NOVEL WEB Chapter 5: The Verdant Bastion
The carriage creaked to a slow halt.
I leaned out the small side window, blinking against the sudden brightness. The road curved around a hill, and just beyond it rose something I hadn't expected—not a city, not a fortress—but something between the two. Sprawling stone walls, older than any building in Ashfall, stretched outward like arms encircling a citadel of towering spires and verdant roofs. Ivy clung to the brickwork like a second skin, and trees—tall and sculpted—lined the inner paths as if grown with purpose.
The Verdant Bastion.
Even its name sounded like it belonged in a storybook. But the moment I stepped down from the carriage and my boots hit the stone road, I knew it was real.
A large iron gate stood open, framed by a massive arch carved with swords, leaves, and symbols I didn't recognize. Guards in forest-green uniforms flanked either side, their expressions unreadable beneath polished helms.
Henry let out a low whistle beside me. "Didn't think it'd be this big."
Arielle grinned. "Still think your village's training ground is better, Henry?"
He didn't answer.
Maribelle adjusted her bag on her shoulder and nudged Mirelle. "We're really here."
Cale was already walking ahead, silent as ever. Alric moved like he'd seen it all before.
Me? I just stood there for a moment, absorbing it. The smell of pine and parchment. The faint hum of mana in the air. The distant clang of practice swords from deeper within the Bastion walls.
A voice called from the archway.
"Examinees. This way."
We turned to see a tall, narrow figure stepping forward. His ears tapered slightly upward, poking through long silver hair. His features were sharp, almost too perfect, and his cloak—dark green with silver trim—flowed behind him without a breeze.
An elf.
So they weren't just in the old stories either.
"Instructor Alren," the elf said, bowing slightly with one hand over his chest. "Welcome to the Verdant Bastion. From today onward, you are no longer candidates. You are Initiates."
My chest tightened.
Initiates.
It was real.
Instructor Alren's eyes swept over us one by one. I couldn't tell if he was judging us or merely taking stock. Maybe both.
"You'll follow me. Orientation begins immediately. Leave your questions until we arrive at the Hall."
He turned with silent grace and began walking.
We followed.
Beyond the gates, the Bastion opened up into a series of concentric rings, each level connected by wide walkways and stairwells carved into the hills. Students passed by in uniform—dark green cloaks like Alren's, though with fewer embellishments—some carrying books, others practice weapons, and a few simply walking in pairs, heads bowed in quiet conversation.
Everywhere I looked, I saw discipline.
Focus.
And strength.
And in the middle of it all, trying not to trip over my own feet, was me.
Joren Fallow.
Farm boy.
Seventh pick.
Initiate of the Verdant Bastion.
---
The following morning, our cohort—Seventy-Three—was summoned to the North Courtyard for orientation. The sky was overcast, but the grounds were already alive with activity. Dozens of students trained in formation, instructors moved briskly between rows, and the clang of steel echoed like a heartbeat across the stone.
We stood in two lines, our freshly issued cloaks too clean, our stances too uncertain. Instructor Alren addressed us from a raised platform beside a circular sparring ring.
"You are here because you showed potential," she began. "But you are not yet Initiates. That rank must be earned."
She gestured to the training ring. "You will be tested over the next three days. Not merely in technique, but in adaptability, instinct, and discipline. The lowest scorer will be dismissed. The rest... may earn your place."
Murmurs broke out immediately. Expulsion? I felt my stomach twist.
Our first trial was called The Balance.
A series of narrow beams set above a shallow pond, where we were to cross while fending off thrown wooden projectiles. It was less about swordplay and more about focus.
"First up, Joren Fallow," Instructor Alren called, not even glancing up from her parchment.
"Wait—me?!" I blurted, voice cracking. Chuckles passed down the line.
I swallowed hard and stepped forward.
Ding.
[Trial Detected: The Balance]Objective: Cross the beam and maintain balance under duress.Reward: +1 Agility
I climbed onto the beam. It felt narrower than it looked. Before I could take a breath, projectiles started flying. My arms flailed. One clipped my shoulder. Another grazed my thigh. My knees wobbled like they wanted to quit right there.
But I made it.
Barely.
Ding.
