Chapter 3: Sharpened by Fire
Morning came with the stench of sweat and cooked bone.
The low-rank feeding line had shifted. Kaelren and Dren now sat in the rough mid-tier area — still near the outskirts of the mess pit, but no longer elbowed aside like vermin. Their food was slightly warmer. The meat didn't taste like rot.
Progress.
Kaelren bit into his strip of flesh and chewed thoughtfully, reddish-violet eyes fixed on the camp beyond the mess. Smoke trails from the forge pit curled into the sky. Sparring screams echoed from the combat rings. He was already thinking ahead.
"You're quiet today," Dren said around a bite of meat. "Not that you're ever chatty."
Kaelren looked over. "Thinking."
"About?"
"Getting stronger."
Dren chuckled. "Join the line. If we don't get stronger, we die. That's Camp 12's lullaby."
Kaelren didn't laugh. He set his food aside. "How did you survive?"
Dren shrugged. "Watch. Wait. Never make yourself a target. Let the top dogs tear each other apart and pick your moment." His eyes lowered. "Didn't always work."
Kaelren said nothing, letting the silence stretch. Dren shifted uncomfortably, then sighed.
"I used to belong to a side clan — part of the Veinbound Covenant. We weren't strong. My parents tried to get me infused too early."
Dren looked at kaelren tail and said " unlike you I don't have any beast blood in me. I'm 100% human. so before I can break through to gene Ascension I have to add some beast blood to my DNA."
"The ritual failed. Burned my blood, nearly killed me. The Clan abandoned us my parents abondoned me. Blood Fang took me in — not because they cared, but because I was still alive."
He looked at Kaelren. "That's the only reason I'm here. Not loyalty. Not merit. Just survival."
Kaelren nodded slowly. "I don't remember much before Camp 12."
Dren raised an eyebrow. "Nothing?"
Kaelren forced a shrug. "Just fragments. Pain. Cold. I remember falling."
The half truth was necessary. Telling the truth — that he'd died in another world — would make him a target for dissection.
Dren didn't push. "Maybe that's for the best. This world's already enough of a nightmare."
They ate in silence after that, but something between them had shifted — a shared understanding, the kind that only forged under pressure.
That afternoon, the mid-tier ranks were pulled aside. A woman with a face like scraped metal and glowing implants along her jaw addressed them.
"Mid-rankers now choose their focus. Combat pit or weapons training," she said in a voice that echoed like a grinder.
"Combat pit You brawl. Break bodies, sharpen instinct. Weapon class Pick a weapon. Learn to kill clean."
The group split. Some went to the pits to fight others in camp 12.
Kaelren watched the crowd, considered his options. His instincts spoke first.
"My body is my weapon," he said aloud.
He turned and walked toward the martial arts class.
Dren snorted. "Of course you'd pick hand-to-hand." Then he nodded toward the weapons rack. "Daggers for me."
Kaelren arched an eyebrow.
Dren grinned. "I'm not built like a berserker. I'll take speed and precision."
The hand-to-hand training class wasn't just Camp 12 recruits. Trainees from other nearby camps were present — lean warriors from Camp 7, bulky brawlers from Camp 9, and even a tall girl with metal spine implants from Camp 1 who eyed everyone like prey.
Their instructor, a man called Rothan, barked them into stances.
"You fight with fists, legs, teeth — whatever kills fastest," he growled. "But style matters. Efficiency saves your life."
Rothan's training was brutal. Footwork drills on jagged stone. Elbow strikes into wooden posts until knuckles split. Sparring with no padding.
Kaelren took to it like instinct. Every movement felt like remembering, not learning.
His body adapted — fast.
Faster than it should have.
By the second round, he was flowing between strikes, predicting angles, snapping into brutal counters with uncanny accuracy.
Others noticed.
So did a thick-shouldered boy from Camp 11, rank insignia scratched into the side of his gauntlet. He shoved his way toward Kaelren during the third drill and sneered.
"Camp 12 trash doesn't belong in a real class."
Kaelren didn't reply.
"Lost your tongue, monkey?" the boy hissed, reaching for Kaelren's shoulder.
Kaelren moved.
One step forward, elbow upward — into the boy's ribs. Then a twist, a low sweep, and a brutal stomp into the thigh muscle. The Camp 11 trainee dropped like a stone.
The instructor didn't stop it.
He grinned.
"Good," Rothan said. "Strength is the only tongue worth hearing."
Kaelren stepped back, breathing steady, heart calm.
But in the back of his mind, he noted the stares.
Camp 12 was not supposed to produce talent. He understood why most of the mid tier youths went to fight in the pits. They would be bullied by other camps if they went to class.
Meanwhile, Dren stood before a row of weapons, most of them too large or clunky for his frame.
He picked twin daggers — curved, one serrated, one smooth. Not flashy, but fast.
Their instructor, a lean woman with glowing blue eyes and a voice like a whisper, watched him closely.
"You sure you're not aiming for a sword?" she asked. "Daggers are for killers, not dancers."
"I'm not here to dance," Dren muttered. "I'm here to survive."
The dagger class emphasized movement — silent steps, strikes from shadows, precision over power.
Dren struggled at first. His balance was off. His footwork weak.
But he adjusted fast.
By the end of the lesson, he'd figured out a reverse-grip parry most took days to figure out. He didn't outshine the top-tier students, but he wasn't invisible either.
For Dren, that was a victory.
And more importantly — it felt right.
That evening, Kaelren and Dren walked side by side back toward Camp 12. The sun bled into the cliffs, casting long red shadows across the field. They were both sore, bruised, and silent for a while.
Then Dren broke it.
"Now that we're mid-tier, we qualify for missions."
Kaelren looked over. "Missions?"
"Yeah. They let us earn points."
Kaelren's interest piqued. " Mission Types?"
"Scouting. Beast hunts. Message runs. Guard rotations. Resource retrieval. Some are easy. Others are suicide. They rank them from E to S."
"Rewards?"
"Depends on rank, risk, and whether you come back whole."
Kaelren nodded thoughtfully. "I'll take one."
Dren smirked. "Didn't doubt it. Just… don't get yourself gutted. You're kind of the only person here I can talk to without wanting to slit their throat."
They reached the camp gate.
Dren peeled off toward his own tent.
Kaelren headed toward his.
Inside the tent, the glowstone hummed faintly.
Kaelren sat on the floor and crossed his legs.
His body ached from the day's training — thighs stiff, arms sore, ribs bruised. But beneath the pain was a thrum of potential.
He closed his eyes and began to breathe. Deep. Rhythmic.
Then he activated the Sutra.
Red symbols burned behind his eyelids. Patterns of muscle and marrow. Spirals of blood. The voice returned — the same grinding whisper from before.
"Day is for death.
Night is for rebirth.
Break the flesh…
And the gene will remember."
Kaelren moved through the postures slowly in his head— imaginary forms etched into his muscles by will alone. His blood boiled, but did not rupture. His muscles screamed, then hardened.
Body Tempering Realm — Stage 2.
The pain faded. His breath deepened.
And when he stood, his spine crackled like stone under pressure.
He felt faster.
Heavier.
Denser.
He lay down on the cot, body humming with strength, and whispered one final thought before sleep took him:
Tomorrow… a mission.