Callen didn’t give Rhys time to breathe.

  “Alright,” his voice crackled through the cockpit. “Warm-up’s over.”

  The training Warden stepped in again—faster this time.

  Rhys barely had time to react before Callen’s shielded leg slammed forward, forcing him to raise his own front limb in a hurried block. The impact rocked his cockpit, the feedback snapping through his arms like static.

  “Too loose,” Callen said immediately. “Grip the controls. They’re sensitive for a reason.”

  “I know!” Rhys snapped, tightening his hands.

  “Knowing and doing aren’t the same thing.”

  Callen’s Warden advanced again, this time angling to Rhys’ right.

  “Dual wield,” Callen ordered. “Both blades. Front legs. Now.”

  Rhys hesitated—then pushed forward with instinct rather than thought.

  The Warden responded.

  Both front legs moved.

  The left blade slashed wide and missed entirely, cutting air. The right struck Callen’s shield with a jarring clang—off-center, sloppy.

  Rhys overcorrected.

  The Warden’s weight shifted wrong.

  “Balance!” Callen barked.

  Too late.

  The machine staggered, one rear leg skidding in the dirt as Rhys fought to keep it upright. His stomach lurched, heart hammering as he forced himself to breathe and re-center.

  “Don’t fight the machine,” Callen continued, relentless. “You are the machine. If you panic, it panics.”

  Rhys clenched his jaw and steadied his stance.

  Again.

  This time he led with the right blade, feinted, then brought the left in low.

  CLANG.

  Better.

  Still rough—but better.

  Nearby, Amélia wasn’t being given mercy either.

  Mara’s training Warden moved with brutal efficiency, blocking, countering, pushing Amélia back step by step. Every time Amélia struck, Mara answered—not with force, but with precision.

  “You’re holding back,” Mara said flatly over comms.

  “I’m not!” Amélia shot back, breath sharp.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Mara surged forward, shield driving Amélia’s Warden backward, forcing her to brace.

  “You pushed Guren back,” Mara continued. “You don’t do that by being careful.”

  “I can’t—”

  Mara cut her off by attacking.

  Hard.

  Amélia barely managed to block, blades screeching against steel as her Warden was driven back another step.

  “Where did all that strenght go?” Mara said coldly. “Did Guren play easy on you perhaps?”

  Something snapped.

  Amélia’s breathing changed.

  Her posture shifted.

  She didn’t answer.

  She attacked.

  Both blades came down in a furious cross, fast—too fast for hesitation. Mara’s shield caught one, but the second slid along the edge, forcing her to adjust.

  The crowd around the field went silent.

  Amélia pressed forward, relentless now, driving Mara back a step.

  Then another.

  “Good,” Mara shouted—not angry, but fierce. “Go further!”

  Rhys watched in awe.

  So did Elias.

  Something in their chests tightened—a strange mix of admiration and pressure.

  If she could do that…

  Rhys roared and pushed his Warden harder, blades moving faster, strikes coming closer together. Callen laughed as he blocked, clearly pleased.

  “That’s it!” Callen said. “Don’t think—commit!”

  On the far side, Elias surprised even himself.

  His movements became sharper, more deliberate. He stopped reacting and started anticipating, adjusting angles, forcing Loran to step rather than stand still.

  “Hey,” Loran said, impressed. “There you go.”

  “I—I don’t know what I’m doing different,” Elias admitted, breathless.

  “You’re chasing,” Loran replied calmly. “Someone pushed ahead of you.”

  Another clang.

  “You don’t want to fall behind. It feels personal. Wrong. But it works.”

  Elias swallowed.

  Rhys heard it too.

  They both understood.

  Watching Amélia push past her limit had dragged them forward with her.

  Callen parried another strike and nodded, satisfied.

  “Good,” he said again. “That’s how it starts.”

  Three rookies.

  Three Wardens.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Pushed not by orders—

  —but by each other.

  The field filled with noise again—metal on metal, engines growling, dirt scattering beneath steel limbs.

  Amélia struck first.

  “Again!” her voice rang through the comms. “Don’t slow down!”

  Rhys answered with a raw shout as he drove his Warden forward, blades flashing in uneven but determined arcs. Elias followed half a second later, his machine moving with sharper intent than before.

  “We’ll get strong together!” Rhys yelled, breath ragged. “And then we’ll wipe out Schreitpanzer!”

  “Yeah!” Elias added, surprising himself with the force in his voice. “All of it!”

  Amélia didn’t shout back—but her blades spoke for her, striking faster, cleaner, forcing Mara to keep moving.

  Across the field, the three instructors shared glances.

  Callen was grinning openly now, blocking Rhys’ attacks with practiced ease but no longer correcting every mistake.

