Second Life as a Soldier

Early in the morning, I made my way to the sergeant. He had called me in without explanation, but the tone of his message had carried enough weight to know he wasn’t pleased. When I reached the barracks, he was already waiting, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Here.” He tossed something in my direction. I caught it out of reflex, a small, copper badge etched with thin, glowing runes.

I stared at it, confused.

“Yesterday the lieutenant asked me to hand that to you,” Fenward said flatly. “It’s a badge that authorizes you to enforce the mana oath on conscript in this squad. Here are the written orders.”

He slid a folded paper across the table, then turned away.

“You’re dismissed. Report to trench duty as assigned. You’ll have conscripts with you.”

I saluted and stepped out, reading the orders as I walked. It didn’t take long to understand why his mood had soured. In several areas, trench construction had fallen behind schedule, so additional manpower was being reassigned. That included the conscripts from our squad, and apparently, I’d been placed in charge of them.

No wonder the sergeant looked ready to bite nails; a private receiving authority, even temporarily, was bound to scrape his pride the wrong way.

Still, his mood wasn’t the only thing shifting around the fort. Over the past few weeks, the place had changed as much as I had. New recruits arrived every few days, and our squad had swollen to nearly twenty men. The entire garrison had grown by at least five hundred. Ten of those newcomers had been assigned to Sergeant Fenward’s squad, sharing the same drills and meals

With the increase in numbers, our squad drills had to be extended, cutting down on my personal training sessions with Walter. Still, the physical work, digging, hauling, and inscribing runes onto pikes, gave me new ways to apply the techniques Walter had taught me.

Yet my gaze lingered on the badge in my palm. Just touching it made my stomach twist.

It didn’t feel like authority; it felt like judgment. Like holding an executioner’s blade.

I put a few drops of my blood on the badge to register myself, then slipped it into my pocket.

There were two reasons for that. The first was the ethical one, I didn’t want them to see it. Better to give them some breathing room than remind them of the noose that always hung over their heads. I didn’t want to make obedience feel like fear.

The second reason was practical. Hiding the badge carried its own risks; if they thought I didn’t truly have the authority to enforce the mana oath, they might start testing limits. Without the badge in sight, they could drag their feet, disobey, or feign ignorance. The oath itself would still stop them from escaping or attacking, but it wouldn’t stop them from wasting hours and making me look incompetent.

Still, I wanted to test my own read on them. The tension between us had eased these past weeks. Our conversations during night duty had become civil, distant, but not hostile. They weren’t my friends, but they were no longer snarling dogs either. I wanted to see if that change would hold once they were given freedom outside the walls.

I also found myself thinking about the badge more than I should have. From the first glance, the runes etched across its surface had been intricate, far beyond anything I’d seen before. I planned to examine them properly when I had the chance. Part of it was curiosity, but part of it was caution. I wanted to understand how the mana oath was actually enforced. If I ever found myself bound by one, I’d like to know whether an escape route was even possible. I doubted it was, if it were easy to break, mana oaths wouldn’t hold the weight they do. Then again, I’d never spoken with a Rune-Master, so much of what I knew was still speculation.

I made my way to the Longhall, where I found Garran, Varric, Barry, and Kael lounging near the entrance.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“On your feet,” I called. “We’ve got new orders.”

They looked up, groaning but moving.

“Garran, Varric, Barry, Kael, you’re assigned to trench duty with me. I’ll explain the details on the way. We report to Sergeant Baren Holt by the eastern gate.”

We grabbed our gear and left. The air was cool, mist hanging low over the grass. The fort’s outer wall loomed behind us as we crossed the cleared ground toward the trenches, about a four hundred meters out. The rhythmic clang of shovels echoed faintly through the morning haze.

Sergeant Holt stood there, a broad man with an expression that could grind stone. His frown deepened when he saw the conscripts, and the empty space where the badge should’ve been, but he said nothing about it

“I was given updated orders from the chief,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Out of the 225 meters under my section, I’ve reassigned half my men to the northern gate. You and your squad will handle fifty meters yourselves. Think you can manage that?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

Holt studied me for a beat, then gave a curt nod.

