Bloodgate Trial: Year Three — Cull the Blade
: The Last Forging
By the third year, only a handful of boys remained.
The training grounds no longer echoed with instructions. There were no lessons left to teach. Only orders:
"Eliminate. Survive. No second chance."
Their faces had changed. Their eyes were no longer human. No softness. No fear. Only the silent hunger to live one more day.
---
Section 1: The Observers — Varian and the Other Instructors
Varian stood on the highest balcony now, joined by other masked instructors. All silent. Watching.
One spoke, voice rough:
"These aren't children anymore. They're shadows wearing skin."
Varian watched Elarion step into the kill zone—silent, steady, eyes colder than the others.
"That one," Varian murmured. "That one never once broke posture."
Another instructor nodded.
"His hands don't even shake when he sleeps. We've checked."
But it wasn't just Elarion. All the remaining boys had changed. Their emotions were twisted.
Some smiled while cutting down their peers in tests. Others wept silently while doing the same. Both types survived.
---
Section 2: Night Hunts — No Mercy
This was the final test before Dark or Death Valley.
The boys were released into the Black Forest.
Some were given blades. Some weren't.
The rule was simple: hunt or be hunted.
Cooperation? Not a chance.
After all, those without a kill were going to be killed at the end. Why die for someone else?
One boy, eyes shaking with fear, tried to hide under roots.
Another found him. Sliced his throat clean.
No screams. No instructors stepping in. Only the crackling of fire far in the distance.
Elarion moved through it all like a ghost. His blade stayed clean until necessary. His eyes never left the ground, tracking silently.
"Don't waste effort. Don't waste thought."
He killed his assigned target in less than a minute. No hesitation.
Now he just watched. These were people he would one day rule over. Only the useful ones would remain.
He sat on the branch of a tree, legs swinging slowly, eyes falling to someone below:
Clen.
{Elarion's POV}
Clen. A weak-minded fool obsessed with power but unwilling to struggle. A noble in fantasy, not in blood.
In a past life, he begged me to help him escape. I did.
And I paid for it. They beat me to death as an example.
He got caught. I didn't even know I was the reason.
Even now, in this life, he tried again. Played the same pitiful song.
But this time, someone else died in my place.
Why didn't they kill me then?
Not like it matters.
He screamed now—loud, desperate. Annoying.
Should I sew his mouth shut?
I just watched him tremble.
I don't hate him. Why waste emotions on the undeserving?
I shook my head.
I couldn't do anything.
After all, the branch I sat on was too high.
How sad.
Maybe, if I could reach him, I'd help. Maybe I wanted to.
So badly that I closed my eyes... and fell asleep instead.
---
Section 3: Elarion's Reflection — The Final Journal Entry
That night, while the others tried to sleep on cold ground, Elarion sat beneath a dead tree.
He opened Danny's old journal, worn from time, the cracked stone resting beside it.
"We don't cry anymore. We don't bleed. We only cut."
He closed the book quietly, tucking it away.
The journal wasn't long, but it was deep enough.
It held truths too sharp to forget.
---
Section 4: The Instructors' Final Judgment
Back at the observation tower, the instructors marked names. Some with crosses. Some with circles.
"These will move to Dark Valley," one instructor said. "The rest..."
"Erased," another finished.
Varian watched Elarion's name.
"Elarion..."
"The blade is complete," someone whispered.
But Varian wasn't entirely sure. Looking into those mismatched eyes, he thought:
That's not just a blade. That's something else. Something waiting.
But he didn't mind. Maybe because it was him. Maybe because...
He didn't mind giving loyalty he'd never given even to the head—to a boy.
'Funny,' he thought, and brushed the thought off.
---
Section 5: The Ghost Blade Steps Forward
When the trial ended, the survivors stood before the duchy head.
No words of praise. No celebration.
Only one sentence:
"Dark Valley awaits. Prepare."
Elarion stepped forward first, eyes sharp, heart silent.
The Ghost Blade had been forged.
Now it was time for war.
Everyone left the trial ground changed.
There was no nostalgia. No hate. No happiness in leaving.
Only silence.
They were no longer children. They were now:
> Forged blades. Hunting dogs. Emotionless puppets. Loyal hounds.
And so on.
Elarion didn't look back.
He looked ahead.
No need to review the past. It was already carved into their bones and buried in their souls.
Thanks to regeneration, his body bore no scars.
Maybe that was for the better.
Just forget it.
He sighed quietly and left the place.
Footsteps calm. Composed. Rhythm precise.
He moved forward.
He never turned back.
Done! The scene now integrates both the brutal survival and the psychological weight of transformation, with a sharp but restrained tone. Let me know if you'd like a companion chapter showing Elarion's arrival at Dark Valley—or perhaps a moment where another character begins to suspect the full scale of his depth.
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