voice snapped everyone’s heads up. Ronald had entered the hall, accompanied by three others in a mix of gear and but all wearing hardened expressions. A grin split Ronald’s face as he looked across the table.

  “Glad to see you’ve all had your fill of breakfast. Hope you enjoyed it.”

  There was a pause. A long, uncomfortable one.

  Then his expression twisted into something closer to madness.

  “NOW GET YOUR ARSES UP AND OUTSIDE!”

  The room exploded into chaos. Chairs scraped against the floor, plates clattered, someone knocked over a cup, and Torrel tumbled off his seat entirely with a thud. The dwarf next to him barely caught their own bowl as they scrambled upright.

  Brett didn’t need telling twice. He and Josh leapt to their feet, nearly knocking into each other as they rushed for the door. Ronald’s companions barked orders, herding the group outside with practiced cruelty. Those who hesitated were met with wild yells or a hand roughly shoving them forward. Ronald, somehow everywhere at once, stalked between them like a lion sniffing out weakness.

  Stolen story; please report.

  They were herded into the square, the towns citizens watching from the outskirts of the clearing, obviously there for the show. Wooden benches and crates had been pushed to the side to make a viewing area. The sun was fully risen now, beating down gently from above, casting long shadows behind the fresh recruits.

  “Line up!” barked one of Ronald’s assistants, a scarred half-orc with a voice like gravel.

  The group shuffled into position. Brett could feel his heartbeat picking up, not from fear, exactly, but from anticipation. This was it. No more theory. No more resting. This was the start of their real training.

  Ronald stalked the line like a drill sergeant, eyes scanning each of them with a predator’s precision.

  “Right!” he said finally, throwing his arms wide. “You want to swing swords, throw fire, shoot arrows and run your mouths like you're heroes? Fine! But none of that matters if you pass out ten minutes into a fight. Adventuring demands stamina. You need to be able to run, dodge, climb, and sometimes just get the hell outta there.”

  He paused, smile creeping back onto his face.

  “So each day, we start with a run. Around the whole damn town. Keeps you humble. Builds the legs. Hurts like hell.”

  He let the silence stretch.

  Then Ronald thrust both hands forward, fingers spread wide, before sharply jabbing a finger toward the west gate. Beyond it, a clear dirt path wound out of town, flanked on either side by a crowd of grinning townsfolk, all clearly gathered for one reason: to watch the rookies suffer.

  “Well?! What are you waiting for?”

  His voice became a roar.

  “RUN!”

  —----------------------

  What followed felt like an eternity, though in truth, it was likely only a few hours. The group completed their final loop of the town, legs dragging, lungs burning. There hadn’t been a set number of laps, no finishing line to aim for, just an ongoing expectation that they keep running. Always running.

  Over time, the group naturally split into clusters according to fitness. The front runners were the fighters, pushing ahead with sheer grit and the advantage of higher vitality. Right behind them were the rangers, nimble and light on their feet, but their energy flagged faster than expected. Toward the rear slogged the magic users, mages and healers alike, many of whom looked like they'd never run more than a hot bath before today. The healers hadn’t fared any better, thanks to Ronald's cheerful decree that no rejuvenation magic could be used on anyone. “You’ll all suffer together,” he’d announced gleefully.

  Josh had initially stayed with Brett, even tugging him along by the arm at one point. But a barked warning from one of the instructors had forced him to choose, stay and be punished, or move. Brett, panting and irritated, had waved him off. He didn’t need the pity. Worse, he didn’t need the reminder that his best friend now seemed superhuman. Josh wasn’t even breathing hard. His concern wasn’t helping, especially when Brett’s lungs felt like he’d swallowed a firebolt and it had decided to stay.

  Josh had given him one last guilty glance before jogging ahead. Brett had glared after him, then stumbled along with the rest of the spellcasters. The only minor upside was that even Torrel had finally shut up, reduced to wheezing like a broken bagpipe.

  Josh and the other fighters had lapped the magic users multiple times. Even some of the rangers had overtaken them more than once. Brett gave up counting his own laps after the fourth or was it the fifth? when numbers started feeling like a foreign language. His world had narrowed to the rhythmic slap of his boots on cobblestone, the furnace in his chest, and the occasional gnome gasping beside him like a dying fish.

  Rounding another corner, Brett spotted a small group collapsed in the shade near the training square, with Ronald towering over them like a particularly pleased vulture. As Brett staggered closer, he finally heard the magic words:

  “Alright, you sorry lot can stop now. Get some water. Breathe. Try not to die.”

  Brett didn’t need to be told twice. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes, flopping onto the ground and splaying his arms as if trying to cool the entire plaza with his own body heat. His chest heaved, lungs still convinced they were full of fire.

  Minutes passed before he could even sit up. When he finally peeled his eyes open, he saw the fighters standing tall and chatting like they’d just taken a brisk walk. The rangers were flustered but upright, while most of the mages looked half-dead, lying sprawled across the cobblestones like magical roadkill.

  Brett gritted his teeth. Somehow, he was one of the few magic users who had at least made it to a sitting position. That was... something.

