TALENT BEYOND LIMIT: Stacking Many Talents

The main autumn selection began the following morning.

Joe had expected something elaborate.

It wasn’t.

Blackwood Guard was not choosing sect heirs. It wanted people who could fight, follow orders, cooperate with others and avoid creating more trouble than they solved.

Nearly sixty applicants filled the yard at sunrise.

By late afternoon, eighteen remained.

The guard recruited a few replacements at other points during the year, so the annual number varied, but this was the main intake.

Identification came first.

Name. Age. Home village. Sponsor. Previous training.

The clerk paused when Joe gave his age. ”Fourteen?”

”Yes.”

”Green Hollow Hall?”

”Yes.”

”Theodere’s recommendation?”

”Yes.”

The clerk marked something and moved on.

Physical testing followed.

Running.

Balance.

Carrying weight.

Footwork.

Reaction drills.

Controlled exchanges with padded weapons.

Joe found the exchanges unexpectedly difficult for the wrong reason.

Not because his opponents were dangerous.

Because he had to react incorrectly.

An ordinary Middle Skin practitioner still had obvious differences between more and less tempered regions. Joe’s first Skin Tempering had already been completed completely, and the second pass had gone well beyond what anyone here expected.

When a padded staff struck his forearm, his instinct was simply to take the impact.

Instead, he shifted with it.

Too little reaction would be suspicious.

A seventeen-year-old applicant hit his shoulder during another exchange.

Joe deliberately gave ground.

The blow barely hurt.

That was becoming one of the strange consequences of repeated tempering.

His muscles had not suddenly become much stronger. Skin Tempering did not replace Muscle Tempering.

But the outer layer of his body tolerated pressure, friction and impact far better than before.

He could train against wooden equipment longer without tearing skin across his palms.

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A fall scraped less easily.

Repeated contact that left another trainee red and sore often left Joe merely warm.

Those differences mattered in a fight even if they did not increase his raw punching force.

The examiner who checked him afterward pressed along his forearm.

”Middle Skin?”

”Yes.”

Joe kept Breath Concealment steady.

The man looked at him for another moment.

”Good quality.”

Joe nodded.

That was safe.

Good quality existed.

Perfectly ordinary fourteen-year-old Middle Skin practitioners did not, but exceptional talent was precisely what Theodere had presented him as.

The formation tests interested Joe more.

Pairs practiced covering each other’s flanks.

Four-person groups learned to rotate positions in narrow streets.

Whistle signals meant advance, hold, withdraw or surround.

Village martial instruction centered on the individual practitioner.

The guard trained people to become pieces of a larger machine.

During one drill, a senior officer demonstrated how a shield line should hold against impact.

The man was Bone Tempering.

Joe knew before anybody said it.

He was not enormous, yet when three recruits drove padded poles against his shield together, his body barely shifted. Force that would normally buckle knees or twist shoulders seemed to travel through his frame into the ground.

Bone Tempering did not simply mean hard bones.

The entire structure supported force differently.

Joe watched carefully.

That was somewhere ahead of Muscle.

Farther ahead stood Commander Tomas.

A true Martial Artist.

Joe saw him only briefly during selection, crossing the edge of the yard with Alex behind him. No demonstration accompanied his arrival. He simply walked past, and three senior officers straightened almost simultaneously.

The hierarchy was becoming clearer.

Ordinary guards ranged widely.

Team captains were usually Late Skin through Late Muscle.

Senior officers were commonly Bone Tempering.

The Commander had crossed into Internal Organ Tempering and become a true Martial Artist.

And outside the guardhouse, Blackwood possessed people stronger still.

By sunset the assignment board was posted.

Simon shoved his way close enough to read it.

Then he laughed.

”What?”

”You’re with me.”

Joe stepped closer.

Third Patrol Team

Team Captain — Simon Green

Daren Holt

Cole Merrick

Joe Green

Joe paused briefly at the surname.

People from Green Hollow rarely bothered with family names among themselves. Everyone already knew which Joe, Simon or Mike, someone meant. Outside the valley, however, villagers from Green Hollow were commonly registered under Green, taken from the village itself. It was simpler than explaining three generations of fathers and grandfathers every time an official asked.

Simon seemed far more interested in the first line.

”Captain Simon Green,” he said, reading it again.

Joe looked at him. ”Do you need me to say it aloud too?”

”There is nothing wrong with appreciating recognition.”

Daren Holt, a thick-armed man in his late twenties, glanced over from beside the board. ”He’s been appreciating it for three weeks.”

Cole Merrick laughed.

Simon ignored both.

The team had four positions. Daren and Cole served with Simon under his previous captain, Harven, before Simon’s recent promotion. One position had remained vacant during the reorganization, and Simon had apparently wasted no time requesting his younger brother.

”Convenient,” Joe said.

”I asked.”

” Can you do that?”

”I can ask.”

”That’s different.”

”It worked.”

Joe couldn’t argue with the result.

Equipment came next.

A dark guard tunic.

Boots. Rain cloak. Belt. Short spear. Side blade.

Basic protective gear for dangerous patrols.

The guard benefits were better than Joe expected.

Unmarried guards could stay in the barracks for free.

Duty meals were heavily subsidized.

Martial guards received two low-grade nourishing meals each week, weaker than the medicinal canteen Hall had once purchased for Joe but still useful.

Basic injury ointments and recovery powder were provided after duty injuries.

Common medicinal materials could be purchased from guard stores at roughly a quarter below normal retail prices, but every guard had a strict monthly allowance.

The reason was obvious.

Unlimited subsidized herbs would simply become a resale business.

The training yard, weights, weapon racks and common instructional sessions were free.

Senior officers gave corrections periodically.

There was even a small reading room containing guard manuals, maps, basic martial notes and records concerning local dangers.

For an ordinary young martial practitioner, joining the guard could change everything.

Joe finally understood even more clearly why Theodere’s trainees fought for these positions.

His salary was thirty silverlings each month.

Ten went toward the early-release training compensation agreed with Theodere.

Twenty remained.

Simon earned close to fifty after captain allowance and other small additions.

Joe looked at him. ”You earn fifty silverlings?”

”Approximately.”

”And you still lived in the barracks?”

Simon frowned.

”Blackwood is expensive.”

Joe would soon discover he was telling the truth.