In his fourth month in the underground city, Cain finally saw the full scope of the Dawnblade.
Not through Marcus's words. Not through Hank's training. Through an accident.
That night, he finished training, his body drenched in sweat and covered in wood dust, and walked down the tunnel toward the mess hall. The silver moss light glowed on the damp stone walls, dyeing the entire underground city deep blue. When he reached the fork on the third level, he heard a scream.
Not Lyra's voice. A man's voice—the kind of sound squeezed from a throat gripped by fear.
Cain stopped.
His right hand instinctively went to his sword hilt. Four months of training had carved "hand on sword" into his bones. He listened for a few seconds. The sound came from the left tunnel—one he had never walked before.
The underground city had seven levels, Marcus had said. The training ground and armory were on the top level. Below were the storage rooms, mess hall, dormitories, classrooms, medical bay, and at the very bottom, the command room and the dungeons. Cain had been to the training ground, the armory, the mess hall, the dormitories, and the medical bay. The other three levels, he had never set foot in.
He should have kept walking to the mess hall. Lyra was waiting for him to eat.
But his feet had already stepped into the left tunnel.
The tunnel sloped downward. Deeper and deeper.
The silver moss light grew sparse here. Long stretches of bare black rock showed on the walls—no light, only damp water stains. The air carried a new smell. Not rust. Not food. Not sweat. Something heavier. Denser. More metallic.
Blood.
Cain softened his steps. He had learned to walk silently in darkness—Hank's first lesson: the first step of a hunt isn't the strike. It's the approach.
At the end of the tunnel stood an iron door. The door was half open, yellow oil lamp light seeping through. The screaming had stopped. In its place was a low, broken moan.
Cain looked through the gap.
The room was small—maybe twenty square meters. Chains and torture instruments hung on the walls. Some he recognized. Some he didn't. In the center of the room, a man was tied to a wooden chair. He wore the white robe of a Godservant, but the robe was soaked through with blood, turned dark red. His face was covered in wounds. His eyes were swollen to slits. His lips were split. Several teeth were missing.
Standing before him was a woman.
Cain had never seen her before. She was about forty, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun. Her face showed no expression. Her eyes held the calm of someone who had seen too much death to be moved by it anymore. In her hand was a narrow-bladed knife. Blood dripped from the blade.
"Say it again." The woman's voice was soft—so soft it sounded like she was putting a child to sleep.
The Godservant's lips moved. He made a wet, garbled sound.
"They... set a trap... in Ironwood Forest... waiting for your people..."
The woman nodded. She set the narrow-bladed knife on an iron tray beside her. It made a sharp clink.
"What else?"
"Athena... Athena is coming."
The woman's hand stopped.
"When?"
"Next month... at the full moon..."
The woman was silent for a few seconds. Then she picked up the narrow-bladed knife and drew it cleanly across the Godservant's throat.
Blood sprayed. It splattered on her hands, on her sleeves, on her face. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. She just stood there, watching the light fade from the Godservant's eyes. Then she turned and walked toward the door.
Cain had no time to move.
The door swung open. The woman stood face to face with him, less than two paces apart. The oil lamp light came from behind her, throwing her face into shadow, but Cain saw her eyes.
Gray-blue.
The same color as Marcus's eyes.
"You're the new one," the woman said. It wasn't a question. Her voice was completely different from the interrogation—no longer soft, but hard as stone, cold as a blade.
Cain didn't answer. His right hand was still on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw.
The woman looked down at his hand. The corner of her mouth twitched—not a smile, just a twitch.
"Good reflexes," she said. "But don't eavesdrop in the hallway. Next time, I'll gouge out your eyes."
She walked past him. Her footsteps faded down the tunnel.
Cain stood at the iron door, looking at the body still twitching inside, looking at the pool of blood spreading across the floor, looking at the torture instruments on the walls whose names he didn't even know.
His stomach turned. Not from disgust. Something deeper was churning.
He turned and walked toward the mess hall.
In the mess hall, Lyra had already gotten his food for him.
