Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One hundred.
Tarrin's arms trembled as he hit the final rep, every muscle in his body pulsing with protest. He tapped Riko, who looked like he'd dozed off mid-punishment.
The bastard rolled off with a grunt, leaving Tarrin to haul himself upright.
His shoulders burned. His spine creaked. And before he could even enjoy the fleeting taste of rest, the voice returned—bright and booming, like it thrived on agony.
"Alright, greenies! Time to meet the Grinder!" Vincent shouted, far too enthusiastic for a man inflicting physical torment.
Tarrin sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow, and fell into line.
It didn't take long before they arrived.
The clearing opened up like a bad dream made real—wide, brutal, and built to break people. A sprawl of obstacles stretched out ahead of them, winding like a serpent over dirt and steel.
Holes pocked the track. Walls loomed. Wires hung like traps waiting for limbs.
It all twisted back on itself, forming a course that had no kindness and no clear end.
To Tarrin, it looked less like training and more like some unhinged amusement park designed by a sadist.
'This shit's really like the dramas,' he thought grimly. 'But with only training and no love triangles.'
Tarrin exhaled through his nose, steadying his breath as his eyes scanned the nightmare ahead.
Beside him, Riko stared at the obstacle course like it had personally murdered his family.
For the first time, the words Some of you will die here didn't sound like a joke.
Tarrin shook his head and leaned closer. "Is it as bad as it looks?"
Riko didn't take his eyes off the course. "Worse. Way worse. And the bastard's pulling out the Grinder on day one… Just unlucky, man."
Tarrin didn't reply. Not out loud. In his head, he was already bargaining with whatever god hadn't completely given up on him.
Then Sergeant Vincent's voice cut through the tension. "No point in stalling. Miss Sahrin, why don't you show the rest how it's done?"
His tone had changed—lighter, less venomous. Almost respectful.
With a restrained nod, she stepped forward, ponytail as sharp as her stare.
Tarrin's brow lifted. 'What, no 'sweet cheeks' for her?'
He nudged Riko. "Dead Puppy Missy someone important?"
Riko snorted under his breath. "You've seriously never heard of the Sahrins? First-rate force. Her grandfather's a damn Scarlord."
Tarrin blinked. "What's her name?"
"Celith Sahrin," Riko muttered, then gave him a side-eye. "Wait—you really don't know? You never paid attention to Scarred stuff? The literal gods walking among us?"
Tarrin just shrugged. "Bro, I grew up in the gutter. The only thing celebs were good for was selling knockoff merch with their faces on it."
Then came the Sergeant's voice again, sharp enough to cut bone.
"Start in three. Two. One… go!"
The moment the last word hit the air, the Grinder roared to life. Metal groaned, gears spun, and hidden mechanisms clicked into motion like a beast awakening from slumber.
What had looked like a scrapyard from hell moments ago now pulsed with lethal intent.
Celith didn't hesitate.
The ground beneath her cracked as she launched forward—no warning, no buildup, just pure, blinding acceleration.
Tarrin swore he heard the air tear around her. One second she was standing still, the next she was a blur.
What the hell? Tarrin's jaw clenched. Is that her Gift? Explosive goddamn legs? Why don't I have rocket feet? This whole system's rigged.
He watched, half in awe, half in despair, as Celith tackled the first obstacle—a rising set of walls that increased in height with each tier. The last one had to be over three meters tall.
She didn't even break stride. She vaulted the first, second, third—barely touching them. By the time Tarrin processed her movement, she was already clearing the final ledge.
Next came a pit flanked by walls, with shifting pedestals swaying unpredictably from side to side.
Celith coiled again, like a spring winding up—and bang—she was airborne, landing clean on the second pedestal like she'd rehearsed it in her sleep.
Another bound and she was through.
Tarrin stared, scowl tightening. She's supposed to be a Scarling? Like me?
He gritted his teeth. Is this the standard, or is she just built different?
But judging by the looks of the recruits around him, Tarrin knew that the latter was probably the case.
Either way, she wasn't human. Not by his definition.
He heard Riko mutter beside him, voice low and grim. "The elite clans really are different."
