He bled freely across crimson-stained concrete, retreating a few steps as his knuckles tightened around the synthetic grip of his sword. Once alien in his grasp, the weapon –his falchion–now felt like another limb–an extension forged through pain and sheer repetition over what felt like months.

  It was with no small amount of pleasure that the awkward weight of its curved blade was long gone; now, it answered his will. Fluid and ruthless.

  The arena wasn’t wide—just fifty paces in either direction, bordered by obsidian-black walls and the cracked husks of old training dummies. Overhead, beyond a thick pane of observation glass, a crowd of silhouettes loomed barely visible. Watching. Judging. Unfeeling.

  Archibald glanced up at them, a familiar scowl pulling at his lips.

  “Bet Galt’s up there,” he muttered. “The bastard wouldn’t miss a chance to watch us suffer.”

  He let his gaze fall back to the pit. Only two groups remained in combat, the rest already having found their champions.

  Shaking his head slightly, a burst of dizziness washed over him and air came to him in jagged, shallow breaths. He could tell that he wouldn’t last much longer.

  He needed to reassess the situation.

  Failure was not an option. Not now. Not ever. He had bled too much. Endured more than enough for one lifetime.

  He would carve out a path for himself, even if he had to bleed more in the process.

  He needed to recalibrate. Now.

  Narrowing his eyes, ruthlessness flashed in his gaze as he studied his opponents—two initiates still locked in combat after his brief withdrawal. Their blades clashed in a flurry so intense, that only sheer desperation could have fueled it. One flowed between twin daggers and a short sword, fast and erratic. The other wielded a katana-like blade, its edge still wet with his blood.

  Neither had noticed him yet. Not truly.

  Both were too preoccupied in their deadly dance to realize that he wasn’t quite out of the battle despite the gash that spanned the length of his belly button to his sternum.

  Archibald pressed a hand to his side. His fingers came away soaked in crimson.

  "Just A little deeper," he thought grimly, "and I’d be clutching my guts instead of my sword."

  Just a few weeks ago, a wound like this would've been a death sentence.

  Now it was just a reminder. His body had always taken to the injections a bit more eagerly than the others.

  He snorted—a short, derisive thing. The absurdity of it all almost made him laugh.

  "I’ve survived worse by now. It’s time to end this farce."

  He repositioned swiftly, keeping low as he closed in.

  The dagger-wielder never saw him coming.

  His falchion–driven by his adrenaline and cold rage–sang through the air, slicing a clean line across the opponent’s thigh. A glancing blow, but it disrupted their rhythm.

  Archibald didn’t wait for a reaction as the initiate briefly collapsed.

  “Now!”

  Gritting his teeth, he surged forward like a spring uncoiled–shoulder crashing into the katana-wielder’s ribs with brutal momentum. His dagger flashed in his off-hand, already seeking another target—their jugular—his aim true.

  The three of them froze —just for a heartbeat as they assessed the situation.

  A tense, wheezing silence.

  Blood in the air. Sharks circling.

  Then came the sound: a wet gasp, a brittle crack.

  The katana-wielder slumped to the floor in a crumpled heap. Blood spread beneath her like ink on old parchment.

  Archibald exhaled slowly, a thin smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “One down. One to go.”

  “Now that’s much more manageable isn’t it?”

  But the final combatant was already closing in, faster than expected despite the limp in his step. Archibald’s earlier slash had landed—but not deep enough.

  “That should’ve crippled him. Fuck. No time for the blade. Close combat it is.”

  Instead of retreating like the opponent expected, he stepped in and twisted, grabbing the other initiate’s uniform with a hooked arm and throwing his weight forward.

  A judo throw—messy, but effective.

  His opponent slammed to the ground hard enough to rattle teeth. Archibald’s own ribs flared in protest, but pain had long since become background noise. He drove his dagger downward, aiming for the jugular once more.

  But he was just a beat too slow.

  The other initiate—desperation burning in his eyes—twisted sharply, catching Archibald’s wrist and wrenching it sideways with savage force.

  The dagger clattered to the floor.

  Both fighters leapt back at the same moment, chests heaving, blood-slick and grimacing. They circled each other now, no hesitation, no words.

  Just will.

  Just survival.

  Archibald’s eyes narrowed, breath ragged.

  One final burst.

  Do or die.

  …

  They moved in unison—

  —A blur of motion.

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  Brutal precise movements. Aiming for the quickest kill. Just as they were taught.

  The other initiate struck first, aiming high with a feint. Archibald twisted, letting the blow graze past his shoulder, then countered with a low kick to the shin. It connected, drawing a grunt of pain and another stagger. But no collapse.

  “Still too strong. Still too aware.” He grit his teeth in concentration.

  The initiate came back with a flurry of wild strikes, fists hammering like pistons all aimed at vital points. Archibald parried the first two, deflected the third, but the fourth caught him in the jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred for a heartbeat.

  His opponent was not going to let weakness pass unexploited, closing in rapidly despite his ragged breaths.

  Using sheer willpower, he gritted his teeth and responded with a lightning fast elbow to the throat, quick and sharp. The initiate reeled, arms clutching the point of impact.

  Archibald didn’t give him time to breathe—he launched forward, ramming a sharp knee into his gut. They collapsed into each other like animals, grappling, slipping on blood-slick concrete.

