The scent of blood still lingered in my hair.
Not fresh blood. No. This was the stale kind—like rusted iron and dried salt—a mark that clung to your pores no matter how many showers you took. It wasn't mine. Not all of it, at least.
Twelve of us stood in the waiting chamber. Not a word between us. Each of us had taken a seat along the circular steel benches, too weary to speak, too numb to fake emotion.
I sat furthest from the door, near a vent that breathed out lukewarm air tinged with disinfectant. My eyes drifted to the walls. Cold gray, pulsing softly with red light strips. Everything in this facility hummed, like a beast sleeping under metal skin.
Only twelve.
Out of twenty-five.
No screams. No mourning. Just subtraction.
One girl chewed the inside of her cheek so hard I saw blood. Another guy kept tapping his boots in erratic rhythm. The silver-haired girl from earlier had taken off her armor, letting her wounds breathe. A line of blood streaked her collarbone like a war medal.
No one cried.
You don't cry when the person beside you could be next. You just keep your eyes forward and your hands close.
A minute passed.
Then five.
Then the door opened with a long hiss.
Gord stepped through first. His eyes swept the room like a scalpel across old flesh.
He was followed by five other mentors—each marked by the scars of battles past. None of them looked surprised by the body count. None of them offered sympathy.
Gord's eyes locked with mine for a half-second before he spoke.
"Twelve," he said, addressing all of us. "You survived."
No one replied. What was there to say?
"Good," he said after a pause. "Then the blood you spilled wasn't wasted. That's the only kind that matters in this place."
One of the other mentors, a woman with hollow cheeks and a black eyepatch, stepped forward. Her voice was clear but cold. "You'll receive your rank badges shortly. It doesn't define you. Not yet. But it decides what rooms you're allowed to die in."
Behind her, two assistants wheeled in a box. Silver. Polished. The crest of the Slayer's Division etched in black: a broken sword over a burning eye.
A ceremony without music. No applause. Just metal and judgment.
They called it the Ceremony of Flame and Iron. A joke, maybe. There was no flame. No fire. Just iron—and the weight that came with it.
One by one, they called us forward.
The first candidate—Rank: High Combat Potential. Class: Hunter-Grade Trainee.
He looked stunned. Like someone had just given him a reason to keep breathing.
Second. Third. Fourth.
A few of them received average marks. "Mid-Tier." "Basic Response Aptitude." "Limited Tactical Growth."
Then they called my name.
"Sun. Step forward."
I did. My footsteps echoed sharper than I wanted them to. The blade at my side felt heavier than usual, though I hadn't drawn it once in the trial.
The eyepatch woman pulled a badge from the crate. A steel emblem, rectangular and thin, with red markings etched down the center.
She looked at it. Then at me.
"Average rank."
I didn't flinch. Didn't twitch. But I heard the shuffle of bodies behind me—the others surprised I hadn't ranked higher.
She continued, "Temporary. Based on incomplete aura resonance. Your sword was never drawn. Your aura wasn't tested in full. You survived, but you didn't expose. The Seirpe scan marked hesitation in usage."
I stared at the badge.
Average.
That word echoed in my head like a slap.
I took it. Held it in my palm. The metal was cold. So cold it felt like judgment itself.
Gord stepped beside her. He didn't look at me at first. Just said, "This badge isn't your chain. It's your hammer. Shape it. Or let it shape you."
I nodded once and returned to my seat.
More names. More badges.
Eventually, all twelve of us had been marked.
Then came the final round.
Round Eight.
The room changed. The air thickened.
Only six walked in.
One limped with a shattered leg. One had half a jaw hanging from a medical patch. The rest looked like meat sacks stitched back together just to walk upright.
No glory.
Just survival.
Their mentors greeted them with the same stoic presence—no applause. Just quiet nods.
The badges were handed out again. One girl from Round Eight got a top-tier mark. The rest—lower than mine.
Gord leaned against the wall now, arms crossed, watching us all. Still waiting. Not speaking.
Then the announcer's voice returned through the speaker grid overhead.
"Final count: 67 survivors. Out of 217 candidates."
A pause.
"All 67 approved for initial field classification and advanced drills. Formal designation begins tomorrow. Rest while you can."
---
I didn't rest.
I stared at the badge for hours after.
Not because it was wrong.
But because it wasn't.
They were right. I hadn't exposed myself. I hadn't drawn blood. I hadn't shown fire. Just calculation. Just breath. Just restraint.
I kept my blade sheathed while others screamed.
But restraint doesn't mean weakness.
It means control.
And I could feel something deeper, just under my skin, like a blade still waiting to be drawn.
They think I'm average.
Let them.
Because the day I draw this blade…
...will be the day they remember why the ones who wait are the ones who decide how the story ends.