The condition for advancement was simple enough to understand and difficult enough to distort everyone's thinking.
Ten heads.
Not from other survivors.
From prisoners.
Other races.
They were brought down in chains, then released into the field as the cycle began. Not weakened. Not broken. Just contained long enough to be positioned.
Veyr didn't move immediately when he saw them.
He watched.
Different builds. Different movement structures. Some stood taller than any human present, their limbs slightly longer, joints bending at angles that felt wrong even at a glance. Others were compact, dense, their stance low and coiled like they were always ready to explode forward.
Then there were a few that stood still.
Too still.
Those were the ones he kept in his attention.
When the first clashes began, it became clear almost instantly—these were not targets.
They were combatants.
And they fought like it.
The moment Veyr stepped into his first engagement, something went wrong.
The opponent turned toward him and paused.
Not hesitation.
Recognition.
Its eyes narrowed slightly, then sharpened.
It moved first.
Faster than expected.
The strike came in a direct line, but not predictable. The timing felt off—not delayed, not rushed. Just… wrong.
Veyr shifted using Grim Step.
Barely avoided it.
The second strike came immediately after, forcing him back.
No opening.
No hesitation.
Just pressure.
Veyr tried to counter.
His hand moved with the Ash Hand structure he had been practicing.
The moment he did, the opponent's reaction changed.
It saw it.
Not just the movement.
The pattern.
Something in its expression shifted.
Recognition turned into intent.
It adjusted immediately, attacking more aggressively now, as if it had decided something.
Veyr retreated.
Not panicked.
Measured.
But it wasn't working.
Every time he tried to apply the technique, the opponent responded faster.
Like it already understood what he was trying to do before he completed it.
That realization came sharp.
This technique…
It belonged to them.
Or came from them.
He shifted again, barely avoiding a strike that would have broken his ribs.
Pain brushed past him anyway.
Too close.
He moved again.
Retreated further.
Then stopped.
Not physically.
Internally.
Running wouldn't solve it.
Understanding might.
The next exchange, he didn't try to win.
He watched.
Every movement. Every shift in balance. Every change in breathing rhythm.
The opponent stepped forward again.
This time, Veyr mirrored it.
Not fully.
Just enough.
The timing didn't match.
He adjusted.
The opponent struck.
He moved again.
Slower.
Closer to its rhythm.
He was still losing.
Badly.
Each exchange pushed him closer to collapse. His body couldn't keep up fully. His structure wasn't built for that movement yet.
But something was changing.
He was starting to see the pattern.
Not clearly.
But enough.
Then the mistake happened.
A misstep.
Not from the opponent.
From him.
His foot placement lagged just slightly behind the rhythm he was trying to imitate.
The strike came clean.
It hit.
Pain exploded through his side, knocking him down hard.
The world tilted.
He tasted blood immediately.
The opponent moved to finish it.
No hesitation.
Veyr reacted without thinking.
Not technique.
Instinct mixed with partial structure.
He moved inside the finishing strike.
Too close.
Too desperate.
His hand struck blindly.
Something gave.
The opponent staggered.
Just enough.
Veyr didn't think.
He followed.
Another strike.
Then another.
Crude. Inefficient. But timed at the only opening he had.
The opponent fell.
Not clean.
Not controlled.
Just… down.
Veyr didn't move for a moment.
He was lying in his own blood.
Breathing uneven.
The body beside him still.
For a few seconds, there was nothing.
Then he noticed something strange.
The blood.
Mixed.
His and the opponent's.
He didn't think about it.
He reached out.
Touched it.
Then, without understanding why, brought it to his mouth.
The taste was wrong.
Bitter. Heavy. Almost metallic but deeper.
He almost spat it out.
But something stopped him.
The moment it went down, his body reacted.
Not violently.
But noticeably.
The pain dulled slightly.
His breathing steadied.
Not healed.
But… supported.
He frowned faintly.
Then drank again.
This time more deliberately.
The effect was clearer.
Not full recovery.
But improvement.
That was enough.
He stood slowly.
Looked at the body again.
Then moved.
---
The second hunt was different.
Not easier.
But clearer.
He didn't rush into direct engagement.
He watched again.
Picked another of the same race.
This time, when the fight started, he didn't try to impose his own rhythm.
He followed theirs.
Poorly at first.
But closer than before.
He still got hit.
Still pushed back.
Still forced to retreat multiple times.
In one exchange, he disengaged completely, ran across terrain, broke line of sight—
Then came back.
Not out of desperation.
Out of adjustment.
Each time he returned, he moved slightly better.
Slightly closer to the pattern.
The fight stretched longer than it should have.
But eventually—
Another opening.
Another imperfect kill.
Another body.
Another pool of blood.
This time he didn't hesitate.
He drank.
More.
Faster.
The effect came quicker now.
Stronger.
His body responded differently.
Not just recovering.
Adapting.
---
It didn't stop at two.
Or three.
He kept going.
Each fight pushed him further.
Each time he bled.
Each time he drank.
Each time he improved.
But something else followed.
Subtle at first.
His movements changed.
Not consciously.
His stance lowered slightly. His steps became sharper. His strikes carried a different intent.
Less hesitation.
More direct.
More… violent.
His breathing changed too.
Shorter.
More controlled under pressure.
His reactions became faster.
Not because of training alone.
Because his body was starting to align with what he was imitating.
The more he fought them…
The more he became like them.
He didn't notice at first.
Others did.
The way he moved.
The way he entered fights.
The way he didn't disengage as cleanly anymore.
He stayed longer.
Pressed harder.
And when the blood hit his tongue—
Something inside him responded.
Not thought.
Instinct.
---
At some point, the fights stopped being measured.
He lost track of count.
Lost track of time.
The requirement had been ten.
He passed that without noticing.
Then kept going.
He hunted them.
Not strategically.
Not efficiently.
Relentlessly.
The field around him thinned.
Not because he cleared it alone.
But because he stopped avoiding it.
Blood covered him.
His own.
Theirs.
He drank without hesitation now.
Didn't care about the taste anymore.
Only the effect.
His body felt lighter.
Faster.
Stronger in short bursts.
But also…
Different.
His mind narrowed.
Focus sharpened to combat and nothing else.
For a period he couldn't define, he forgot everything else.
Only movement.
Only strikes.
Only survival through dominance.
---
Clarity returned slowly.
Not suddenly.
Like surfacing from something deep.
He stopped mid-step.
Breathing heavier than before.
The field had changed.
Quieter.
Fewer movements.
Fewer bodies.
He looked down.
Blood.
Everywhere.
On him.
Around him.
He didn't count immediately.
Then he did.
Fifteen.
More than required.
He stood still for a moment longer than necessary.
Then exhaled slowly.
Something in him settled.
Not gone.
Just… contained again.
---
When he returned, the others noticed.
Immediately.
Not because he spoke.
But because he didn't feel the same.
The distance he kept was heavier now.
Not just cautious.
Dangerous.
Some avoided looking at him directly.
Others watched more carefully than before.
And the instructor—
For the first time—
Paused.
Not long.
But enough.
His gaze stayed on Veyr for a moment longer than usual.
Not approval.
Not concern.
Recognition of change.
Then he looked away.
Because whatever Veyr had become in that cycle—
Was not his problem.
He had completed the requirement.
And that was all that mattered.