  Archibald saw a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye and reached for his fallen dagger, fingertips grazing steel—

  —but his opponent slammed a forearm down on his wrist, grinding bone against stone.

  White hot pain shot up his arm like lightning. It wasn’t enough to break his focus.

  “Can’t overpower him. Must break rhythm. Break focus.”

  He feinted with his other hand, jabbing at their eyes. It was a crude method, but it worked—the initiate flinched. Archibald twisted under the pressure, freed his wrist, and drove his head forward with all his might.

  Their skulls collided.

  White sparks danced in Archibald’s vision. The other boy went slack for half a second—

  Just long enough.

  He grabbed the dagger and plunged it up, burying it beneath the ribs.

  Not once.

  Not twice.

  Three times.

  Until the resistance faded. Until he heard the death knell ring.

  A gasp escaped the other initiate’s lips—wet, shuddering. He stared up, eyes wide, mouth trembling as if to speak. No words came. Only silence.

  Then he fell still, crumpling on top of him.

  Archibald pushed the dead initiate off and stumbled to his feet, slick with blood—his own and not.

  His heart thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. He stood there, swaying slightly, falchion laying on the ground just a few meters away, the dagger still clenched in his right hand like a lifeline.

  His breath came in broken heaves.

  His body screamed in protest.

  But he was still standing.

  That meant he’d won.

  …He had survived to live another day.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t raise his arms in victory. Just tilted his head upward—toward the glass observation deck where the silhouettes still watched. Silent. Unmoved.

  "You’ve improved."

  The voice that followed from the speakers was colder than the steel in his hands. Colder than the body that lay cooling at his feet.

  Instructor Galt stepped into the pit like a shadow given muscle and voice. Tall, pale, and carved from iron, his presence turned pain into posture. Every surviving initiate stood straighter—even the ones who were half at death's door.

  Galt’s eyes swept them like a scalpel. "Barely."

  He turned to Archibald. "You fight like someone afraid of death. Good. Hold on to that. You will need it from here on."

  His gaze swept over the survivors. Five remained—bloody, broken, but breathing.

  “The rest of your cohort failed,” Galt said flatly, as if noting the weather. “You five… you did not.”

  He let the words hang for a moment, like smoke over a battlefield.

  “The chaff has been burned. What remains—what endures—are the seeds we’ve chosen to plant. The seeds of humanity's future.”

  He raised a gloved hand, gesturing toward the far end of the arena. A sealed door hissed open.

  Two figures entered.

  “You will now meet your handlers,” Galt said, tone shifting flat to something faintly unhinged, “You’ll be under their watch from here on. Through their teachings, you will become emissaries of humanity's evolution.”

  Galt held eye contact with each survivor of section A7. “Make me proud.”

  The first figure moved like a tank in human form—tall, broad, armored in black composite. A half-mask obscured his face. His presence was pressure, distilled into form. Cold, unreadable. Dangerous.

  “Handler Rook,” Galt said, bowing his head slightly.

  Rook made no reply. The only sound as he moved was the whisper of his half-cape brushing the floor. His white eyes scanned them through his mask–not as people, but as raw material.

  The second was more unsettling. Average height. Graceful. Almost… floating. Her coat was black, trimmed with ivory thread. Her olive skin and piercing green eyes stood in contrast to the pit's dim light. Archibald felt that there was something strange in her gaze—like mercury that could see into his soul.

  “Handler Knight,” Galt said again, bowing in deference.

  The Knight gave a soft, unreadable smile. The Rook and Knight flanked Galt in the center of the pit—judgment given form.

  Galt didn’t smile. “From this point forward, your bodies are no longer your own. You’ve passed the initial forging. Now begins your true transformation—for Helix.”

  “You’ve bled. You’ve broken. Good. That means the shell has cracked.”

  Calla spoke, her voice melodic and heavy with implication. “Now we see what grows from the fracture.”

  Rook moved wordlessly down the line of survivors, producing from his coat a row of long, black syringes—each filled with fluid that shimmered like starlight stuck in blood. He held them up, one by one, examining the vials as if weighing their worth.

  “The injections before were preparation,” Calla said. “This one is metamorphosis. It will tear you open—your body, your Gift. The thing you were born with. The thing that will either define your path…”

  She smiled wider.

  “…or end it.”

  Archibald stared at the syringe. Something inside the vial moved. Like a living essence caged in liquid light.

  His heartbeat thundered.

  Galt’s voice cut through the tension. “You’ve already been chosen. From the beginning.”

  Then, without pause: “Awaken for humanity. For Helix. Or die trying.”

  Archibald knew better than to hesitate under the gaze of those three. He could feel their scrutiny crawling over his skin—watching his breath, his pulse, his thoughts.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others—already injecting themselves in the same place on their arms. No hesitation. No room for it.

  His jaw clenched.

  “No choice. Again.”

  Cold anger bled into his marrow.

  He brought the syringe to his arm, just beneath the crook of his elbow. His hand trembled. He took a breath, steadying it. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the needle in and depressed the plunger.

  …

  For a moment, nothing.

  The fluid felt cold as it spread through his veins.

  Then the world twisted.

  The moment the serum was absorbed, Archibald collapsed. So did the others.

  The floor vanished. His body vanished.

  Time stuttered. Fractured. Dissolved.

  And he fell—

  —into a dream that wasn’t a dream.