Year Two — Reforge Your Body: The Blades Sharpen Themselves
By the second year, half the children were already gone.
Their mats lay bare. Their names were never spoken again.
The air no longer smelled of sweat and earth.
It reeked of iron. Blood.
And something bitter—like scorched stone and fear baked into flesh.
There were no greetings now.
No etiquette drills. No lectures.
Only the same command each dawn, spat like venom:
"Run until you fall. Then run again."
---
Section I — Silent War
In the duchy, there was one iron rule:
You may not kill without permission.
But crippling someone? Beating them senseless?
That was discipline.
By now, the stronger children had carved out invisible hierarchies.
Every shadowed corner became a battlefield.
Fights broke out for extra bread, for cleaner water, for the right to sleep without a knife pressed to your spine.
No one whispered at night anymore.
They clenched their jaws, waiting for morning like prey waits for the next predator.
One boy was found with his arm snapped in four places.
No one saw it happen.
No one asked.
---
Elarion's Observation
Elarion watched it all.
Cold. Detached.
He could see them—the would-be tyrants, the desperate hyenas.
They looked too familiar.
He remembered hands dragging him down, boots in his ribs, his face sinking beneath muddy water.
But this time... he was the one standing.
No, hovering—just beyond their reach, untouchable.
And deep in his mind, something whispered.
Not pity. Not revenge.
But a quiet, cruel curiosity:
"How would they look with one eye gouged out? Would they scream or just whimper?"
The thought stirred him—not with rage. With elegance.
He imagined them biting down on their own arms to muffle cries.
He imagined their bodies—cut symmetrically, piece by piece.
Beautiful. Quiet. Precise.
He chuckled once, softly. Then shook his head.
"…No, not now," he murmured. "But if they stay this way… perhaps soon."
That morning, two older boys cornered a younger one—just a scared runt clinging to a stale crust of bread.
Elarion didn't intervene.
Not yet.
But when their hunger turned to him—when their knives flashed and they circled like wolves—
He moved.
One step. One slash.
Not fatal. That was forbidden.
But effective—enough to twist their spines and keep them crawling for weeks.
Enough that even after they stood again, they could never lift their eyes to meet his.
From then on, no one approached Elarion without trembling.
His name became a warning in hushed mouths.
---
Section II — Varian's Viewpoint: Watching the Edge Sharpen
High above the blood-streaked courtyard, Instructor Varian stood still.
A boy collapsed below, ribs visible through his bruised skin.
Another child kicked him back up. No one blinked.
Varian narrowed his eyes.
This year… is worse.
Worse than his own. Worse than any batch before.
They think they're surviving, he thought. They don't know they're rotting slowly from within.
His gaze shifted to Elarion.
There he was—moving like silence itself. Controlled. Colder than steel.
"That one…" Varian muttered.
"He might not only reach the Dark Valley. He may survive it."
"He may even inherit the name Von."
---
Section III — The Reforging Begins
Now came the real trials:
Blindfolded combat with real blades, against third-year veterans.
Outrunning starved wolves across ash-plains—on an empty stomach.
Holding breath under freezing water until veins screamed.
One child drowned.
They pulled him from the lake like a sack of flesh.
Training continued.
There was no ceremony. No burial.
Only ripples.
---
Section IV — Breaking and Silence
One night, a boy named Lyn was dragged from bed.
They broke his nose.
Then his teeth.
Then his voice.
No one intervened.
Elarion opened his eyes to the noise, then shut them again.
There was a rule here: Help no one. Trust no one.
Blood sprayed across his blanket.
He didn't move.
Afraid?
They weren't worth it.
---
Section V — Elarion's Reflection (Journal Entry)
That night, beneath a dead tree, Elarion wrote in Danny's journal.
> "It never changes. People fight. Some fall. Some climb."
He rolled the cracked stone in his palm—the one Danny gave him long ago.
Cracked, he mused.
But not broken.
Just like me.
He closed his eyes.
I was weak then.
I won't be again.
---
The Ghost Blade
By the end of Year Two, no one used his name anymore.
They called him:
The Ghost Blade.
The Silent Predator.
The Hell-Touched.
Not because he lacked emotion. Everyone here did.
But because when he moved—
There was no sound. No warning. No mercy.
Like a shadow gliding across glass.
Like a wave swallowing you before you could scream.
And once he passed—
Nothing remained
but silence.