I turned to my squad.

“We’re responsible for fifty meters of this trench. Most of the first line’s already finished, just about five days of work left.”

I knelt, running a hand along the packed earth wall. “Today’s tasks: shore the inner wall, set the stake beds, and start the drainage cuts, can’t have the trenches turning into ponds when it rains. Each of you will handle ten meters. Once the wall and stakes are done, I’ll check your sections and we’ll move to the drains together.”

The four of them listened, half attentive, half resigned. I could read their thoughts easily. Trench duty was dull, heavy, and endless.

So I added, “To make it less miserable, let’s turn it into a competition. First one to finish his section properly gets to rest while the others dig the drains.”

That earned me a few grunts and a spark in their eyes. Garran smirked, Barry cracked a faint grin, and the other two only muttered, but it was enough.

They picked up their tools, and I grabbed my hammer and joined in, making my way to the trench.

I picked up a bundle of stakes and began driving them into the wall. Then I activated [Hand-to-Hand (C)] and [Defensive Spearplay (C)], trying to merge precision with raw strength.

[Hand-to-Hand] pulled my focus inward. I could feel the subtle shifts Walter talked about, the way the breath steadies the shoulders, how the hips align with the motion. Power didn’t just come from the arm; it rose from the heel, wound through the thigh, and uncoiled at the wrist.

[Defensive Spearplay], by contrast, built from stillness. It locked the body into a firm axis, with a low center of gravity, a straight spine, and tight shoulders, so the next impact could be absorbed or redirected without losing footing. When I brought that discipline into hammering, my strikes landed cleaner, the force traveling through the stake instead of back into my wrists.

But when I tried to run both patterns together, the body argued with itself. [Hand-to-Hand] demanded movement, fluid adjustment, and shifting weight between strikes. [Defensive Spearplay] demanded stability, every motion anchored and guarded. The result was chaos: my rhythm staggered, my breathing fought my balance, and my vision pulsed at the edges. After ten minutes, I felt the vertigo creeping in.

I canceled [Defensive Spearplay] and let [Hand-to-Hand] guide the motion alone. The stance loosened; my body began to move as one piece again, heel to hip to shoulder. The hammer rose and fell in rhythm, a steady heartbeat of effort. The thud of metal on wood rolled down the line, each strike answering the next. Dirt and splinters flew; breath turned to steam in the cold air.

After a while, I allowed myself a small relief, the competition had worked. The conscripts were trading jabs and quick insults as they worked, the sound of laughter occasionally cutting through the hammering.

The thud of hammers kept time beneath their taunts.

Barry jabbed first, “Kael, that stake’s leanin’ like your sense of balance.”

Kael didn’t even look up. “Still straighter than your moral compass,” he muttered, thumb finding the wood as he drove the stake home.

Garran snorted, voice low and dangerous. “If you two don’t shut it, I’ll drive my next stake through the both of you and call it reinforcement.”

Barry grinned around a mouthful of grit. “Big talk, butcher. Didn’t you miss your last three swings?”

Garran’s smile was a blade. “Didn’t miss. Just savin’ the strength for your skull.”

The banter landed between blows, sharp, quick, and oddly steadying, and the line of stakes drove deeper all the same.

In four hours, we finished the task of shoring the inner wall and setting the stake beds.

Surprisingly, the winner was Varric. I had expected him to be the first to see through my attempt to spark competition among them, but it seemed the former bandit lord didn’t like to lose.

“Hey, good work, everyone. Looks like Varric takes the win,” I said. “I can’t let you leave the site alone, but you can rest while we finish the drainage cuts.”

Before anyone could complain, I added, “I brought jerkies, enough for everyone. We’ll take fifteen minutes, then we’re back at it.”

I crouched down, untied the small bundle from my pack, and passed the strips around. No one talked much after that. We just sat together in the trench, chewing in silence, letting the warmth and salt bring a bit of strength back into our arms.

After eating, we got back to work, and four hours later the day’s labor was done.