The Valley – At Dawn
The morning sky was gray, a shroud of cold dust drawn over the earth. Rows of trainees stood still on the ridge, looking down into the narrow valley below. The towering trees interlocked their branches so tightly they devoured the sunlight, turning the passage into a gaping mouth waiting to swallow whoever dared enter.
Commander Raon lifted his arm and pointed downward, his voice sharp as steel:
— "This is your final ground. In the valley, strength alone will not save you. Anyone who believes a single strike will keep him alive… will be buried here."
The soldiers split the trainees into two sides: attackers and defenders. Kaizlan found himself among the attackers, while Iron and Torn were thrown into the ranks of the defenders. The glances exchanged between them were neither friendly nor openly hostile—something fragile stood between, a bond already fraying under the weight of what was coming.
Descent into the Valley
The mud swallowed their boots with every step. The air was damp, heavy, almost suffocating. Milo whispered as he trudged beside Kaizlan, eyes darting nervously at the trees:
— "This valley… it feels like a chest. Narrow, choking… as if we're walking into its heart just to tear it apart."
Serin's voice cut through the air, cold and certain:
— "No. It's a grave. The only difference is that we're walking into it on our own feet."
Her words silenced him. Kaizlan felt a sharp sting in his chest. Grave… or heart? The thought clung to him like a curse, echoing in the hollow of his ribs as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
The First Clash
From the shadows, the first cry burst. Pebbles rolled down the ridge, followed by crude wooden arrows. Torn's bellow split the air as he leapt from between the branches:
— "Come then, attackers! Show us if you deserve the air you breathe!"
The charge began. Attackers rushed the barricades, defenders roared back. Wooden swords slammed against shields, mud splattered with blood and spit, bodies stumbled and rose again. It was no longer a drill. It was a miniature war where no one could abandon his role.
Kaizlan swung and parried, the weight of every strike rattling through his bones. Then, in the chaos, his eyes fell to the ground. Blood from a trainee's broken nose dripped into the mud. Red ran with brown until it looked no different from rainwater.
For a heartbeat the thought seized him: Are we anything more than red water poured back into the dirt?
His arm faltered. A blade nearly split him open—Milo shoved him aside at the last instant, voice cracking as he gasped:
— "Don't think! If you think too long in this valley, you'll die before you lift your sword!"
But Kaizlan couldn't answer. To him, the valley wasn't just a battlefield—it was the mirror of the world itself. In such a place, nobility and slavery meant nothing. The narrow path crushed everyone the same.
The Defenders
On the other side, Iron stood unshaken, his gray eyes calm, his shield like a stone wall. Every block he made was deliberate, measured, as if he weighed death on an inner scale before allowing it past. Beside him Torn laughed as though the carnage were a festival, his wooden blade smashing down with brutal joy.
Iron muttered as he parried another strike:
— "You laugh too much for a place like this."
Torn's teeth gleamed, blood running down his temple as he answered between swings:
— "We all die in the end… so why not laugh before my sword slips from my hand?"
The Valley's Question
By dusk, no one knew which side held the advantage. The attackers and defenders bled together into the mud, the line between them erased by exhaustion. The valley itself seemed alive, its silence pressing against every heart, asking a single, merciless question:
Do we shape the world… or is it the world that devours us?
Every scream, every strike, every heartbeat in the choking dark was an answer carved not with words, but with blood.