First mission.

Weeks bled into one another, a monotonous blur of drills, weapons training, and the gnawing ache of hunger. Andre's body, initially protesting the harsh routine, had grudgingly adapted. He woke up sore, ate his meager rations without complaint, and moved with a practiced efficiency that surprised even himself. The initial terror had dulled into a grim acceptance. This was his life now, and survival was the only game in town.

One blustery afternoon, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the dusty training ground, Sergeant Bruiser's bellow cut through the usual cacophony. "Alright, maggots! Gather around, I've got an announcement."

A hush fell over the camp as the men shuffled towards the hulking Sergeant, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and nervous anticipation. Bruiser surveyed them, his steely gaze lingering on each face.

"Tonight," he boomed, his voice gravelly from years of bellowing orders, "we ride."

A collective murmur rippled through the ranks. Raids were rare, a dangerous break from the monotonous training routine. Adrenaline surged through Andre, a welcome jolt in the tedium of their daily existence.

"We've received intel about a bandit camp," Bruiser continued, his voice laced with a hint of grim satisfaction. "Bunch of scavengers, preying on innocent folk. Time to pay them a visit."

A cheer erupted from the men, a primal roar of bloodlust and the promise of a change in their monotonous routine. Bruiser held up a hand, silencing them with a glare.

"Hold your horses, maggots," he growled. "This ain't a picnic. Bandits are ruthless, desperate animals. You fight sloppy, you get dead. Remember your training, watch your backs, and stay in line."

He gestured towards a group of soldiers sorting through a pile of worn leather armor. "Ezela," he barked, his voice sharp. "Get these new recruits outfitted. Basic gear, nothing fancy."

Ezela, a woman with sharp features and eyes that held a glint of steely determination, nodded curtly. "Right away, Sergeant."

Andre followed the rest of the new recruits as Ezela tossed them each a set of worn leather armor. It reeked faintly of sweat and old leather, but it offered a welcome layer of protection against blades and blunt force. A metal arm guard, heavy and cold, clinked as it landed in Andre's hand. He strapped it on, the weight a reassuring presence against his forearm.

Finally, a stable hand led out a string of tired-looking horses. Andre, having spent his life tilling the land, knew his way around horses. He approached one, a chestnut mare with intelligent eyes and a wary demeanor. He spoke to her in a low, calming voice, offering a handful of dried grass he'd pilfered from his meager rations. The mare sniffed at the offering, her initial apprehension fading slightly.

With a grunt, Andre swung himself onto the saddle, the familiar feeling a small comfort in this harsh new reality. The other men mounted their own steeds, some more easily than others. A cacophony of neighs and nervous laughter filled the air as the makeshift cavalry formed a ragged line.

Sergeant Bruiser mounted a massive black stallion, his imposing figure dwarfing even the largest horse. He raised his hand, the setting sun glinting off the steel of his sword. "Alright, maggots, let's ride!" he roared.

A thrill of fear and something akin to excitement coursed through Andre as they spurred their horses forward. They rode into the gathering dusk, the dusty path leading them towards the unknown, towards their first taste of real combat. The promise of danger hung heavy in the air, the silence broken only by the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the occasional nervous chatter of the men. Andre gripped the reins tighter, a knot of apprehension forming in his stomach. The bandits awaited, and there was no turning back.

The sun had bled into a bruised purple by the time they reached the edge of a dense forest. The air grew thick with the damp scent of decaying leaves and something else, something metallic and acrid that sent shivers down Andre's spine.

Sergeant Bruiser, a dark silhouette on his massive horse, raised a hand, halting their ragged line. "Alright, maggots," he rasped, his voice a low growl. "Eyes peeled, ears open. We're approaching bandit territory."

Andre squinted into the gathering darkness, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Through the skeletal branches of the trees, he could just make out a crude wooden fortification. Towers, haphazardly constructed from rough-hewn logs, pierced the night sky. Flickering torches cast an orange glow on the figures manning the ramparts - dark shapes, some clad in mismatched armor, others wielding crude bows taller than a man.

A bead of sweat trickled down Andre's temple despite the cool night air. These weren't the scraggly bandits he'd envisioned. These men looked organized, prepared.

"Dismount," Bruiser commanded, swinging himself down with surprising agility for a man of his size. "Leave the horses tethered here, out of sight. We move on foot, quiet as shadows."

The dismount was clumsy, a symphony of grunts and fumbled stirrups. Andre, more comfortable on his horse than he cared to admit, helped steady a young recruit whose legs wobbled like jelly.

They crept forward, a ragtag group of shadows melting into the undergrowth. The silence was broken only by the rustle of leaves under their boots and the occasional snap of a twig. Tension crackled in the air, thick and tangible.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek sliced through the night. An arrow, a blur of white fletching, materialized from the darkness. It struck one of the men at the forefront of the group, embedding itself deep in his chest with a sickening thud. The man crumpled to the ground with a strangled yelp, his life extinguished in an instant.

Andre's breath hitched in his throat. Panic surged through him, cold and raw. Before he could react, another arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing his head and burying itself in the bark of a nearby tree with a dull thunk.

"Scatter!" Bruiser roared, his voice a guttural bellow. "Find cover!"

