Morning in the camp did not arrive gently. It crept in through noise rather than light—boots scraping dirt, metal clinking against metal, men coughing awake as if their lungs had aged overnight. Draven opened his eyes before the sun fully rose, not because he was rested, but because sleep no longer came easily.
He lay still for several breaths, listening.
Canvas tents shifted softly in the breeze. Somewhere close, a man cursed as he struggled with a buckle. Further away, low voices murmured not whispers, just conversations too tired to be loud. No alarm horns. No screams.
That alone told him enough.
'Still alive,' he thought, not with relief, but with simple acknowledgment.
He pushed himself up slowly, careful not to draw attention. The ground was cold beneath his palms, damp from the night air. Around him, soldiers emerged one by one, movements stiff and uncoordinated. Some sat silently, staring at nothing. Others went straight to work, as if stopping meant thinking.
Draven wrapped the cloak tighter around his shoulders. It wasn't his, but no one had questioned him yesterday, and no one would today. In this place, faces blurred together quickly.
A man passed by carrying water buckets, nearly colliding with Draven. He muttered an apology without making eye contact and kept walking.
Draven watched him go.
'Nobody looks twice,' he thought. 'That's either safety… or danger.'
Smoke drifted lazily above the camp as fires were rekindled. The smell of thin stew spread through the air, barely enough to stir hunger. Draven joined the flow of bodies moving toward the food line, keeping his steps measured, his posture relaxed.
Too alert looked suspicious. Too sluggish looked weak.
Someone shoved a wooden bowl into his hands. He took it without comment and moved aside, settling near a group of soldiers seated on overturned crates. They ate in silence for a while, spoons scraping wood.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his ear to his jaw, glanced at Draven. "Didn't see you before yesterday."
Draven swallowed a mouthful of stew before answering. "Didn't see much of anyone before yesterday."
That earned a short, humorless chuckle.
"First real battle then," the man said.
Draven nodded once.
Another soldier snorted. "He's still breathing. That's enough proof."
They ate again. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was practiced.
Draven listened to the small sounds instead the way armor shifted when men leaned forward, the uneven breathing of someone who hadn't slept, the distant clang of metal as weapons were checked. His awareness stretched outward, not sharply, but steadily.
'This is what the war looks like between fights,' he thought. 'Waiting. Watching. Rotting.'
A horn sounded routine.
Men stood up slowly, bowls abandoned or scraped clean. Draven rose with them, copying their pace. A lieutenant walked past, voice hoarse as he shouted assignments. Patrol rotations. Supply hauling. Trench work.
Draven's name wasn't called. Not that he expected it to be.
He was assigned to earthwork near the outer perimeter reinforcing a shallow trench that barely deserved the name. He took a shovel and joined the line without comment.
The work was monotonous. Dig. Lift. Throw. Over and over.
But even as his body moved, his mind stayed alert.
He noticed how veterans dug with minimal wasted motion, conserving strength. How newer soldiers gripped the shovel too tightly, exhausting themselves faster. He noted who complained, who stayed silent, who watched the tree line even while working.
'Strength isn't what keeps them alive,' he thought. 'It's knowing when not to use it.'
Sweat ran down his back by midday. His arms ached just enough to remind him that he was human. No numbers surfaced in his mind. No change. No feedback.
That confirmed what he already suspected.
'No kill. No gain.'
The system wasn't random. It didn't reward effort. It rewarded results.
During a short break, Draven leaned against a stack of wooden crates, eyes half-lidded. He listened to the camp again. Laughter broke out near the center—rough and loud this time. Someone had found a bottle. Someone else started singing, off-key and defiant.
Draven tilted his head slightly.
'Celebration,' he thought. 'Or pretending.'
A shadow fell across him.
"New one."
Draven looked up.
The knight stood there casually, helm under his arm. His armor was worn but clean, sword balanced easily at his side. His eyes were sharp, measuring.
"You fought yesterday?" the knight asked.
Draven hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding.
The knight studied him, gaze flicking briefly to his hands, his stance, his breathing. Then he nodded once. "Good. Try not to die today."
He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.
Draven watched him go.
'He saw something,' he thought. 'Or he didn't care enough to look deeper.'
Either way, it didn't matter. Not yet.