  From across the training yard, he heard familiar booming laughter, Josh, of course, surrounded by the other fighters and one of the instructors, all grinning and slapping each other on the back. Brett stared daggers at him. If looks could kill, Josh would’ve dropped where he stood.

  With a groan, Brett sat fully upright and wiped the sweat from his face. He regretted every choice that had led him out of that bed this morning.

  Then, without warning, a shimmer of green mist drifted through the air. It smelled faintly of mint and spring water. As it washed over him, Brett felt his burning lungs cool, his aching muscles uncoil, and his breath steady.

  [Blessing Received – Stamina Refreshed | Body Rejuvenated]

  Brett looked around, chest still rising and falling from exertion, and spotted one of the mage trainers lowering his staff from the sky. A faint green glow lingered in the air before fading completely. He realised the man must have been a healer finally casting a rejuvenation spell on the group. The sudden relief that spread through his body was almost enough to make him weep. Muscles unclenched, breath came easier, and the inferno in his chest finally died down. He felt better than he had all day and could have throttled the man for waiting so long to cast it.

  The faces around him were a mix of expressions: some wide-eyed in gratitude, others scowling in the same delayed realisation as Brett. The trainers had let them suffer right up to the edge, only to pull them back with a casual wave of a hand.

  “Alright, you lot,” Ronald’s voice cut through the crowd, still booming with that infuriating confidence, “We’ve run you ragged. Time to start teaching you the basics.”

  He raised his hands and gestured broadly, pointing in two opposite directions. “Magic users, over here! Everyone else, over there.”

  The split was instant. Brett waved to Josh, who looked maddeningly cheerful, clearly having enjoyed the trials of the day and began walking toward the town gate. There, waiting for them, stood the same healer who’d cast the spell, along with a striking elven woman with silver-blonde hair that cascaded down her back like silk and a long staff resting at her side. The healer greeted them with a warm smile as they approached.

  “Congratulations on surviving the hard part,” he said. “We usually lose one or two by the third lap. You should all be proud.”

  He placed a hand on his chest. “I’m Kal, the guild’s head healer. I’m here to train those of you walking the path of restoration. And this,” he nodded to his companion, “is Caistina.”

  The elf gave a small nod, her voice calm and precise. “I’m a mage. I used to adventure with Ronald before I decided I liked my limbs unbroken and my days less chaotic. He convinced me to help teach from time to time. Today, we’ll be learning about the fundamentals of magic and a bit about each of you.”

  She swept her gaze over the group, her eyes sharp. “Some of you may have formal training. Some may be new to magic entirely. Doesn’t matter. We start at the foundation, together. That way, we root out bad habits and build something strong. Over the next few days, we’ll balance physical training with theory and practical application until we deem you ready for your first field assignment.”

  Without waiting for response, the pair turned and led the group back through the town, the cobbled streets echoing beneath their boots. They arrived at the Adventurers’ Guild, ascending the stairs into a spacious classroom on the first floor, walls lined with scrolls, diagrams of magical circles, and a blackboard that looked more like it belonged in a university than a war camp.

  For the next several hours, they were lectured on the basics of magic, what it meant to wield it, how different stats influenced spellcasting. Intelligence boosted raw magical power and complexity. Wisdom increased mana reserves and decreased spell cost. Caistina stressed the importance of balancing stats.

  “Don’t neglect your secondary attributes,” she warned. “Constitution keeps you alive when things go south. Dexterity helps you avoid damage in the first place. Even strength has its place. If you can’t carry the gear you need, your spells won’t save you.”

  Kal and Caistina also outlined future class paths. Kal spoke of the healer’s journey, druidic evolution for those who wished to harness nature, the priest class for those focused purely on healing and support, and the cleric path, which combined divine healing with offensive might.

  Caistina elaborated on the mage’s options, elemental mages who specialized in fire, ice, or stone; illusionists and enchanters who manipulated perception and will; arcane wardens who shielded their allies with magic. Some focused purely on destruction. Others, on battlefield control. The sheer variety of specializations lit a fire in Brett’s imagination.

  He glanced around at his fellow students. Three other mages sat at the long table with him: Adqen, a quiet elven man with serious eyes; Zendal, a dwarf with an excitable energy and wild curls; and Koz’ru, a heavily furred beastfolk, whose voice was so deep it made Brett’s bones vibrate.

  Among the healers were Torrel, his tongue poking out as he scribbled frantically, Zolma, a no-nonsense human woman who looked like she’d seen battle before, and Carcan, one of the elven siblings Brett remembered being the first to join them at the table.

  Each of them spoke with surprising confidence when called upon, clearly more experienced in theory than Brett. That didn’t bother him, what caught him off guard was when he realised that he, unlike the rest of them, had already cast his magic on a real, living target. No illusions. No practice dummies.

  He smiled slightly, letting the pride settle in his chest. Maybe he wasn’t as far behind as he’d feared.

  Maybe he had something to teach the group.

  For every new follow, one goblin somewhere in the story meets a slightly funnier demise. You can make a difference today.