Tarrin leaned closer, eyes still locked on the blur of blonde tearing through the course. "This isn't the standard, right? 'Cause I sure as hell can't do that."
No answer came. Just more silence from the line as Celith Sahrin dismantled the Grinder like it owed her money.
She scaled, leapt, and twisted through it all like she'd been born in this nightmare.
'She's simply…'
"Amazing," someone whispered beside him.
Tarrin turned. A girl his age, brunette hair tucked behind her ears, stared slack-jawed at the course. Her mouth hung open like her brain had short-circuited.
Then she caught his stare and blinked back to reality, cheeks coloring. "Did I say that out loud?"
Tarrin raised an eyebrow. 'What's wrong with people here? This isn't a goddamn TV show.'
"Yeah… yeah, you did."
She looked mortified. He sighed and offered her a faint smile to ease the awkwardness. "Don't worry. We're all thinking it. No shame in saying it."
That seemed to do the trick. Her posture relaxed, and she gave him a sheepish grin that wavered somewhere between relief and embarrassment.
"Tarrin Vex," he said smoothly, extending a hand, charm wrapping around his words like a second skin. "And you are?"
She took his hand, shaking it with a surprising amount of energy. "Lena Arden. Pleased to meet you, Tarrin!"
'Great. Another beamer.' He returned her smile like a professional salesman. "Pleasure's mine."
Then he let a pause hang, casual and easy. Let her settle.
"So… have you done this hell-course before? Or is this your first time too? Because honestly, I'm starting to think I might die before lunch."
"Actually, it's my first time too. I got here two loops ago, and the last Grinder was over a month back."
Lena hesitated, her voice dipping as if weighing the risk of her next question. "I wanted to ask… what exactly happened at the bar yesterday? The Sergeant keeps bringing it up."
Tarrin chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Funny story, actually. First day here, and Riko dragged m—"
A loud, blaring buzz cut him off, sharp and jarring.
Tarrin whipped around. Already? It hasn't even been ten minutes.
Lena looked just as shocked, mouth slightly open. His gaze shifted to Celith, who had just finished the course, completely unscathed.
And somehow, she was already looking back at him.
Her eyes were like twin suns—radiant, focused, and far too dangerous to stare at for long.
'Damn. She's just so gods-damned cu—'
Tarrin slammed the brakes on the thought. That was how delusions started. And in this place, delusions could get a man killed.
"Bar boy number one, your turn!"
Tarrin's body tensed. 'Yeah… that's me, alright.'
Sergeant Vincent's glare could strip paint. Tarrin straightened his back like he wasn't about to be broken in half.
He jogged to the starting line, sneaking a final glance at Riko, whose eyes carried enough guilt to sink a ship.
Then the order came.
"Start in three, two, one… Start!"
Tarrin launched forward.
The first wall came fast—a single meter. He cleared it with ease.
The next few followed. Second. Third. Fourth. Each wall a little taller, but his momentum carried him through.
By the fifth, his arms were burning. By the seventh, his breath was short.
Then he noticed them—slight protrusions on the walls. Almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.
'If I slip, I'm done for,' he thought grimly.
He used them, climbing wall after wall until he reached the tenth. This one stood like a fortress, the final gate before the next horror.
Tarrin sprinted.
The first foothold—a half-meter off the ground. Right leg up. Nailed it.
Second one—a meter up. Left foot. Perfect.
The third—His boot slipped.
Time froze. His chest slammed against the wall, but his arms shot up, fingers catching the edge. He hauled himself up like the wall owed him money.
He rolled over the top, landing hard but moving fast. No time to waste.
Then came the pedestals—spinning, sliding, uneven.
Tarrin's lungs were on fire. Sweat blurred his vision. And the Grinder wasn't even halfway done.
He sprinted forward and leapt onto the first pedestal—almost ate dirt right then and there.
His boot slipped, balance teetering on the edge. He flailed, arms windmilling, barely catching himself. A sharp breath hissed between his teeth.
"Bloody architects," he muttered. "All of 'em should be tried for attempted murder."
But there was no time for spite. He pushed on—one jump after another, legs coiling and releasing with practiced rhythm.
