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“How long?” I asked.

A female other than Kasithma responded. “Two days since the incident. Your back seems to be healing well, but we had to cut your left arm off to save your life.”

I blinked, verified with my System that a new limb would be grown in three months, less if I gave it additional biomass.

“I’ve survived worse.” I said. But she’d moved on while I checked with my System.

I sat up, took a look around the medic cubicle. There were seven of my fellow candidates, in various forms of dismemberment. There were fractures in their living stone, sutured with ... not concrete, but close enough.

The entire area stank of black blood and sewage; one of my fellows was quietly weeping, clutching his blood soaked side. I couldn’t remember his name, and tried to remember that I didn’t care.

It was surprisingly intuitive, but I hadn’t wanted to waste time or mana with guesses. It came together naturally, as though the very idea of Living Earth was as natural as Water.

And, like a dolt, I tried extending both hands to allow it to flow into the wounded man. It took the same ten minutes the normal healing ritual would to perform with just the single arm; there wasn’t even the normal trend for the mana to try healing the arm instead of passing cleanly through.

.....

The effort left me gasping and sweating; next time I needed to check my fatigue meters before starting such a process. And, as with any application of miko light, the effects were minimal but not none.

Kasithma was lurking over my shoulder. “That,” she said, “is why warriors ought not to be allowed to heal.”

“I think I did okay.” I said.

She did that ankle rotation thing that duhr do instead of shaking their heads. “More evidence that you ought not to make healing a profession of yours. You didn’t do bad, and you’ve certainly left the poor lad better than when you started, but...”

“Could I get lessons?” I asked.

She snorted. “Brass Sergeant Bitaxes needs to see you. Now, since you have the energy for such tomfoolery.”

Suddenly, I wanted to crawl back to my section of floor and sleep another day.

Instead, I worked my way to my feet, and made my way toward the training floor. About a third of our class, their armor freshly polished, were taking turns either swinging targets or spiked chains. Some of them were skillful; others were truly dangerous, even to ourselves.

“Brass sergeant Bitaxes, trainee Dung Beetle reporting as ordered, brass sergeant.” I said, coming to a salute.

He took a deep, slow breath before responding, “Walk with me.”

When we were out of earshot of the other trainees, he asked “Why are you here, Dung Beetle? Are you sure this is where you want to be?”

I shrugged. “I need the money.” I said. “There is no higher paid profession in the Warrior caste.”

“I didn’t see a Tunnel Warden when I watched you fight.” he said. “Not even a novice. You weren’t fighting like any manner of skirmisher. No, what I saw you doing was attempting to fight as an Arminger. And you lost your arm for it.”

“A month’s inconvenience.” I said. “Certainly not more than three.”

He rubbed the lower part of his face. “I had no clue that you squishies were so resilient.”

“Most squishies aren’t.” I admitted. “If you broke them like this, they’d stay broken.” I said.

“Look. If you want to be part of an iron wall, you want to be an Arminger.”

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to return home if I were an Arminger.” I said. “Besides, they generally guard fortresses, don’t they?”

“Then stop fighting like one. Yes, you took two strikes from that troll. Kept its focus long enough for us to get in some serious injuries. Probably turned the tide of battle in half the time it would have taken otherwise. What are your thoughts on that?”

I considered my words carefully. “On my own, in the Dark, those tactics would have gotten me killed. At the first sign of a troll, I should have turned back around, reported my findings so that a full team could be assembled. Even fighting as a Tunnel Warden, unless I could escape through some small space where the troll couldn’t follow I would be dead.”

“Some people say Arknosos was careless, that too many people died who didn’t need to. What are your thoughts on that?”

“Is there a way of proving to us that there are things out there that cannot be fought alone that doesn’t endanger us?” I asked.

“Is THAT what you think the purpose of an unarmed troll is, Dung Beetle? Do you think us that shallow?”

I blinked. “What possible purpose could a rock troll serve, other than as a graduation test?”

“Very, very close.” he said. “It was a leadership test, and yes, something meant to weed out the unfit among our junior trainees.”

I looked back, saw one third of our cohort practicing with the spiked chain. “I saw two people die. I suspect more than that were slain, perhaps half the people missing now.”

“Indeed.” he said. “There were six dead, six crippled beyond hope of ever tunnel running again. Twenty one are too wounded to fight, about half of those with multiple serious injuries. We have seventeen trainees still doing regimen. So... do you want to be here? Are you certain THIS is the life you want to live?”

“I am one of the trainees who failed the test.” I said out loud. “You mean to send me to the Armingers any way.”

“That’s what I want to do, yes.” he said. “What you did saved lives. It may have been objectively heroic, even. But what you did is not our way of fighting.”

He ground his teeth together. “TWO of those we were testing performed well. Two is less than three, the number of veterans we lost. Arknosos wants you to stay, thinks that we can break you of that shield.”

I looked at the shoulder, where my missing arm was. “I seem to be unable to use a shield for the next few months.”

“You think you can pick up the proper style of fighting that quickly?” he asked.

“I’m not certain.” I said. “I’m not trying to resist the training, brass sergeant.”

“You must have gotten a good five experience from that troll alone.”

“One.” I said. “My divisor is not two or three as most duhr.”

“I suspected as much. How... wait, ONE? How high IS your divisor?”

“Thirteen to fifteen.” I said, “Depending upon the class archtype involved.”

He ground the soles of his armored boots back and forth on the floor. “A dozen.” he eventually said. “A dozen and a fourth.”

He let out a long breath, took his time drawing it back in. “You are no longer the Dung Beetle. You will be finishing training, and we’ll be lucky if we can even get you to first level by then. If you remain, you are the Dud.”

“The Dud?” I asked. I couldn’t argue with his logic, if one looked only at the class levels.

“Double. Digit. Divisor.” he said. “We just can’t train you for four years. We can’t. Two years. That’s the longest we can afford to train you. I... would bet coins against you passing.”

I wouldn’t bet coins that I would, except... “I think I’ve underestimated myself before. I’d like...”

“No.” he said. “You take off for a day or two, go visit your children.”

“They are siblings.” I said.

“They are children, and they are in your care. If you die, they will be raised as Warrior caste squishies. I don’t need to tell you what a slice of hell that’s going to be for them. Take a day. Take two. But if you decide to come back to this barracks, be certain you want to be a Tunnel Warden.”

I sighed. “I think I’ve seen the peak of that mountain.” I said.

But I did take his advice. I knew from Rumorg’s notes that Blue had taken on a segmented shell, more arboreal than arthropod. Violet had lengthened her body, become sinuous like a snake. Pink had grown an extra set of limbs, with long broad fingers capable of holding a lever while the rest of him moved past the obstacle it disabled.

All of them hit me with a wave of [Hunger], [Anger], [Loneliness], and [Disappointment].

I said.

Blue asked.

Violet asked.

Pink sent.

They seemed eager enough. When they wanted to, they could move at... well, perhaps a decent clip compared to human children. Not at a run, but fast enough to make those children jog.

I complained, throwing up my remaining arm.

The children cheered, breaking into what, for them, was a sprint.

I’d chosen my exit from the mines deliberately, a lake at the base of a waterfall, filled with tasty fish. Most importantly, although minotaurs were there, it was ruled by Mine law.