The other trainees had already arrived, scattered across the hall in small clusters. Quiet chatter drifted through the space, casual, careless. Some of them hadn't even noticed that one of their number, Tyrese, had been gone for an entire week. To them, he simply hadn't mattered enough.
Others did notice.
They saw him seated among them, calm and motionless, and realized only then how long it had been since they last laid eyes on him. Yet despite that recognition, none dared approach.
If they all shared one thing in common, it was this:noone wanted to get close to him.
For some, it was instinct, an unexplainable sense of danger prickling at the back of their minds, warning them that the boy sitting there so serenely was anything but harmless. For others, it was a vague unease, the feeling that something was wrong, that it was wiser to keep their distance.
The only exception was Maha.
She approached him without hesitation, concern etched clearly on her face, asking once again if he was alright, reminding him, quietly, that he could rely on her if he needed anything.
Before Tyrese could respond further, a voice echoed through the hall.
"Now that everyone is here, we can begin."
Sir Arras stood at the front of the chamber, his presence immediately drawing attention.
"Today, we will continue the combat training we began a few days ago," he announced. "You will engage in sparring matches with one another."
Without waiting, he turned and began walking toward the wide doors leading outside. The trainees followed, filing out behind him.
The training grounds were vast, an open expanse of packed earth bordered by stone. Training dummies stood in scattered groups, worn and scarred from years of use. Weapon racks lined the edges of the field, displaying an assortment of arms. Beyond that, the space was largely empty, leaving ample room for movement and combat.
"Tyrese."
Sir Arras' voice cut through the murmurs.
"Since you've missed several sessions," he said, "I'll allow you to choose a weapon based on the fighting style you intend to pursue. Know this, choosing now does not bind you permanently. The Church's training encompasses all paths. You will be prepared for everything."
Tyrese nodded once and made his way toward the weapon stalls.
There were blades of every kind, swords, spears, axes, alongside more unconventional weapons such as scythes and polearms. Yet Tyrese's gaze passed over them without pause.
Until it stopped.
At the far end of the rack rested a massive sword.
The blade alone was nearly thirty centimeters wide and stretched more than a meter in length. Its sheer bulk suggested a weight well beyond two hundred kilograms. Many trainees had tested their strength against that weapon before; none had even managed to lift it.
Tyrese reached out.
His right hand closed around the pommel.
And he lifted it effortlessly.
A ripple of stunned gasps spread through the trainees behind him. Some stared in disbelief. Others whispered, their voices hushed, as though afraid to be heard.
One hand…?
Sir Arras' eyes narrowed slightly, though he said nothing.
Tyrese paid no attention to the reactions. His gaze remained fixed on the sword itself. It bore no ornate engravings, no special markings, it was a simple training weapon, plain and unadorned.
And yet, it felt right.
He turned and returned to the group, the massive blade resting easily in his grasp. By the time he rejoined them, everyone else had already chosen their weapons.
"Good," Sir Arras said at last. "We can begin."
Since Tyrese was new to combat training, Sir Arras expected someone to step forward and guide the first exchange.
No one did.
The trainees stood in silence, eyes shifting, feet subtly adjusting, anything to avoid being noticed. Not a single hand rose. Not a single voice answered.
Then a calm voice broke the stillness.
"I'll do it."
Heads turned.
The speaker was tall and broad-shouldered, a long spear resting naturally in his grip. His posture was straight, his breathing steady, his eyes clear and confident. Cairn, one of the most promising trainees.
Sir Arras studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Sigils are not authorized."
With a flick of his wrist, he handed each of them a talisman. The small object was warm to the touch, etched with faint sigils.
"A single-use protection charm," Sir Arras explained. "It will activate once, should a fatal blow be struck."
Tyrese and Cairn stepped into the center of the training ground.
The earth beneath their feet was worn smooth by countless battles.
"Begin," Sir Arras commanded.
Cairn moved first.