[Trial Complete: The Balance]+1 Agility
I stepped down, trying not to collapse.
Arielle danced across with ease. Henry powered through like a boulder on legs. Mirelle, small but nimble, made it with quiet grace.
The second trial was called The Reaction.
Back-to-back pairs, sudden shouted commands. Block. Dodge. Strike. Repeat.
Ding.
[Trial Detected: The Reaction]Objective: Respond swiftly and accurately.Reward: +1 Reflex | +1 Stamina
I was paired with a tall boy from another village. We bumped elbows, missed cues. My timing felt a second late on everything. But I kept at it.
By the end, I was gasping, drenched, and shaking.
Ding.
[Trial Complete: The Reaction]+1 Reflex | +1 Stamina
Cale and Alric moved like warriors carved from different philosophies—speed and control in one, raw decisiveness in the other.
The final trial was The Blade.
Mock duels with dulled steel. Control, precision, footwork.
Ding.
[Trial Detected: The Blade]Objective: Demonstrate control and precision.Reward: +1 Sword Proficiency
I squared off with a girl named Lysa. Fast, relentless. My first block nearly spun my blade from my grip. I caught her rhythm. Matched pace. Waited, then parried clean.
No showy moves. Just survival.
Ding.
[Trial Complete: The Blade]+1 Sword Proficiency
I wasn't the worst. At least, I didn't think I was—until they read the scores.
Instructor Alren returned on the third evening. Her expression was unreadable.
"Sixteen were tested. Fifteen will continue."
A silence fell.
"Vin Relm of Duskmere, you placed last. You are hereby dismissed."
A boy two heads taller than me flinched like he'd been slapped. His sword clattered when he dropped it.
My breath caught. I'd just barely beaten someone.
"The remaining fifteen," she continued, "are now Initiates of the Verdant Bastion."
We exhaled in unison.
I didn't smile. Not yet. But my grip tightened around the hilt of my blade.
I'd survived.
For now.
---
The next morning, the mess hall was a blur of motion and voices. Long wooden tables stretched from one end to the other, already half-filled with students in their Bastion cloaks. The smell of fresh bread, roasted root vegetables, and some kind of herb-seasoned stew filled the air.
I held my tray with both hands as I scanned for the others. Henry waved me over to an empty spot between him and Arielle. I gratefully slid into place.
"Still sore?" Arielle asked, nudging my elbow.
"Only everywhere," I said, wincing as I reached for the bread.
Across the hall, I spotted Cale sitting at the edge of another table, surrounded by a few unfamiliar faces. He didn't look my way. Alric, on the other hand, was seated farther down, alone, quietly eating while reading a leather-bound booklet.
"You hear about class placements?" Henry asked between bites.
"No," I said. "Why?"
"They're posting them after breakfast," he replied. "We'll be split into skill groups. Some of the top Initiates from other cohorts will be partnered with us."
Great, I thought. Nothing like getting paired with someone already ten steps ahead of me.
After the meal, a bell chimed, and a scribe stepped into the room holding a rolled scroll. She posted it onto the wall near the entrance. A small crowd swarmed around it.
I waited until the press thinned out, then stepped up.
Group Eight: Joren Fallow — Assigned Partner: Kaela Thorne
The name meant nothing to me.
Yet.
I turned back toward the hall, catching Henry's eye. He gave me a thumbs-up before getting swept into a group with Arielle, Maribelle, and Mirelle.
I didn't recognize anyone else in my group.
And as I made my way to the training yard listed beside our names, I told myself one thing:
This was just the beginning.
---
When we arrived at the training hall, the instructor told us to break off into our assigned groups. They weren't arranged purely by rank or swordsmanship—if they were, I definitely wouldn't have made it into this one. Not with Velora Thorne standing at its center like a banner of impossibly high expectations.
From what I'd gathered—okay, overheard from a few of the other groups—she was the top swordswoman in our entire cohort. Some even claimed she could already wield aura. Not the kind that formed blades or surged through strikes, but the subtler kind—boosting her speed, sharpening her reflexes. Enhancing her.
"Wow, they're so lucky," a girl nearby whispered—loudly enough that Velora probably heard it. "They've got the Sword Princess in their group."