A bowl of thin porridge. A piece of black bread. A small dish of pickled vegetables. The underground city's food was always the same—simple, coarse, filling. But Lyra always broke half of her black bread into his bowl, then pretended she hadn't wanted that much to begin with.
Cain sat down and looked at the half-piece of black bread in his bowl. He said nothing.
Lyra glanced at him.
"You look bad."
"I'm fine."
"You went somewhere you shouldn't have."
Cain looked up at his sister. Lyra wasn't looking at him. She was focused on her porridge, lifting the spoon to her mouth one sip at a time. Slow. Deliberate.
"How do you know?" Cain asked.
"You always have that face when you go somewhere you shouldn't," Lyra said. "Last time it was the armory to get a real sword. The time before that, it was sneaking into Hank's room to look at the training plan. You can't hide things."
Cain was silent for a moment.
"I saw a woman interrogating a Godservant."
Lyra's spoon paused for a second. Then she continued drinking her porridge.
"That's Evelyn," she said. "Marcus's deputy. She handles prisoner interrogation."
"She killed him."
"She interrogated him." Lyra corrected. "Godservants don't talk nicely. You have to make them hurt first. Then they talk."
Cain looked at his sister. Lyra said these words in the same tone she would use to say "the mess hall has pickled vegetables today." No tremor. No hesitation. No extra emotion.
"That doesn't bother you?" Cain asked.
Lyra finally looked up at Cain. Her brown eyes reflected the silver moss light—calm as still water.
"I've seen worse," she said. "Mother's death was worse. But we're still alive."
She lowered her head and continued drinking her porridge.
Cain looked at the half-piece of black bread in his bowl. He ate it.
The next morning, Marcus called Cain to the command room.
Evelyn was there too. She stood behind Marcus, her graying hair still in that tight bun, her face still expressionless. She looked at Cain like she was looking at a rock—not ignoring him, just assessing him.
"You went to the dungeons last night," Marcus said without preamble.
Cain didn't deny it.
"Did I ever tell you the rules of the underground city?"
"No."
"Then I'll tell you now." Marcus stood and walked to the large map on the wall, his back to Cain. "The Dawnblade is not a charity. Not a military base. Not a school. It is an armory—and every one of you is a piece of iron being forged into a weapon."
He turned. His gray-blue eyes drove into Cain's pupils like two spikes.
"There are only three rules. First, obey orders. Second, protect your comrades. Third—don't ask a question you aren't prepared to face the consequences of."
Cain looked at Marcus.
"Last night you went to the dungeons. You saw things you shouldn't have seen." Marcus said. "By the rules, I should punish you. But I won't. Because you needed to see—this is what the world really looks like."
He walked to Cain and crouched down.
"When your father died, you thought the world was black and white—gods are bad, humans are good. But it's not that simple. The methods Evelyn uses to interrogate Godservants are brutal. But the intelligence she gets has saved at least fifty lives. That Godservant you saw bleeding on the chair—he had the blood of three Dawnblade members on his hands."
He paused.
"This world has no pure heroes and no pure villains. Only the living and the dead. You want to kill gods? Fine. But you need to know—to kill gods, what are you willing to become?"
Cain was silent for a long time.
"I'm willing to become a blade," he said.
Marcus looked at him. A glint of light passed through his gray-blue eyes.
"Then remember this." He stood and patted Cain's shoulder. "A blade has no good or evil. A blade is only sharp or dull. What you need to do is never forget why you were forged into a blade."
He turned, walked back behind his desk, sat down, and picked up his water cup.
"Get out. Hank is waiting for you on the training ground."
Cain turned to leave.
"Cain."
He stopped.
"Your sister knows about Evelyn," Marcus said. "She found out three months before you did. She never asked me 'why.' Do you know why?"
Cain shook his head.
"Because she knows some questions don't need answers," Marcus said. "She only needs to know that you're still alive. That she's still alive. That's enough."
Cain walked out of the command room.
In the tunnel, the cold light of the silver moss illuminated the stone walls. He touched the cord on his wrist and walked toward the training ground.
