Years had passed in the shadows of the facility. The seasons outside changed, but inside, time had become irrelevant. Ravian no longer thought in days or months—only in survival. They had been taken when they were young, barely more than children, but now… now they were something else. Out of a thousand, only fourteen remained. Not by luck, but by sheer endurance.
The overseers had trained them, shaped them, and broken them down over the years. What they called cultivation wasn't the gentle, nurturing process Ravian had heard whispered about by those who practiced traditional methods. There was no harmony, no balance in the technique they had been forced to endure. The energy they cultivated wasn't drawn from the air to nourish their bodies. It didn't heal or strengthen in the usual way.
What they had been practicing was different—designed to withstand, not grow. It was like building a dam, reinforcing the body to hold against the inevitable flood. Their bodies, minds, and spirits had been fortified not to absorb power, but to endure chaos. Ravian's veins had been forced to harden, his muscles to grow dense and unyielding, not for strength but for endurance. The energy they would soon face was not something that could be absorbed and refined. It was something that would tear them apart unless they were ready.
Ravian had felt it in every session, the way his body resisted, the way his bones groaned under the strain. The technique was brutal, harsh—made not for progress, but for endurance. Each day brought a new level of exhaustion, each session a fresh wave of pain, but it had hardened them. It had hardened him.
Today, the air felt heavier than usual. Something was in the atmosphere, a tension hidden within the excitement that hadn't been there before. Ravian stood, as he always did, among the few who remained. Fourteen. Too few. His eyes, once filled with curiosity and light, were now cold, calculating. He looked at the others, not with any sense of camaraderie or connection, but with the detachment of someone who understood that survival was all that mattered. He no longer saw them as comrades, but as bodies—some would survive today, some wouldn't. Attachment was a poison anyway.
The overseers didn't speak. They didn't need to. They hadn't spoken to the children in years. Their commands were unspoken, their expectations clear. No explanations were necessary. These children—no, these tools—had been trained to obey.
Ravian's gaze shifted to the stone table in front of them. On it sat the vials, each one filled with a dark, swirling energy. He could feel the chaos inside them, could sense it before he even touched his vial. His fingers closed around the glass, and the energy inside seemed to pulse, like a living thing waiting to be unleashed.
This was what they had been preparing for.
The energy wasn't like the refined power he had once imagined in childhood stories. It was chaos, raw and dangerous, the kind of energy that didn't nurture or strengthen. It destroyed. Ravian knew without a doubt that if they had been brought here years ago, before the training, before the slow forging of their body and will, this energy would have killed them all.
The fourteen who remained had endured years of torment, not to grow, but to survive. Even now, with their bodies hardened by years of brutality, there was no guarantee that they would make it through this.
Ravian didn't hesitate. His hand lifted the vial to his lips, his movements mechanical, deliberate. He had no fear, no hesitation. Fear was irrelevant. Only survival mattered.
The liquid slid into his mouth, cold at first, then burning as it hit his throat. The moment it entered his system, the chaos erupted. His veins bulged, black lines snaking up his arms and neck. The energy tore through him, not like a force to be controlled, but like a wild animal, clawing at his insides. His muscles seized, his bones rattled, his heart thudded out of sync.
Ravian's eyes remained steady, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath him. His body trembled, his muscles spasming under the weight of the energy, but he didn't fall. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, but his expression didn't change. Pain had long since become a constant companion. This was no different.
The energy continued to tear through him, trying to break him apart from the inside. His breath came in slow, controlled bursts, his chest rising and falling with the same steady rhythm he had trained into his body. He could feel the chaos flooding through his veins, but his body was prepared. The years of cultivation—the dam-building, the hardening of his bones and muscles—had all led to this. Without the training, the chaos would have consumed him.
He felt it in the way his legs locked, his spine straightening under the pressure. His body wasn't absorbing the energy—it was enduring it. His veins pulsed violently beneath his skin, black and swollen, but they held. His muscles ached, his bones groaned, but they didn't break. Not yet.
Around him, the others were struggling. He could hear the soft, labored breaths, the groans of pain. None of them screamed. They hadn't screamed in years. Ravian didn't turn to look. He didn't need to. He knew that some of them wouldn't make it. He could already hear the thuds of bodies hitting the floor, one after another.
Thud.
Another body down.
Ravian's knees trembled, but he forced them to stay locked. His eyes remained on the ground, his focus unbroken. His heart pounded in his ears, the uneven rhythm matching the chaotic energy pulsing through him. His muscles twitched, his body burning from the inside out, but he didn't fall. His body had been trained for this. His mind, cold and detached, didn't register the pain as it once might have. It was just another factor in the equation.
Another thud. And another.
The silence grew heavier as more bodies fell.
Ravian's chest tightened, his breath coming in ragged bursts, but his legs held. His hands shook, blood dripping from his palms where his nails had pierced the skin, but he remained upright. The chaos was still raging inside him, but slowly—so slowly—it began to shift. His veins, which had felt like they might burst, started to settle. His muscles, trembling under the strain, began to adapt. His body, hardened by years of brutality, wasn't absorbing the energy, but it was surviving it.
Around him, the silence deepened. Only nine remained.
Ravian's gaze flicked up, scanning the room for a moment. The bodies lay where they had fallen, twisted and broken, their eyes wide and empty. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky on the stone floor. He felt nothing as he looked at them. No pity. No sorrow. They had fallen. He had not. That was all.
The overseers, impassive as ever, gestured for the survivors to move forward. There was no acknowledgment of the dead, no pause for the fallen. This was expected. The weak would fall. The strong would survive. It had always been that way.
Ravian stepped forward, his body heavy, his limbs feeling foreign. The chaos still simmered beneath his skin, a reminder of what he had just endured, but he moved without hesitation. His gaze remained steady, his mind cold, calculating. There were no thoughts of the past, no memories of the pain. Only indifference. Only survival.