He circled Tyrese slowly, spear angled forward, eyes never leaving him. He was cautious, observant, measuring distance, timing, intent.
Tyrese did not move.
He stood perfectly still.
His eyes didn't follow Cairn's steps. His body didn't shift. He was calm in a way that felt unnatural, like a lake without ripples, undisturbed by wind.
Cairn frowned slightly.
Then he attacked.
The spear lunged toward Tyrese's neck from behind, fast, precise.
Tyrese had felt it long before the attack began.
Every footstep.
Every breath.
Every minute fluctuation in Cairn's intent.
He tilted his head aside with the barest movement.
The spear passed harmlessly by.
Cairn didn't hesitate.
Another thrust followed, then two more in rapid succession, the spear striking from different angles, probing for weakness. Tyrese avoided every one of them with minimal effort, his movements economical and smooth, as if the attacks were slow and predictable.
To Tyrese, Cairn might as well have been standing still.
During the Trial, his mind and body had been refined beyond mortal limits. He had trained for more than ten thousand years in a place where time had lost all meaning, wielding a sword forged from the crimson essence of Death itself. Though that refinement had not directly shaped his physical body back then, traces of it had followed him back.
He was stronger than an ordinary man.
Faster.
Sharper.
And more than anything,
He possessed experience.
Not battlefield experience, but something deeper. Repetition. Failure. Endurance. Control.
Cairn lunged again.
Tyrese's sword moved for the first time.
The motion was smooth. Flawless. Silent.
So fast that only Sir Arras truly saw it.
The massive blade struck the spear's shaft at a precise angle. There was a sharp crack as the force redirected, and the weapon was ripped from Cairn's grasp, spinning through the air before crashing to the ground several meters away.
Cairn froze.
He stared at his empty hands, shock written plainly across his face. He hadn't even felt the impact, only the result.
Fear crept into his mind.
"Enough," Tyrese said calmly.
His blade rested against the ground, point down, unmoving.
Logically, it should have ended there.
Cairn was outmatched. He knew it. His body trembled slightly, instincts screaming at him to stop.
But then,
Whispers.
Soft at first. Insidious. Crawling into the corners of his thoughts.
Kill him.
Prove yourself.
Don't accept this humiliation.
Cairn's breathing grew erratic.
His vision tunneled.
Without fully understanding why, he turned, sprinted toward his fallen spear, seized it, and roared as he charged back toward Tyrese, madness burning in his eyes.
Tyrese watched him approach, expression unchanged.
But when he sensed the pure killing intent radiating from Cairn, something inside him shifted.
For just a moment,
His fragile equilibrium cracked.
His eyes glowed crimson.
A violent red aura surged along the blade, coiling around it like living flame. The air itself seemed to recoil.
Everything happened in a single heartbeat.
"STOP!" Sir Arras shouted.
The command snapped through the space like thunder.
Tyrese's eyes cleared instantly.
The crimson aura vanished as if it had never existed.
But Cairn did not stop.
Sir Arras moved.
One moment he stood at the edge of the field, the next, he was there. His hand struck Cairn's neck with precise force, and the young man collapsed unconscious before his body hit the ground.
Sir Arras straightened slowly, a deep frown etched into his face.
He had sensed something the instant Cairn's behavior changed. At first, he had attributed the killing intent to humiliation and desperation. He had been preparing to intervene.
But Tyrese,
Sir Arras was certain of it.
If he had been a fraction of a second slower, Cairn would have been obliterated.
The talisman would not have saved him.
Not from that. Not from whatever it was he had sensed, though he did not yet understand it.
Sir Arras turned to Tyrese.
"Well done," he said at last.
But there was no praise in his voice.
Only caution.
Tyrese returned to the sidelines in silence.
Maha watched him closely. When their eyes met, she flinched, just slightly.
Not because he had won.
But because, for the briefest instant…
She had felt it too.
Something inside him.
Something that had wanted more.