Chapter 11: The Price of Pride
"That's all for today," the mustachioed instructor announced, his voice hoarse. "What you saw this morning will be the only goddamn lesson you get from us. From now on, if you want to survive, you'll have to practice until your muscles beg for mercy."
He walked slowly in front of us, hands behind his back, like an executioner delivering his final sermon.
"The Eight Steps are not a luxury, they're a necessity. Fail once, and your skull will just be another ornament on the battlefield. So sweat, bleed, but master them. Because I won't repeat anything."
Everyone's eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Now, get out of here. Go eat something before you pass out. But listen carefully: the cafeteria is shared with the nobles. Don't get into trouble... or do, and learn what your skin is worth."
Most dispersed without a word, shuffling towards the dining hall building.
Upon arriving, we came across a tense scene: over a hundred commoners were stopped at the entrance, murmuring among themselves. They dared not cross the threshold.
"What the hell is wrong with them?" Dixon asked, frowning.
"Looks like they're afraid to go in," I replied without stopping. "As if we're invading enemy territory."
The cafeteria was colossal. High ceilings, carved stone columns, long polished wooden tables, and a huge open kitchen at the back. It could easily feed five thousand people, but it was almost empty.
Without thinking, I grabbed a tray and walked towards the food line. Behind me, Dixon followed with a nervous smile, and then Cedric, a quiet but strong boy with an intense gaze.
"How are your arms after training?" Cedric asked as the cook served a thick stew onto his tray.
"Like my muscles were raped with a spear," Dixon snorted. "But it was worth it."
"I don't doubt it," I nodded. "There's something about those Eight Steps... something that changes everything."
With our trays full, we found a secluded table by one of the windows. From there we could see the central courtyard, and more importantly: we were far from the nobles, who grouped in the center of the hall as if it belonged to them by divine right.
The peace, however, did not last long.
One of the nobles, tall, with blonde hair tied in a braid and a neat uniform, got up from his table and walked towards where the commoners were still standing at the entrance. Without a word, he took a tray from one of ours, a skinny boy with a weathered face named Thom, and dumped all its contents onto his face.
The hot stew streamed down his cheeks as his jaw trembled with rage.
Thom stood up, furious.
"Son of a bitch!" he roared, raising his fist to hit him.
The air tensed like a bow ready to fire.
Thom charged like a furious bull, but without any technique. Just pure pride and desperation.
The noble barely turned his face. He dodged the punch by elegantly tilting his body, as if he were in a dance, not a fight.
Then, without hesitation, he lifted his leg and launched a dry kick to Thom's torso.
"Hrrghh!" was the only sound Thom could emit before flying backward like a sack of bones.
The blow echoed throughout the cafeteria like the snap of a breaking branch. The boy's body crashed against one of the stone columns, leaving a trail of food and blood.
Thom fell to the floor on his side, coughing violently. Every breath was a lament. His ribs, at least two, were broken.
"Is this all the commoners have?" the noble asked with a contemptuous smile, wiping his boot with a napkin.
The laughter of his companions boomed like a wave of scorn.
Several of them stood up, slowly approaching like a pack of hounds.
"Well, it seems someone has forgotten their place," said another noble, this one with fiery red hair and a scar on his chin.
They surrounded us in a matter of seconds. Some still carried full trays, and with complete audacity began to throw food scraps at us. Hard bread, pieces of meat, cold mashed potatoes. One hit me directly in the chest, leaving a greasy stain on my tunic.
"Hey, dog, catch this!" one shouted while throwing a sausage at Dixon's face.
"Don't you have spoons in the stables, beasts? Or do you eat directly from the ground there?"
Cedric received a plate of hot soup on his shoulder, and the liquid slowly slid down his back. He gritted his teeth. He said nothing. None of us did.
Because we knew that if one moved, the rest would end up like Thom... or worse.
One of the younger nobles, perhaps only a year older than me, approached until he was face to face with me. He had grey eyes, as cold as steel.
"And what about you? Are you the leader of this pack of rats?" he asked, spitting at my feet.
I did not answer.
My gaze pierced him, icy, measured. Angel was already analyzing faces, postures, distances. But I did nothing. Not yet.
He clicked his tongue, disappointed.
"No? Too bad. I would have liked to smash the leader's face in."
"You could try," Dixon said in a low voice, charged with contained fury.
"What did you say, scum?"
The noble turned, but just then, a tray flew from somewhere and crashed against a nearby table, shaking the stone structure. The tension immediately rose.
Dixon could no longer contain himself.
With a roar that mixed rage, helplessness, and wounded pride, he suddenly stood up and lunged at the noble who had humiliated him. The rest of us, nine in total, followed him, as if his fury had become a spark that ignited the entire table.
The recruits attacked with what they had: fists, trays, even empty bottles. Shouts filled the cafeteria. The crash of bodies colliding, tables overturning, plates smashing against the floor. It was a brief and heartbreaking chaos.
But the difference between us and them was too abysmal.
One of the nobles grabbed Cedric by the collar of his shirt and slammed him to the ground with a precise lock, knocking him unconscious instantly. Another noble broke a tray over Harlan's back, making him fall to his knees. Dixon managed to land a blow to the redhead's face, making his nose bleed, but paid the price: a kick to the jaw left him sprawled on the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth.
One by one, my companions fell.
The nobles were stronger, faster. Trained since childhood by personal tutors, they carried the experience of combat in their bodies, while we only had rage.
And rage was not enough.
One of the nobles pushed one of my companions against the wall, and slammed his head with a knee. The crunch that followed turned my stomach.
In less than two minutes, it was all over.
Silence.
A thick, violent silence, like the calm after a bloody storm.
My companions lay on the ground, unconscious, aching, or simply defeated. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and spilled soup. The commoners' pride had been crushed by fine leather boots.
And I remained seated.
The fork still in my hand. My tray empty in front of me. My gaze fixed, as if I were just another spectator... but I was not.
My eyes scanned the fallen bodies. Dixon was breathing with difficulty. Cedric was not moving. Thom was still where they had thrown him, barely coughing.
I stood up.
Slowly. Without haste. The chair creaked under my weight. Every movement was measured, like a machine beginning to warm up.
I took a crumpled napkin from my pocket and slowly wiped the corner of my mouth. The gesture was almost trivial, but in the silence that dominated the room, it sounded like contained thunder.
One of the nobles stared at me.
"You're not going to do anything?" he asked, with a mocking smile, but I noticed the slight tremor in his voice.
I did not answer.
I just looked up.
And in my eyes, there was no longer neutrality. Only a growing abyss.
I took a step forward.
The sound of my boots resonated like a war drum.
All the nobles were watching me now. Some smiled. Others frowned. And a few... took a step back.
The atmosphere shifted.
It was as if something invisible began to tighten in the air. As if a beast was about to awaken.
My voice was low, but it was heard in every corner of the cafeteria:
"I hope you're ready for what's about to happen."