Behind him, Evelyn stood in the command room doorway, watching his back.
"He's like his father," she said.
"No." Marcus's voice came from inside the room. "He's more dangerous than his father. His father had no hate in his heart. He does."
Evelyn was silent for a moment.
"Should we be glad or afraid?"
Marcus didn't answer.
He just picked up his water cup and took a sip.
On the training ground, Hank was already waiting.
Today's training was different. No sword swings. No archery. No running. Three wooden posts lay on the ground—not for chopping. For carrying.
"Starting today, we add bear weight drills," Hank said. "You won't be walking flat ground. You'll be walking mountains. Your body needs to adapt."
Cain crouched down and hoisted one post onto his shoulder. The post weighed about thirty kilograms. His shoulder sank under the weight.
"Another."
Cain stacked a second post on top. Sixty kilograms. His legs began to tremble. His knees bent slightly.
"Another."
Third post. Ninety kilograms. Cain's knees bent to ninety degrees. Veins bulged in his arms. His teeth ground together. But he didn't fall. He stood there like a tree bent by the wind but not broken.
Hank looked at him. Nodded.
"Walk around the training ground. Ten laps."
Cain took his first step.
His foot hit the ground with a heavy thud. Every step was like wading through mud. Every step was a battle against gravity. Sweat dripped from his forehead and blurred his eyes. He didn't wipe it away. He just walked. Step by step. Step by step.
By the fifth lap, his consciousness began to blur. The training ground in front of him became a swaying world. The weight of the posts pressed down on his spine like a mountain. He heard his own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like someone drumming inside his ears.
By the seventh lap, his legs finally gave out. He fell to his knees. The posts slid off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.
He knelt there, gasping for breath, hands on the ground, fingers digging into the dirt.
"Get up." Hank's voice came from above.
Cain didn't move.
"I said get up."
Cain looked up at Hank. Hank stood before him, arms crossed over his chest, his face expressionless.
"You think you can't go on?" Hank said. "You're wrong. Your body can still go. Your brain is telling you 'no more.' Brains lie. Bodies don't. Your legs are still there. Your arms are still there. Your spine isn't broken. You can still walk."
He crouched down and hoisted the posts back onto Cain's shoulders.
"Finish the last three laps."
Cain clenched his jaw and stood up.
He finished.
When he crossed the finish line on his last step, his legs went completely limp. He collapsed face-first into the dirt, breathing like a broken bellows, his chest hissing.
Hank stood over him, looking down.
"Tomorrow, four posts."
Cain didn't answer. He had no strength left to answer.
But he heard something—a very soft, almost inaudible sound.
Not a mocking laugh.
It was the kind of laugh that said, "This kid might actually make it."
That night, Cain lay in his bed. His entire body ached like it was falling apart.
His left arm—the one wrapped in divine marks—was burning. Not a burn from heat. A deeper heat, rising from inside his bones. He raised his arm and watched the black lines glow faintly in the silver moss light, as if something was flowing inside them.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
But he dreamed of his father.
Not the father swallowed by lightning in the square. An older memory—when he was five years old, his father took him to Ironwood Forest to chop firewood. His father walked ahead. He followed behind, his small feet stepping where his father had stepped. His father turned and looked at him. "Follow me," he said, "and you won't get lost."
Then his father's face began to blur. To warp. To transform into a face Cain had never seen before—pale, cold, with eyes like two knives.
That face spoke.
"You think you're getting stronger? You've only just begun to bleed."
Cain woke from the dream, drenched in cold sweat.
He sat up, gasping. The divine mark on his left arm burned hot—like a snake slithering beneath his skin.
He looked down at the arm. At the black lines.
The curse.
It had begun the moment he touched Deny.
He told no one. He just put on his clothes, picked up his sword, walked out of his room, and headed to the training ground.
The training ground was empty. The cold light of the silver moss illuminated the battered wooden posts. He stood before the center post, drew his sword, and began to swing.
One swing. One swing. One swing.
No counting. No goal. Just swinging.
Until dawn.