Morning came with no mercy.
A horn shrieked through the compound, sharp and mechanical—less a signal, more a warning. The kind that drilled through your skull and carved out your nerves. Iron gates creaked open with tortured groans. Overseers with glowing whips shouted orders in multiple dialects—none designed for kindness.
Kairon stood before the second call.
He never waited for the third.
Dust coated his clothes, blood crusted under his fingernails. His muscles ached. His leg throbbed. The chain collar around his neck pulsed faintly with containment energy—a cruel reminder of who held the keys.
He glanced once at the empty patch of dirt where the boy had slept.
No one noticed the absence.
Or worse—no one cared.
One fewer mouth to feed. One more forgotten name.
He joined the line. Forty-two bodies—shackled, sunburned, half-broken—were marched down a narrow ravine toward a colossal wound in the desert.
The Salt Trenches.
The trench yawned like a dead god's ribcage.
Metal scaffolds hugged the cliffs. Steam and chemical vapors rose from vents in the ground. Giant bone-like protrusions jutted from the earth—fossils of a time when Titan-class bio-machines roamed this planet like titanic beasts. Ancient war relics, half-organic and long-dead… but their remnants still pulsed with corrupted power.
They said this was once a battlefield.
Now it was a mine.
A graveyard turned into fuel for dying empires.
They called it "Salt," but it wasn't sodium. The stuff mined here was a crystallized residue formed from bio-arcane decay—used to power war machines, black-forged relics, and cursed reactors. Even a pebble could boil a man's blood if not properly stored.
The Salt Trenches didn't kill you quickly.
They corroded you.
From the inside out.
Kairon gripped the rusted pickaxe handed to him and took his place in line. A tap on the back from a shock rod reminded him where to stand.
— SKILL PANEL —
Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 (91%)
Observation – Lv.1 (58%)
Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 (35%)
Endurance – Lv.0 (13%)
Assassination – Lv.1 (16%)
He swung.
The pick bit into saltstone. Crystals shattered. Dust stung his throat.
He swung again. And again.
Hours passed in a rhythm of agony. No water. No breaks. Only pain, dust, and blood. But he didn't stop. He didn't falter.
Every repetition was a lesson.
Every ache—a teacher.
Endurance – Lv.0 → 17%
Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 → 94%
Observation – Lv.1 → 60%
He watched the guards. Their rotations. Their blind spots. How long they paused at the corners. One of them scratched the same shoulder every loop. Another walked with a limp—left knee weaker.
He logged everything.
By mid-afternoon, a klaxon blared.
The line froze.
"Squad Four! Drop tools. Combat testing!"
Groans rippled through the trench. Kairon felt no dread—only calculation.
Combat testing wasn't about training. It was culling. Entertainment for the officers. Data collection for the Reapers.
Those who refused to fight were executed on the spot. Those who lost often joined them.
Kairon stepped forward.
His pickaxe remained in hand.
One of the guards—a tall woman with mirrored cybernetic eyes and ink-black armor—pointed at him.
"You. Cripple. Let's see if your bones still bend."
She tossed a baton at his feet. Wooden, smooth, padded at one end. 1.2 kg, not lethal—but built to hurt.
Kairon picked it up without a word.
He stepped into the arena.
The ring had been drawn in black powder—arcane soot. If you stepped out, the collar would jolt you unconscious.
Four others entered the ring with him. Two men. Two women. All looked half-starved. Only one—short, muscular, with fierce silver eyes—stood like she intended to win.
The bell rang.
The first man rushed him like a desperate animal.
Kairon didn't dodge.
He stepped in.
The baton slammed under the man's chin—snapping his jaw and driving bone into brain. He dropped like meat.
The second charged from behind. Kairon spun low, hooked the attacker's ankle, and rammed his elbow into the man's spine.
Assassination – Lv.1 → 18%
Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 → 39%
Two dead. Efficient. No waste.