"You're right," another replied. "I'm so jealous. I wonder if she even finds this class worth her time."
Velora didn't react.
But if she heard them—and I was pretty sure she did—she gave no sign of it. Just stood there, composed and unbothered, as if praise and pressure rolled off her like water on steel.
Meanwhile, I was still trying to remember which end of the training blade went forward.
"Joren, you're up. Miss Velora, you'll be his sparring partner for this round," Instructor Morten called out.
Morten looked like the kind of man who could crash through a mountain and walk it off without blinking. Broad-shouldered, with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, he was easily the most intimidating instructor we'd seen so far. Honestly, being placed in his class felt like a punishment—or maybe a test of survival. Still, they wouldn't have picked him unless they were absolutely sure he could train us without killing us in the process.
Probably.
Velora was the first to step into the ring, moving with a grace and poise that rivaled even the noblewomen who occasionally visited Ashfall. But there was something different about her—something colder, more deliberate. Every step she took, every shift in posture, felt like it had been honed to precision. Nothing wasted. Nothing left unrefined. She didn't just move—she executed.
I, on the other hand, felt like a newborn foal still figuring out how legs were supposed to work. Nerves rattled through me as I stumbled my way into the ring set up for our sparring match. If running was an option, I might've taken it. But it wasn't—and deep down, I knew that if I ever wanted to become a swordsman, something had to change. I had to change.
Velora stood across from me, the tip of her wooden blade absentmindedly tracing circles in the dirt. Her face remained unreadable—calm, composed, and entirely unimpressed. Her stance was flawless. Her eyes, sharp as cut glass, showed not even a flicker of warmth. She hadn't spoken a word since warmups.
Me? I'd spent the last ten minutes trying not to drop my training sword. Even with the boost in proficiency from the system, I was barely capable of managing the basics.
"You sure you're not part statue?" I said, breaking the silence as I circled left, mimicking the gliding footwork I'd seen Lucien use. "Or do you just enjoy making your sparring partners sweat in silence?"
She didn't answer. Just shifted her weight and waited.
Great.
Ding.
[Emergency Quest: Score a Hit] Objective: Land a clean strike on Velora Thorne Reward: +2 Sword Proficiency Bonus Objective: Force your opponent to yield Bonus Reward: Unlock Skill Slot — [Basic Sword Art]
I let out a slow breath, heart pounding a little harder.
"Alright, Miss Statue," I muttered, raising my blade. "Let's see if I can get you to blink."
We clashed.
Her strikes came swift and precise—beautiful, even, in a deadly sort of way. It was like she was dancing a practiced routine, every motion a thread pulled from a tapestry I hadn't even begun to understand.
I fought not to fall behind.
I leaned into the footwork—Lucien's style. I didn't have the technique, but I had the memory. And now, with my stats climbing, I could almost follow it. Steps turned fluid. Parrying no longer felt like survival—it felt like I had rhythm.
I feinted low, twisted mid-strike, and caught her just under the shoulder with the flat of my blade.
Ding.
[Emergency Quest Complete: Score a Hit] Reward Acquired: +2 Sword Proficiency
Velora froze. Not from pain, just surprise. She stepped back, eyes narrowing.
"Lucky," she murmured.
"Or maybe," I said, grinning, "you're slowing down."
That did it.
She surged forward, faster than before. Our blades met again—this time with force. I managed to block, pivot, redirect. I flowed with her, trying to remember how Lucien's movements had looked—graceful, like a shadow gliding across water.
Strike. Parry. Turn. Redirect.
We spun in the center of the ring, the clash of wood echoing like thunder in my ears. Sweat rolled down my neck.
Then—an opening.
I lunged, overcommitted.
Velora saw it.
With a single motion, she twisted her sword past mine, knocked my blade wide, and in a blink, the point of her sword was at my throat.
I froze.
She didn't smile. Didn't gloat.
"Yield," she said simply.
I raised my hands. "Fine. You win."
She stepped back without another word.
Ding.
[Bonus Objective Failed: Opponent Did Not Yield]
[Training Progress Noted — Sword Proficiency Increased]
I lowered my sword slowly, chest heaving. I'd landed a hit. I hadn't won—but I'd made her take me seriously.
That was enough.
For now.