The string of the crossbow snapped loose with a dull twang, and before thought could catch up, an arrow whistled through the air toward his temple. Instinct tilted his head just far enough—wood and iron screamed past, close enough to burn the skin with its passing wind. The sting of impact still followed, a blunt strike to the back of his skull, rattling bone and thought alike.
Pain sharpened him. Another wave of arrows hissed overhead as he dropped into a crouch, the storm of projectiles carving the air where his chest had been. Yet raw evasion was not enough. The training ground was merciless. Here, scarecrows armed with steel crossbows stood as executioners, their wooden limbs creaking as they cranked their weapons without pause. There was no rhythm to their volleys, only the relentless law of survival.
The mercenary's gift pulsed—an inner warning, a strange tingling at his brow—but the warning was never precise. It spoke of danger, never its source. If he relied only on instinct, he would forever be prey, not predator.
He forced himself to still. Breath slowed, mind sharpened, the world narrowed. Another sting at his forehead. This time he didn't look—he listened. The faint groan of a latch releasing, the whisper of a string cutting the air. Sound painted the battlefield where sight could not. At eleven o'clock, at three, and again behind—three arrows singing toward him in unison.
Arms lifted to shield. A blow smashed into his guard, another cracked against the back of his skull. Pain again, but knowledge came with it. Sight was not the only sense. Danger revealed itself in tremors, in air, in the silent rhythm of machines of war.
He closed his eyes. Darkness swallowed the world, but the void forced his other senses to bloom. A thrum, a vibration. At twelve o'clock, three, six, nine—death encircled him in four directions. This time he moved not in panic but with purpose, shifting his body by inches, his head by fractions. Arrows tore past, grazing his hair, carving the space he had abandoned.
The impossible became familiar. Somewhere, deep within memory, he felt the echo of this before—this sense of moving as though time itself whispered the path. A ghost of the future clawed at the edges of his thoughts. The forbidden art known as the Phantom's Visage, a technique said to imitate the swordplay of one's future self. Could its residue be guiding him now?
The revelation was shattered by merciless pain. A cluster of blunt arrows struck his head and shoulders, forcing him to the ground. Gritting his teeth, he rose to see five training bolts scattered at his feet.
The trial did not end. Again and again, the scarecrows loosed their bolts, their tempo cruel, their intent to break him. He persisted, blind yet listening, his gift and his sharpened senses working in tandem. By the time an hour crawled past, his breath came ragged, sweat drenched his back, and his limbs shook like blades trembling after impact. Yet he endured.
The reprieve was short. The professor, ever merciless, assigned a new duty: leadership. No rest for the blade-in-training. He was ordered to observe his comrades scattered across the grounds, to learn their strengths as a commander should.
Dragging his weary body through the stone halls, he sought them out. The first sight was striking—Lanius, wings outstretched, hurled into the air, only to meet Whipney's conjured storm. Winds roared, carrying with them great bubbles shimmering like glass orbs, obstacles both whimsical and lethal. Lanius dove and weaved, never letting his feathers touch the drifting spheres, each movement precise under the lash of the gale. Whipney laughed through her drowsiness, clutching her pillow even as her sorcery reshaped the sky.
Farther on, beneath the sun's burning eye, Anastasia stood defiant. A parasol shielded her pale frame, yet a single outstretched finger told another story. From its tip, blood unraveled into threads, quivering toward a needle fixed atop a distant pole. The line wavered, collapsed, reformed—control tested to its absolute edge. Her crimson gift was flame bound in liquid form, and if mastered, it could ignite the blood of others as easily as her own.
But even in training, she faltered. A stumble nearly hurled her into the dirt. He caught her hand before she fell, saving her pride as much as her body. The sunlight had licked her skin in that instant, leaving a shallow burn across her pale hand. She dismissed it, stubborn as ever, but the wound lingered as proof of her fragility.
Her voice softened then, the vampire girl stealing a glance around before whispering about secrets—her age, her nature, promises unspoken yet binding. But she masked it quickly with bravado, lifting her chin to show her training instead, crimson threads straining toward the impossible needle.
The mercenary turned away, watching her struggle with a faint ache in his chest. Beneath her proud theatrics was vulnerability. Beneath his fatigue was something else—a weight, perhaps destiny itself, pushing him toward choices that would carve his path in blood and fire.
For now, the arrows had ceased, but the war inside him had only just begun.