Pandemonium erupted. Men scrambled for any available protection, diving behind trees and fallen logs. Andre, fueled by pure terror, followed suit. He threw himself behind a gnarled old oak, its thick trunk offering scant comfort against the hail of arrows that rained down from the ramparts.

"Hold your fire!" Bruiser yelled through the chaos, his voice barely audible over the din. "Wait for my command!"

But the order was lost in the cacophony. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their mark with sickening regularity. Men screamed, their cries echoing through the dark woods. The bandit camp, once a shadowy silhouette, erupted into a frenzy of fire and fury.

Andre pressed himself against the oak, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had never been this close to death. His training, his bravado – it all seemed insignificant in the face of this brutal onslaught.

He peeked from behind the tree, a sliver of the battlefield unfolding before him. He saw Sergeant Bruiser, a towering figure amidst the chaos, bellowing orders. He saw Ezela, her face grim, drawing her sword with practiced ease. But he also saw more fallen comrades, their bodies crumpling to the forest floor like discarded rags.

The initial surprise attack had thrown them into disarray. They were soldiers, yes, but inexperienced, poorly equipped, and utterly unprepared for the fierceness of the bandit resistance. All hell had broken loose, and Andre wasn't sure if he'd see dawn.

The forest echoed with the clang of steel and the gut-wrenching screams of men. Andre, his heart a frantic drum solo in his chest, peered over the cover of the oak. Fear, raw and primal, threatened to consume him, but a flicker of defiance sparked within him too. He wouldn't go down whimpering.

Sergeant Bruiser's guttural roar cut through the chaos. "Archers! Suppressing fire! Cover our advance!"

Ezela materialized beside him, a whirlwind of leather and steel. "Stay by me, new recruit," she hissed, her voice tight with adrenaline. "We fight our way through, regroup at the gate!"

The order sparked something in Andre. It wasn't just fear driving him anymore. It was a desperate urge to survive, to follow orders, to not be left behind. He scrambled to his feet, legs shaky but determined. Ezela sprinted forward, a blur of deadly grace as her blade carved a bloody path through the advancing bandits. Andre followed close behind, the weight of his sword a familiar comfort in his hand.

They reached the crude wooden gate of the bandit camp. Andre, fueled by adrenaline and a newfound ruthlessness, slammed his shoulder against it with a guttural yell. The flimsy barrier splintered under the impact, showering them with wood chips.

Inside the camp, chaos reigned. Bandits, a motley crew of desperate men and women, charged at them with a mixture of fear and ferocity. Andre parried a clumsy blow from a hulking brute, the clang of steel echoing in his ears. The man reeled back, his face contorted in surprise. Andre saw an opening, a flicker of hesitation. He lunged forward, his blade finding its mark with a sickening thud.

The bandit crumpled to the ground, a crimson stain blooming on his chest. Andre felt a surge of heat in his stomach, a mix of terror and something else, something primal and unfamiliar. He hadn't even flinched, hadn't grimaced. It was a kill, swift and efficient, but it felt strangely detached, almost practiced.

Ezela glanced at him, a flicker of something akin to respect in her steely gaze. "Not bad, farm boy," she grunted, her voice barely audible over the din. "Keep your head on a swivel!"

Emboldened, Andre fought with a newfound ferocity. Years of tilling the land had honed his reflexes, his body moving with a surprising fluidity. He dodged a clumsy swing from one bandit, his own blade singing through the air as he sliced another across the chest. The bandit let out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with terror as he crumpled to the ground.

The other soldiers, witnessing Andre's unexpected prowess, rallied around him. A ragged line of men, their fear giving way to a desperate fight for survival. They pushed back the bandits, the momentum shifting in their favor.

From the corner of his eye, Andre saw Sergeant Bruiser, a whirlwind of steel and fury, carving a bloody path through the enemy ranks. "Push them back!" he roared, his voice a rallying cry. "No mercy for these scavengers!"

The fight devolved into a brutal dance of death. Blood splattered on the rough-hewn wooden floor, staining the earth a gruesome crimson. Andre fought on autopilot, his initial fear replaced by a cold, focused determination. Every swing of his sword, every parry, felt practiced, almost instinctive. He barely registered the twang of a bowstring, the whizz of an arrow, but his body moved instinctively, a hair's breadth away from a fatal wound.

Finally, with a final desperate push, they overwhelmed the remaining bandits. The camp fell silent, a chilling tableau of carnage under the flickering torch light. Andre stood panting, his body slick with sweat and the blood of others. He felt strangely hollow, his limbs shaking despite the adrenaline coursing through him. He had survived, but the weight of what he had done, what he had become, settled on him like a suffocating cloak.

Sergeant Bruiser surveyed the scene, his face unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "Gather the wounded. We ride at dawn."

Ezela knelt beside Andre, her hand on his shoulder. "Easy there, recruit," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You did good tonight. Better than most, veteran or otherwise."

Andre looked at her, his vision blurry. He didn't know what to say, what to feel. All he knew was that this wasn't a farm anymore. This was war, brutal and unforgiving, and he was a soldier now, forever stained by the blood he had spilled.

As they loaded the wounded onto the remaining horses and prepared for their somber ride home, Andre knew one thing for certain: this was just the beginning.