I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 132: Graduation Part 1

The week passed in a blur of drills, bruises, and brief, rare moments of rest.

Morning bells rang before the sun even breached the hills. Nights ended with limbs sore, boots caked in mud, and lungs aching from wind sprints and command shouts. Rain came twice—once a steady drizzle that turned the course to soup, and once a downpour that soaked even the gear packed in oilskin. But not once did Inigo let them stop.

"You don’t choose your battlefield," he’d said, the rain dripping from his soaked collar. "So you train for every one."

And they did.

They learned how to fight uphill with wet rifles. How to fall and recover without snapping ankles. How to pass orders with a gesture or a whisper. How to stay calm when the fog was so thick they couldn’t see each other, only hear the thump of boots and the click of safeties disengaging.

Meryl’s SAW drills had become smoother. She no longer fumbled with the barrel change. Brenna could link belts in her sleep. Sark and Hal took point now with practiced eyes and tighter formations. Lio, once the jokester, became the group’s rhythm keeper—reminding others to hydrate, reload, and press on when morale flagged.

Even Lyra, despite never calling herself a soldier, ran her lines with unflinching precision. Her crossbow was replaced with a scoped rifle, and her calm demeanor under stress made her a natural spotter and support shooter.

And Inigo?

He watched. He adjusted. And only sometimes, he allowed himself to feel proud.

On the seventh day, the clearing was empty.

No drills. No yelling. No JLTVs revving through the trees.

Instead, the recruits stood in a straight line facing east, just as the first rays of sunrise spilled over the treetops. Their boots were polished. Their gear cleaned and slung properly. Meryl even tied her hair back with a new leather band. Brenna wore a fresh scarf from her sister’s village. Sark and Hal had tucked in their sleeves.

And Inigo stood before them—not in his usual instructor’s gear, but in a dark green coat, simple and clean, marked only by the stitched emblem of a phoenix rising from flame.

Lyra stood beside him, also dressed plainly but with the unmistakable poise of command. A small satchel hung from her shoulder.

"No yelling today," Inigo said after a long silence. "No runs. No crawls. Today, we remember why we started this."

He stepped forward and drew a folded parchment from his coat. He held it up for all to see.

"This is your contract."

He paused.

"No—your pact. Not with me. Not with any crown or army. With each other."

He handed the parchment to Meryl, who blinked but took it with both hands.

"It says nothing about glory," Inigo continued. "Nothing about medals. Just the tenets you’ve lived for the past seven days. Discipline. Trust. Sacrifice. Fire doesn’t forge weapons unless the metal bends to it. And you’ve all bent. Broken, maybe. But reformed stronger."

He gestured to Lyra, who stepped forward and opened the satchel.

One by one, she handed out leather-bound armguards—each one stitched by hand with a sigil: a phoenix coiled around a broken sword.

"Instructor," Sark said, voice soft but clear, "Is this...?"

"Your mark," Inigo replied. "Not rank. Not title. Just proof you endured. That you didn’t quit. That you showed up when it counted."

They fastened the bands without fanfare.

Not because they weren’t proud, but because pride didn’t need shouting anymore.

Inigo folded his arms behind his back.

"You’ll get a final test," he said. "But this time, it won’t be under my control."

They looked up, puzzled.

"The next trial comes from outside these woods. From people who won’t care what you’ve been through. Who will try to take what you’ve built. You’ll be sent in pairs. Three assignments. Recon. Escort. Recovery."

He didn’t explain further.

Instead, he took a breath and said, "Today, though, you get to rest. You’ve earned it."

Just as some relaxed, he added—

"But first... you run the course one last time."

Groans and laughter mixed in the morning air.

Lyra smirked. "You had to ruin the moment."

Inigo only grinned.

They ran it faster than they ever had. Not flawlessly, but without hesitation. They moved like a single thought. Brenna’s reloads clicked before Meryl even called for them. Sark and Lio alternated flanks, Hal acting as mobile overwatch. Lyra gave clear sight calls from behind, and for once, no one shouted over anyone else.

At the end of it, they didn’t collapse.

They stood.

Panting. Grimy. Grinning.

"I wish my brother could’ve seen this," Meryl said quietly.

"He would’ve," Brenna answered. "He’s in you."

Lio added, "He’d be impressed. Probably a little terrified, too."

Meryl laughed, and for the first time, it didn’t carry sadness.

They gathered back at the firepit where it all started.

There, laid out on cloth were fresh bread, smoked fish, and warm spiced cider. A feast, by their standards. Lyra passed around wooden plates, and for once, no one ate with urgency.

"You didn’t have to do all this," Sark said, his mouth already full.

"I didn’t," Lyra said. "The village near the ridge sent it. Said it was thanks for chasing off a rogue beast last week. Turns out your training echoes beyond these woods."

They went quiet at that.

Not out of humility—but realization.

They had started as strangers. Some had barely held a weapon. Others had only signed up because it meant food or shelter. But now, they were being thanked.

Remembered.

Trusted.

When the meal was done and the embers burned low, Inigo stood once more.

"Rest today. Tomorrow, your missions begin. You’ll leave these woods not as recruits—but as guardians of what remains."

He looked over each face, meeting each gaze.

"This is not the end of your journey. It’s the end of your excuse."

He turned and walked toward the trailhead.

"Dismissed."

But no one left immediately.

They sat in silence, warm and full, watching the smoke rise through the canopy.

Graduation had no ceremony, no medals, no marching parade.

But somehow, this felt like more.