  Mara’s lips curved into the faintest smile as Amélia pressed her again, sweat streaking down her temples inside the cockpit.

  Loran nodded to himself as Elias adapted mid-fight, baiting, repositioning, thinking three moves ahead.

  They weren’t just learning.

  They were feeding off each other.

  Rhys slipped—his Warden’s rear leg skidding in loose dirt—and Callen capitalized instantly, striking his shield against Rhys’ blade and knocking it wide.

  Rhys nearly fell.

  “Up!” Callen barked.

  Rhys growled and forced the controls forward, muscles screaming as the Warden righted itself.

  On the other side, Elias misjudged a step and clipped the ground, his machine stumbling awkwardly.

  “Sorry—!” he started.

  “Don’t apologize,” Loran said calmly. “Recover.”

  Elias did—barely—sweat dripping into his eyes as he corrected his stance and came back in.

  Even Amélia faltered once, her blade catching wrong and leaving her open for a heartbeat. Mara could have ended it there.

  She didn’t.

  “Again,” Mara said simply.

  The gaps between their attacks shrank.

  One second.

  Half.

  Then less.

  Rhys’ arms burned. His hands trembled on the controls.

  His heartbeat pounded so loudly he thought it might drown out the comms.

  “I’m—so hot,” Elias gasped.

  “Yeah,” Rhys wheezed. “Is it just me or—”

  “It’s not just you,” Loran cut in, voice steady. “You’re pushing your neural pathways harder than your bodies are used to.”

  Another clash of steel.

  “When you concentrate like this,” Loran continued, “your brain draws more energy. Your muscles follow. Heat builds up fast.”

  “Wardens don’t have cooling systems?” Elias asked between breaths.

  “No,” Mara answered. “Too expensive. Too vulnerable. You endure it—or you fail.”

  Amélia’s jaw tightened.

  She pushed harder.

  Sweat soaked her collar. Her heart thundered. Every movement felt heavier than the last.

  But she didn’t stop.

  None of them did.

  Three rookies, drenched in sweat, shaking with exhaustion—

  still advancing.

  Still shouting.

  Still refusing to fall behind one another.

  The instructors held their ground, smiling now—not mocking, not condescending.

  Proud.

  Because this wasn’t just training anymore.

  This was the beginning of something dangerous.

  Mara’s voice cut through the comms like a blade.

  “Stop.”

  The order came too fast.

  Rhys barely had time to register it before his hands froze on the controls. His Warden lurched, momentum carrying it forward, and then—

  —collapsed.

  Steel legs splayed out as the machine hit the ground with a heavy thud that rattled his teeth.

  “Ah—!” Rhys grunted as the harness dug into his shoulders.

  Beside him, Elias’ Warden fared no better. It stumbled, overcorrected, and slammed down flat, limbs extended uselessly in the dirt.

  Amélia, breathing hard, managed to lock her controls just in time. Her Warden skidded, plates groaning, but stayed upright. She froze there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from her chin.

  Mara didn’t react.

  “That’ll be enough,” she said coldly. “Gun training next. Follow me.”

  Elias’ voice cracked over the comms.

  “C-can we— uh— take a break? Just a minute to cool off?”

  “No.”

  The single word hit harder than any blow.

  Elias swallowed audibly.

  Mara turned and began walking, her Warden moving with effortless precision despite the heat.

  Callen chuckled and brought his Warden alongside Rhys’. One massive leg hooked gently under Rhys’ chassis and lifted, hauling the fallen machine back onto its feet like it weighed nothing.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Callen said casually. “First time always knocks the wind outta you.”

  Rhys exhaled shakily.

  “Good to know that never stops.”

  “Stops hurting,” Callen corrected. “You just stop complaining.”

  Rhys snorted despite himself. He liked Callen. He talked like a soldier—but also like a friend.

  Loran helped Elias next, steadying his Warden and walking alongside him as they moved after Mara. Elias’ movements were stiff, his machine lagging half a step behind.

  “You did well,” Loran said quietly. “Especially at the end.”

  “I thought I was going to pass out,” Elias admitted.

  “Everyone does.”

  They followed Mara along a long stretch of grassland, the training field opening wide around them. Other Wardens sparred nearby—metal silhouettes clashing, pilots watching them pass. Some stared openly at the newcomers.

  The path sloped gently upward toward Ironford’s outer wall, its pale structure cutting the horizon.

  Rhys broke the silence.

  “So… how did people even figure out how to fight Schreitpanzer with these things?”

  Mara answered without looking back.

  “Because conventional weapons failed.”

  “Schreitpanzer don't fight like us,” Loran added. “They move fast. Adapt faster.”