The crowd above laughed. Wagers were placed. Overseers grinned.
Only the silver-eyed girl remained. She circled him, careful, measured.
He nodded.
"Don't waste my time."
She attacked fast—low strike to his ribs, high feint to his neck. She moved like a predator, not a victim. Kairon blocked the first blow, parried the second.
They traded hits. Each move honed his edge.
A glancing strike to her temple. A bruise to his chest.
Pain danced between them like an old song.
Endurance – Lv.0 → 22%
Pain Tolerance – Lv.2 → 97%
Observation – Lv.1 → 63%
She lunged—fast, but too linear.
Kairon dropped low, swept her leg, and pinned her with his boot.
Baton raised.
Their eyes met.
He stopped.
"You're not dead yet," he muttered. "That's enough."
She stared up at him, breathless. Then gave a single nod.
The match ended.
The dead were dragged away.
Guards logged names. Kill ratios. Efficiency scores. Kairon's collar dimmed—his tracker updated.
The girl limped beside him as they returned to the pit.
"Why didn't you finish me?" she asked, not grateful—curious.
He glanced at her. "Because you're not useless."
A pause. Then she grinned, half-feral. "Name's Veila."
"Kairon."
She blinked. "Like the drowned kingdom?"
He shrugged. "No relation."
"You've got blood on your face."
He wiped it away without breaking stride.
That night, they sat in silence near the edge of the pit. Other slaves avoided them now. Too dangerous. Too strange.
Kairon glanced at Veila. She was sharpening a bone shard on stone.
"You've fought before," he said.
"Third-ranked combat slave in Black Veld Arena," she muttered. "Before they sold me here."
"Power level?"
"Level One. Barely."
She looked at him. "You?"
Kairon stared at the sky, twin moons burning above the trench.
"I'm not ranked. Yet."
In Kyrion, strength was ranked in ten combat tiers:
Rank 0 – Unranked (non-combatants, basic slaves).
Rank 1 – Initiate: Can manipulate personal energy or possess above-average human stats.
Rank 2 – Trained: Enhanced reflexes, tactical use of skills, minor mana control.
Rank 3 – Disciple: Capable of facing monsters or lesser soldiers solo.
Rank 4 – Veteran: Able to lead squads, resist weaker spells, limited domain control.
Rank 5 – Adept: Considered elite warriors, often have named skills or fused techniques.
Rank 6–7 – Warlords / Templars: Rule factions, wield relics, have personal domains.
Rank 8+ – Ascendants: Rumored to control time, probability, even fate. Rare.
Rank X – ??? Unknown. Possibly extinct. Ancient beyond comprehension.
Climbing through the ranks required training, resources, and breakthroughs—mental, spiritual, and physical. But slaves weren't allowed to rise. Their collars suppressed core formation and sealed mana channels.
Kairon didn't care.
He'd build his own foundation.
— SKILL PANEL —
Pain Tolerance – Lv.3 (Unlocked)
Observation – Lv.1 (65%)
Tactical Instinct – Lv.1 (41%)
Assassination – Lv.1 (21%)
Endurance – Lv.0 (26%)
Trait Progress: 4/5 Core Survival Skills
[Trait Unlock Threshold: 5 basic survival skills to Level 1]
One more.
One final push.
Then the first real change.
Kairon lay back in the dirt, eyes closed, arms crossed.
Veila asked, "You think we're getting out of here?"
"I'm not here to escape," he said flatly.
"No?"
"I'm here to climb."
She looked at him for a long while.
"Then you're already more dangerous than half the bastards who run this place."
He didn't answer.
His eyes scanned the dark.
He'd seen a strange officer watching the match earlier.
Armored in black nanoweave. A red cloak marked with the sigil of the Coven of Flesh and Steel—an elite war faction known for turning prisoners into cyborg shock troops.
Recruiters.
That meant new interest.
That meant… pressure.
He needed to level faster.
He needed a body count.