The sun had barely risen over the shared training ground when Elarion arrived with Herua and the twins, Bour and Bon.
It wasn't a place for nobles. Nor was it a place for soft greetings or highborn rituals.
Here, veteran knights trained.
Commoners, nobles, outcasts—it didn't matter.
Only strength mattered.
No girls were present. This place never allowed them.
The clang of steel rang in the distance as worn boots dug into the dust. Men with calloused hands and scarred backs practiced in silence, their discipline carved through pain, not prestige.
When Rior noticed them, his face lit up instantly. His body was bruised, shirtless, muscles taut from constant sparring.
> "Oi!! Elarion!" he called out, voice hoarse but alive. "You're not dead, huh?!"
Sirus wasn't far behind, wiping his blade clean, watching his little brother with a calm, unreadable gaze. The twins stood still behind Elarion, nervous, while Herua crossed his arms in silence.
> "We completed the Gamma Trial," Elarion said plainly, as if it wasn't hell.
Rior blinked. Then smiled, wide and stupid.
> "YOU completed it. You little monster."
Sirus walked forward and placed a hand on Elarion's shoulder.
> "...You did well," he said quietly. "We heard rumors. That you were... different now."
Elarion didn't respond, but the flicker of something shifted in his gaze.
They talked.
About the beasts, about Marcus's cruelty, about blood freezing in winter and boys going mad from hunger.
And Rior, in return, told him how many men here broke their own bones just to keep up. How he collapsed mid-swing once and still kept fighting.
> "This place isn't for nobles," Rior had said. "It's for survivors."
For the next few months, Elarion didn't train under anyone.
He just came and watched.
Sometimes, Sirus would adjust his form silently.
Sometimes Rior would throw him into a spar without warning, yelling, "Reflex training!" and laughing when Elarion knocked him down.
Bour and Bon stared in awe—this place terrified them, but they stayed.
Herua said nothing, but his gaze sharpened. He began copying the veterans' footwork at night.
The men in the field gradually began acknowledging Elarion too. Not with smiles. Not with greetings. Just with small things—an extra space given during sword drills. A shared cloth to wipe blood. A nod.
Respect, here, wasn't spoken. It was earned in silence.
---
The night was unusually still.
Elarion sat alone on the wooden railing of the outer balcony, overlooking the silent training ground. The dirt field below was empty now—no clanging blades, no grunts, no bruised men limping back to the barracks.
Just the sound of wind brushing through the dry grass.
His hands were folded loosely in his lap. Barefoot, hood off, eyes half-lidded as he stared into nothing.
He wasn't thinking. Not quite.
It was strange. His mind, usually sharp and cold, felt foggy tonight.
He had died once. He remembered that.
He had bled, starved, burned, shattered—he remembered that too.
But when he tried to remember what came before… there was little.
A warm touch? A voice calling his name?
Gone.
Only the pain remained.
> "So many faces... I can't even remember their names anymore."
His voice was flat, spoken to no one.
There had been a village. He remembered that.
And a child—someone like him, maybe.
Running barefoot through a field, laughing.
But the memory was stained, as if soaked in black ink.
Even death had become dull to him now.
He had died again and again in the valley, in that trial, in his sleep.
Sometimes his heart still raced at night, thinking the trial wasn't over.
Thinking he'd wake up and still be crawling on the frost-bitten stones, starving.
He looked up at the moon. It was pale and distant.
> "I lived," he whispered.
"But I'm not sure if anything followed me back.Not like it matter, even if something did."
There was movement behind him.
Soft steps. Probably Rior—or maybe Herua, checking if he'd fallen asleep out here again.
But no one disturbed him.
And so he remained.
A shadow under the moonlight.
A child whose body was flawless—but inside, pieces were still missing.
Somewhere in the cracks of his mind, a name stirred.
A girl? A fire? Someone once held his hand?
But it vanished before it formed.
He didn't chase it.
He didn't feel the need.