As the sun climbed higher, the camp settled into its strange rhythm again. No battle. No peace. Just existence.
Draven returned to work, shovel biting into earth, senses open, mind steady.
This was where he would learn how to survive when no blade was swinging at his throat.
And he intended to learn quickly.
The afternoon dragged on without incident, and that alone felt unnatural.
Draven noticed it first in the way men began to relax enough to let small habits surface. Helmets came off. Armor straps loosened. Conversations grew a little louder, less guarded. A few soldiers even lay back against crates or rolled bedrolls out early, gambling that nothing would happen before nightfall.
That gamble, Draven knew, was how people died.
He worked through the rest of the assigned labor without complaint, muscles burning dully, breath steady. When the shovel finally hit stone and the lieutenant waved them off, Draven stepped away with the others, blending back into the camp's loose shape.
He didn't rush to sit.
Instead, he walked.
Slowly. Casually. Like someone with nowhere urgent to be.
The camp revealed itself in fragments. Supply tents guarded by bored soldiers. A makeshift infirmary that smelled of old blood and herbs. A small cluster of knights near the command area, their presence subtle but undeniable men others unconsciously gave space to.
Draven kept his distance.
'Hierarchy,' he thought. 'Everyone knows where they stand, even if no one says it.'
As dusk crept closer, fires were fed again. The camp glowed dimly, shadows stretching long across the dirt. Draven settled near the edge of a fire's reach, not close enough to be questioned, not far enough to look suspicious.
Two soldiers nearby were arguing quietly.
"I'm telling you, the left flank's cursed," one muttered. "Third rotation this month. Nobody comes back clean."
The other shrugged. "Nothing's cursed. It's just where command throws idiots."
Draven listened without turning his head.
'Fear wears different masks,' he thought. 'Superstition is just one of them.'
Someone laughed too loudly from another fire. Someone else told them to shut up. The sound of sharpening blades cut through the air in steady, scraping rhythms.
Then Draven felt it.
Not danger. Not instinct.
Attention.
He didn't react immediately. He finished adjusting his boots, movements unhurried, then slowly raised his gaze.
The knight from earlier stood several paces away, speaking with another officer. But his eyes flicked toward Draven—briefly, almost lazily.
Draven looked away first.
'He's checking patterns,' Draven thought. 'Not faces.'
That was worse.
Night settled in properly soon after. The sky darkened, stars faint behind thin clouds. Torches were lit along the perimeter. Patrols began rotating with more discipline than during the day.
Draven lay down on his bedroll near a cluster of soldiers he'd shared food with earlier. Close enough to be part of a group. Far enough to not be involved.
A man beside him let out a long breath. "Another day."
Draven hummed noncommittally.
"You from the west?" the man asked.
Draven considered the question carefully. "Farther north."
"Cold up there?"
"Colder than this."
The man nodded, satisfied. No follow-up questions. No curiosity.
Draven stared up at the sky as the man rolled onto his side and started snoring minutes later.
'People don't want stories,' he thought. 'They want familiarity.'
As the camp quieted, Draven's senses sharpened with focus. He listened to the spacing of footsteps along the perimeter. Counted the seconds between patrols. Noted where torchlight dimmed and shadows deepened.
No numbers appeared in his mind.
No table. No change.
Still, his body felt ready.
'So this is the other half,' he thought. 'The part that doesn't reward you immediately.'
A distant horn echoed once from far beyond the camp.
Every man tensed.
The sound didn't repeat.
After a long moment, someone laughed nervously. "Probably nothing."
Probably.
Draven didn't relax.
He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side, one hand near the dagger hidden beneath his cloak. He didn't grip it. He didn't need to. Just knowing where it was felt enough.
The night stretched on.
Somewhere past midnight, the camp settled into true stillness the kind that came not from safety, but from exhaustion. Fires burned low. Voices faded. Only the guards remained fully awake.
Draven closed his eyes—but not completely.
'Tomorrow,' he thought, 'I test what kind of place this really is.'
Not with strength.
Not with killing.
But with patience.
If this system truly rewarded results, then recklessness would only shorten his path. He needed information. Position. Timing.
The world didn't care how fast he grew.
It only cared whether he lived long enough to matter.
And for now, Draven Velor intended to be forgotten.