Chapter 43
Two Sides of a Coin
The next morning.
Registration wasn't under the gate itself. It sat in a low compound outside the west wall: old brick fencing, a gray-blue flag over the door with the tip worn pale by wind. A long line already waited—mostly grown men, a few younger ones with paper bags or wooden tags in hand. Beside the queue someone sold hot water and dry cakes, priced about the same as in town.
Lila eyed the tail of the line and laughed once. "Guess this gig's popular."
"Pays well," Eren said.
"Yeah." She hiked the crossbow strap on her shoulder. "Good money usually means more trouble."
Nova stayed between them and tipped his head at the board by the door. Mine-guard hiring, it said, then a list of requirements and notes. He could only read about half of it.
He stuck close—between Eren and Lila—and shuffled forward with the line.
When their turn came, the clerk behind the desk heard Eren's name, looked them over, and pulled out a sheet.
"Eren Xiao. Red Tea already put in a word," the man said. "We still run the process. Papers, please."
Eren set his pre-Impact ID on the desk. Lila's was long gone. The clerk didn't make a fuss—just the usual questions, experience and the like—then had them sign.
They started farther in. The clerk frowned.
"Sorry. Family waits outside."
Nova was put on a bench outside the courtyard gate with a few other people waiting for family. Before she went in, Lila ruffled his hair. "Don't run off. Hear me?"
"Something comes up, yell for whoever's on the door," Eren added.
"Got it."
Inside, a dozen or so applicants were split into two groups and made to wait under a shed for interviews.
At a long table indoors sat a recorder and a middle-aged man in a mine-guard gray-blue vest. Once people settled, the man raised his voice toward the shed. "Western mines. I'm the squad leader—Marco's fine." His nameplate read West Sector squad leader too.
Eren's turn was nearly the same as everyone ahead: what he'd done, what he was good at, a few scenarios—ore cart hit by bandits, that sort of thing.
He didn't say much. Delivery work had taught him enough; every answer hit the point.
When Lila's turn came, Marco added one question he hadn't asked Eren.
"Mine guards don't have women on the roster yet. All men. If every shift partners you with men, is that a problem?"
Lila gave him one line. "No problem."
Marco bent and wrote a few words.
After the oral round they were taken to the rear yard for the combat test.
It had been a freight yard once—ground packed flat, thick rope fencing off a few rings. Targets on the left: thick board wrapped in leather, black rings painted in the center. Sand on the right, with wood clubs, axes, and practice blades laid out. Farther back a row of mine guards sat drinking water and watching.
Bows and crossbows first.
Rules were simple: fixed range, three shots each with bow and crossbow. A few applicants went up. One missed on the first shot, swore, and got barked at by a guard nearby. Another put all three in the innermost ring and came down strutting.
When Lila's turn came she left her own gear—back and hip—outside the rope like everyone else and used only what the yard provided. She weighed a few bows, picked one that fit, checked shafts for warp and fletching for damage, then stepped to the line.
Muttering started in the waiting knot beyond the rope—when had mine guards started hiring women, that kind of talk.
Lila acted like she hadn't heard. No fuss when she drew. First arrow gone, second already nocked from the quiver. Three string snaps close together; three hard cracks on the target in a row. All three in the bull. The first a hair right; the second and third nearly touching, fletching still shivering.
She switched to the crossbow while a man beside her was still gritting his teeth to span his. She'd already stepped into the stirrup, pinned the stock, hooked the waist buckle, and driven her weight down—string into the latch. Unhook, seat the bolt, shoulder. Almost no wasted pause. Three bolts later they were all locked in the bull's center, barely room left.
The muttering was gone.
The recorder marked the scores. Marco nodded without much surprise.
Eren ran the same rounds by the book. For the bow he took a heavier draw. That bow didn't see much use; the string was stiff and dry. Someone behind him hissed soft, waiting for a show. Eren test-drew once, settled his shoulders, and the string came back clean.
Three shots. All on the board, shafts driven deep—none near the bull.
His crossbow round looked better than the bow; steadier aim. Still short of the innermost ring, never mind the bull.
Not bad—not a green hand. Lined up with the others, especially Lila, it just looked ordinary. The recorder wrote fast. Someone nearby said, "Aim's off. Strength's there, though."
Bows and crossbows done. Sparring next.
Pairs, wooden training weapons. Rules clear: no eyes, back of the head, or groin; no chasing a downed man; stop at the touch.
Once they were in the ring, nobody wanted to stop at a touch. So mine guards stood ready at the edge, ready to cut it off if it got ugly.
Lila was paired with a broad-shouldered young man with a wood club. She took a one-handed wood blade.
He looked at her, then at her height, and couldn't keep a little contempt off his face.
The opening whistle went. He came first with a horizontal sweep.
Lila didn't meet it. She twisted off the line; the club skimmed her tightened sleeve. She drove her hip, and the thin iron shin-guard on her boot kissed the outside of his knee and stole his balance. Her left leg spun back off that kick; the wood edge tapped the bone of his wrist.
Someone at the edge called a good hit.
The young man dropped that look for something meaner. Height and reach—he shoved her toward the rope, smashing and thrusting, giving her no window. Lila stayed light on her feet, never took him head-on, just owned the distance.
A dozen swings later his wind was thinning.
She found the gap and put her boot tip into mid-shaft. His grip went numb. Then her right leg redirected midair and cut under his elbow. He couldn't get a guard up. The kick took him in the ribs; he folded; the club propped him on the dirt.
A guard blew the whistle. "Hold!"
The man stood, face flushed red, said nothing, and quit the ring at a quick walk.
Eren's turn.
Before he stepped in he unhooked the real hammer from his belt, hung it on a post beyond the rope, then picked a wood hammer from the rack. No dull metal ring when he swung it.
His opponent was a head shorter, with a narrow wood sword.
They closed. The other man saw it plain: strength wasn't his; the hammer hit hard but slow. So he circled Eren—short, quick steps, all thrusts, tip tapping wrist and forearm. Not hunting one finish. Just keeping Eren from opening up.
Eren didn't use the shoot. Bad control and someone got hurt—hard to walk that back.
No shield, hammer short: a bad trade if the bout dragged.
He kept the hammer moving so the other man couldn't read him, then knocked two tips aside with the head. The sword nearly left the man's hand.
Another thrust. Eren staggered his stance, dropped into a squat, and let the blade skim his leather shoulder. Front knee toward the dirt, he slid forward into the man's space. His free left hand scooped both legs in; his head locked behind and drove.
The man tried to pull free. Too late—both feet left the ground.
Eren eased off as he put him down, set him lightly, didn't smash him into the floor. The concrete still jarred him hard through the gut.
A guard blew the whistle. "Hold!"
At the edge, squad leader Marco watched him a while.
Marco knew Red Tea had recommended the pair. He'd heard about them outside town too.
Seeing it for himself, Lila's bow and crossbow scores really were sharp, and her close work held up. Eren had power; even on the back foot he could turn a spar and take it—clear foundation. Strong enough, sure. Strong enough to warrant the captain putting in a special word? That still didn't add up.
Marco closed the paper and said a few things to the recorder beside him.