He didn't move like Celith, didn't have her inhuman burst, and honestly? He didn't want it. Reckless speed here meant a mouthful of mud and a broken spine.
He kept it tight. Controlled.
Each landing sent a jolt through his legs, but he could feel the difference—his awakening, faint as it was, made every motion sharper.
His limbs didn't shake like they used to. Muscles held firm. It wasn't night and day, but it was something.
Ten jumps. No mistakes.
He landed clean on the final platform and let out a breath. No time to savor it. A thick wooden log lay in front of him, part of the next torture segment.
He bent, gripped it with one hand—and nearly toppled over.
"Shit." He corrected his balance and hoisted it onto his shoulder, every step now heavier.
The net climb came next. He approached and began to scale, one hand gripping the net, the other still holding the cursed log. His arms burned. Legs strained. Wind cut across his face.
Five meters up, and the platform finally came into view. He tossed the log aside with a grunt, chest heaving.
Then he saw it—the rope bridge.
"Oh, fuck me sideways," he whispered.
His hands latched onto the rope, fingers trembling under the weight of his own body. The ground far below blurred as sweat dripped into his eyes. He didn't dare look down.
He already knew the answer to the question clawing at the back of his mind:
'What happens if I fall?'
Simple.
He'd die.
Reaching the end of the rope, Tarrin slid down the pole with trembling arms, the heat in his palms sharp and biting—like he'd gripped a forge.
He hit the ground hard, knees nearly buckling, and kept moving. Not a sprint. Not anymore. Just movement. Just survival.
The wire crawl came next.
He ducked under the first one clean, twisted sideways for the second—awkward and jagged, his body bending in ways it wasn't built to bend. Then—
Cling.
One of the wires snapped, rattling with tension. A split-second later, something slammed into his ribs.
"Fuck—!"
The pain bloomed instantly, white-hot and dizzying. He stumbled, foot dragging into another wire.
More projectiles. One caught his shoulder, another cracked off his thigh. By the third hit, he wasn't dodging—he was sprinting through it, teeth clenched, body screaming.
He emerged from the wire trap bruised, panting, and probably one good hit away from unconsciousness. But he was still upright. Still breathing.
That... repeated. For twenty more godsdamned minutes.
Logs. More wires. A pit of swinging poles. Dodging, crawling, limping. He got slapped, smacked, knocked flat, and jolted back to his feet again.
By the final stretch, he looked like a Scarbane had chewed on him and spit him out for bad flavor.
But he was still moving.
He gripped the final log, threw it over his shoulder, and dragged it to the finish line like a landlord would do to a squatter.
When he crossed, every part of him wanted to collapse—limbs heavy as lead, lungs on fire, throat dry enough to crack.
Sergeant Vincent gave him a long, lazy once-over.
"Twenty-one seventeen," he said, tone unimpressed. "My granny could've done better—but you get a pass for your first time."
Tarrin stared at him.
'Punch him.'
His body said, 'No fucking chance.'
He couldn't even lift his arms above his waist. His legs were jelly. All he could do was breathe—shallow, pained breaths—and glare.
Bloody bane, he thought, chest heaving. 'Send me to the mainland already. Anywhere but this godsdamned grinder.'
A tap on his shoulder made him flinch.
He looked up, squinting through the sweat stinging his eyes—Lucas? The guy stood there, expression unreadable, arm outstretched with a plastic bottle in hand.
"Here. It's important to stay hydrated." His voice was flat, deadpan as ever, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath it. Not quite concern, but close enough.
Tarrin gave him a tired smile, lips cracked and dry. "Appreciate it, man. Seriously."
He snatched the bottle and drank like it was his first taste of water in days. Cold, clean, and better than anything he'd ever stolen from a corner store.
As he lowered the bottle, breath steadying, his eyes drifted past Lucas—and caught Felix, standing a few meters away.
The bastard was staring straight at him.
Not just staring—glowering. Like Tarrin had insulted his mother, kicked his dog, and stolen his legacy in one move.
'The hell is this guy's problem?' Tarrin thought, brows twitching into a faint scowl.
He didn't know what the look was about, but it screamed trouble.