Our punishment the following morning, was exercise.

Endless. Exercise.

No spears, no weapons, no practicing forms. No effort to try and trick our Hero title into providing us a skill, or a class, or anything of value. Squad Leader Kepler watched, arms crossed, face stern, as we did push-ups. Then, sit-ups... then, more push-ups... then more sit-ups...

Throwing up was no excuse to stop.

Endurance +1

Mars, the most vocal of our number, cursed the newcomers' existence. Loudly, she proclaimed them damned, to die a miserable death- so miserable, they would wish they had all stabbed themselves in training mishaps.

Jones, for all of his distant stares and blatant refusal to speak to anyone, seemed to agree with her. Or, at least he seemed equally as angry, if much quieter.

I wondered at this, for a time. They were both far ahead of me, on all the relevant stat ranks. Though this was brutal, it couldn't be that...

Then, I remembered it was only a day or so ago the two of them were working hard-labor. Digging and carrying enough weight to rank up strength- what was it Mars had said... four times?

Being put through fantasy-army boot-camp hazing right after, was probably even worse than what I was experiencing.

"Do you even know how lucky you are?" Kepler shouted, above it all. "Do you?" After a sip from his flask, he continued. "There's no battle expected for months! Not one! Anyone know what that means?"

No one answered.

Thank god.

By this point, it seemed even the newcomers had caught on to the fact that Kepler didn't expect a response. He just wanted to yell at them.

Kepler, smug faced bastard that he was, nodded approvingly at this, before his face contorted in rage:

"It means that you've got months until you're allowed to fucking die!" Spittle flew, the scent of poor-quality spirits, took to the air. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Squad Leader!" This time he did expect an answer.

"AGAIN!"

"Yes, Squad Leader!"

So it went.

For an entire week, we suffered.

God damn.

We suffered.

Endurance +1

Endurance +1

….

Name: John

Title: Summoned Hero*

Class: None

General Skills:

Language of men - Lvl 10 - Passive

Identify Lvl 5 - Active

Special Skills:This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Hide Presence Lvl 2 - Active

Status:

Vitality: 16

Endurance: 20

Strength: 18

Dexterity: 21  

Intelligence: 45

Wisdom: 46

Health: 50/50

Stamina: 20/20

Mana: 100/100

As time passed, I had begun to grow accustomed to a specific route through camp. Three tents straight, one left turn, five tents straight, one right turn.

Every few days, I would take the couple coins I could to scrape together, and I would head to the cook station to purchase food.

Nodding to the same people, watching the same soldiers spar, or drink, and finally speaking with the same mean-faced cooks.

It was routine.

They would stare at me, of course. Expression of displeasure and discontent were a default, but I had learned these were often quite misleading. As the weeks went on, and I continued to show up, they would hand me extra bread (sometimes with mold on it, sometimes not) and on rare occasions, a jug of stew.

"Extra, can't waste." They'd say. Or, "Still no class." They'd say.

I'm not sure if it was sympathy or pity, but having survived one battle, the soldiers near Mud Tent seemed far more accommodating. Even if the rest of the camp might as well have been off-limits, for my own safety, this small route seemed to have earned me enough social-currency to not have the tar beaten out of me on a daily basis.

Although, there was still one obstacle...

Hoyt.

"Well, well, well: if it isn't John the Hero!" From a wooden bench, out front of a large tent, a hand covered in scars flagged me down. "Come, drink with me, my friend!"

Friend.

There was a loose definition, in use.

If I was somewhat antisocial in my life before being thrown into all of... this, well, let's just say that repressing a severe case of what was likely PTSD hadn't helped matters much. I avoided conversation like it was some sort of fatal disease.

Still, there was no avoiding Hoyt the [Engineer] once he'd locked onto me.

Once he'd locked onto anyone, if I'm being perfectly honest.

Seven feet tall, and build like a brick house. With a face of grizzle, and motions of a trained warrior: if I tried to run, I had generally figured I’d have better survival chances spitting in Kepler's booze.

There was no escape.

Not from this man.

"Tell me more of your world! I've been thinking about what you told me, about the engine." Laughing, as his might arm slapped the bench beside him loud enough to make my ears ring, I found the day's food-run diverted. "Talk, John! Tell me a tale!"

It had been a fluke, but surprisingly, I'd met the man under circumstances that didn't involve me being thrashed within an inch of my life.

Well, not quite.

In a drunken stupor, he'd run into me and knocked me back a clean seven paces, before I had rolled to a painful stop. Apologetic, he'd soon drawn me into something of a hostage situation of a conversation, and so it was I'd made a... "friend."

"So, the machines build machines?" Hand running through a thick beard, Hoyt leaned back in thought. "To create intricate things with such trust, and just assemble the parts. All without a drop of magic... I've heard these things before, but you heroes come from a strange world." He said, with finality. "Still, what is stranger, is you." He pointed to my chest. "Even now, you have no class."

Outside of a few observational trends related to the commercial benefits to an earth-economy, hyper-efficient, industrial process, there wasn't much I could really say to the first part, or the second. Especially not as the newcomers had been earning [Soldier] and [Spearman] classes, left and right.

Somehow, even with all the time I'd spent here at the camp, a class was still beyond my grasp.

The classless hero, I remained.

"You are not meant for this place." Hoyt stated, solemnly. "None of you heroes are, but most adapt- accept it, for what it is. They become warriors, or they die. The best among you, become Legends, but even Legends die." Standing, Hoyt twisted, grabbing me by the scruff of my armor, while he pointed behind us. "Look, John." He said, as I dangled, helpless in his grasp. Much like a sad kitten.

Still, I did look.

Unpredictable, Hoyt might be, but he never seemed to act without reason.

Distantly, above the tents, I stared out: beyond the training field, or the battle grounds. I lookedpast where the fort was beginning to rise- built of wood and dirt, towards the distance, where clouds rose above far-off mountains. Far, far away.

"Never forget." Hoyt told me. "You see, even from where we stand: the world is vast. Very vast. Lands and continents beyond seas of green and storms, and places where men have never tread!"

The fading afternoon sun was caught on the ridges, like gold wrapped in red and silver: wisps of vapor slipping over an edge of stone.

"You see." Hoyt set me back down, my feet finally touching the bench, as he nodded once more. "There is far more to life than this camp, John. More than the battles, the wars, the killing and death. There is so much more, and it is important to remember."

Not long after, I left Hoyt to his drink.

It’s a shame I didn’t realize it then.

That would be our last talk.