  “So we copied them,” Elias said.

  “Not copied,” Mara corrected. “Adapted.”

  She gestured ahead, toward the Wardens training near the wall.

  “Four-legged platforms for stability. Close-quarters blades for precision. Mobility over armor.”

  “And Magitium,” Callen added. “That changed everything.”

  Rhys frowned inside his cockpit.

  “Magitium’s behind all of this.”

  Loran glanced at him. “It is.”

  “Without it,” Rhys continued, thinking aloud, “there wouldn’t be Wardens. Or Bulwarks. Maybe not even Schreitpanzer.”

  Loran nodded slowly.

  “Power sources shape wars. Magitium didn’t just give us machines—it rewrote what survival looks like.”

  They walked on, the wall growing larger, shadows stretching across the grass.

  Ahead, Mara stopped.

  “Training doesn’t pause because you’re tired,” she said flatly. “Remember that.”

  The Wardens slowed behind her.

  And despite the heat, the exhaustion, the ache in their bodies—

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias straightened in their seats.

  Ready or not, they followed.

  The three Wardens rumbled to a halt in front of the massive wall. Its steel surface was pockmarked with crater-like impacts, scars from countless training rounds. The structure was impossibly wide and long, giving them a safe distance to fire, and enough space to correct mistakes. Behind the wall, a massive projector lit up targets, floating holographic silhouettes for the trainees to aim at.

  Mara’s voice crackled over their intercom. “Take your positions. Keep your movements smooth. We’re moving to live-fire practice.”

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias adjusted their seating, strapping in tighter as the Wardens’ mechanical limbs shifted into stance. Mara began a demonstration, which played in their HUDs.

  “This,” she said, pointing to a button on the right stick, “unlocks the gun. Press the second one here, and you fire. Simple. But don’t expect the Warden to aim for you. There’s no assist. Your eyes, your hands, your instinct.”

  Callen’s voice came through Rhys’ HUD. “Think of it like swinging your swords. Only faster, heavier, and if you miss, the target doesn’t move… or it explodes.”

  Rhys nodded, gripping the controls. He tried to visualize the line of fire, the distance to the wall. The electromagnetic projectile fired by Wardens moved so fast it barely seemed affected by gravity, but he still had to account for angle, movement, and recoil.

  He pressed the fire button. The shell shot out with a sharp crack, grazing the outer edge of the target. Close, but not quite center.

  Elias went next. His Warden’s hands trembled slightly, but he pressed the button with more precision than Rhys expected. The projectile thudded into the wall, almost hitting the bullseye. A faint smile appeared across his face inside the cockpit.

  Amélia exhaled and fired. The shot whistled past the target, missing entirely.

  “Hmm,” Mara’s calm voice floated over their comms. “Too high, Amélia. Keep your eye on the base of the target, not the center. Adjust for recoil before firing.”

  There was no shouting. No impatient snapping of orders. She explained with a measured tone, demonstrating the subtle shift of her Warden’s controls to correct aim.

  Callen, observing from the side, blinked. “She’s… not yelling?”

  Rhys chuckled inside his helmet. Elias stifled a laugh as Mara’s serene, controlled instructions continued.

  “Shut up,” Mara’s voice cut through calmly but firmly, without even turning.

  Rhys laughed aloud, Elias followed, and even Loran’s deep chuckle resonated through his Warden.

  Rhys tried again, adjusting his angle as Callen suggested. He aimed a little lower this time. The shell left the Warden with a hiss of energy, striking the target closer to the center. The vibration through the cockpit made him grin.

  Elias adjusted too, his projectile hitting near-perfectly this time. Mara nodded subtly in his HUD, approving.

  Amélia fired again, following Mara’s instructions carefully, adjusting her aim after every shot. Each miss narrowed, her focus absolute, and Rhys noticed how her posture had changed—steady, precise, almost like watching her in her sword duel with Guren.

  Callen muttered under his breath, still shocked. “I can’t believe she’s actually—she’s calm. Not yelling.”

  Rhys laughed. “Yeah, Callen. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Elias snickered. Mara didn’t even respond, just guided Amélia’s hands with calm precision. The three friends, now laughing and joking, pushed each other forward in friendly competition, the air filled with the metallic whir of Wardens’ movements and the rhythmic crack of shells striking the steel wall.

  The training field was alive with sound—clanking machinery, distant shells hitting other targets, the hum of the Wardens’ hydraulics, and the occasional cheer from other trainees. For the first time, the three friends felt the thrill: raw control over machines that were extensions of themselves, each shot, each movement sharpening their coordination, reflexes, and teamwork.

  ir coordination, reflexes, and teamwork.