The circle around Torn seemed to close in as he stepped toward the center. Every pace made the ring of recruits feel tighter, the air heavier, the stench of sweat and earth pressing against his chest.
The prisoner was still on the ground, groaning under the weight of Kaizlan's earlier blow. His hands trembled, but his eyes burned with a hatred that refused to die. When he saw Torn approaching, he let out a hoarse laugh:
— "This man will send you in one by one… until you taste what my brothers tasted in the forest."
Torn clenched his fist. He was the largest among them, his muscles broad and defined, yet in his eyes flickered a trace of unease. He had never stood face to face with a man who looked like a beast cornered.
A soldier handed him another wooden sword—heavier than the one Kaizlan had wielded. Torn turned it in his hands, uneasy.
Raun's voice cut across the silence:
— "Remember—size is nothing without precision. He who does not know where to strike… will be struck."
Torn nodded, eyes lowered, then stepped forward. Suddenly, the prisoner surged up, moving as if half his strength had returned out of nowhere. He lunged on his knees, wielding his shackled legs as though they were weapons forged by long practice.
Torn swung downward, but the prisoner slid aside and trapped the wooden blade between his arms, yanking so hard that Torn nearly lost his grip.
Murmurs rippled through the recruits. Some flinched, others turned their faces away. Only Serin's gaze stayed sharp, dissecting every movement, searching for an opening no one else could see.
Torn tightened his grip, twisted his wrist violently, and drove his shoulder forward. The sword wrenched free and slammed into the prisoner's ribs. The man collapsed onto the dirt, writhing—yet still he fought. His hand clawed the ground, scooping up a fistful of sand, which he flung into Torn's eyes.
Torn staggered back, blinded, while the prisoner dragged himself upright once more, swaying like a broken shadow. Then Raun's voice thundered:
— "Finish it!"
With a roar, Torn hurled his weight forward, crushing the man beneath him. He struck with the flat of the sword against the prisoner's temple. This time, the body fell still, silence pressing over the circle like a shroud.
Torn stood panting, sweat streaming down his brow. He turned toward his companions, forcing a strained smile.
— "Not… what I thought it would be."
No one answered.
Raun stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the limp body. Then he looked back at the recruits. His voice was low, steady:
— "This is what will haunt you—the enemy rarely dies from the first blow. Life, when cornered, becomes a beast."
He raised his hand toward Serin.
— "You're next."
⸻
In the corner of the yard, Kaizlan sat watching, his heart still pounding like war drums from his own trial. A thought gnawed at him: why had the man seemed stronger when half-broken? Why had Kaizlan himself felt, for a moment, like the one in chains?
No answer came—but the weight of what he had seen would not leave him soon.
⸻
Across the circle, Milo clasped his hands together, whispering under his breath:
— "If this continues… no one will leave here the same as they came."
No one heard him. Yet the words lingered like a truth they all already knew.