They called it the pit, but even that word was generous.
Throy crouched beside a cracked water barrel, cupping filthy runoff into his blistered hands. The midday sun carved shadows through his ribs and collarbones, baking the dust onto his skin like a second layer of grime. Around him, a dozen other boys stumbled between makeshift training dummies, bodies bent under the weight of splintered practice spears or punishment stones.
No food since dawn. No breaks since morning. No dreams since childhood.
Just sweat, sand, and the voice of the drillmaster barking again.
"On your feet, pit-rats! If you can kneel, you can fight! If you can breathe, you can kill!"
Throy stood slowly, teeth clenched. His knuckles were bruised from yesterday's sparring, and his back ached from sleeping on gravel. But he stood. Always stood.
Because standing was the one thing they couldn't beat out of him.
This was Drassos Cradle—a place where orphans, debt-sons, and slaves were thrown to break or become useful. Most became corpses. A few became weapons.
Throy intended to become something else.
Not a sword to be held.
Not a banner to be buried.
But a storm to be feared.
Across the field, Tharn was laughing again—bloody-nosed and feral as ever. The boy was chaos with legs, swinging his wooden blade like a madman. Half the other recruits avoided sparring with him, not because he was skilled, but because he never held back.
"Come on!" Tharn shouted at a trembling older trainee. "I'm right here! Hit me before I start naming your ancestors!"
The drillmaster turned a blind eye. They all did. Tharn wasn't just tolerated—he was being watched.
So was Throy. But for a different reason.
Quiet. Consistent. Unbroken.
Throy wasn't the loudest. Or the strongest. Or even the most skilled.
But he survived.
And that made people nervous.
That night, the sky burned purple with the coming storm. The boys huddled beneath stretched hides and broken beams as the wind howled through the camp.
Throy didn't sleep. He stared at the stars, lips moving silently.
Not a prayer. Not anymore. Those had stopped the day his father was dragged away in chains and his mother vanished with a price on her head.
No, this was something else. A promise.
To the world. To himself.
To whatever thing inside him refused to give up.
"I will rise. I will build. I will never kneel."
He meant every word.
And something — something — must have been listening.
Because just before dawn, when the others were still buried in restless sleep, a voice whispered in his mind. Cold. Clear. Unmistakably not his own.
[SYSTEM DETECTED: "THE IRON PATH"]
Status: Candidate Condition Met
Initializing Trial…
Would you walk the path of Iron?
Would you shape strength through suffering?
Would you rise without shortcut or savior?
Throy blinked. The words weren't seen — they were felt, like truths etched into the back of his skull.
He didn't understand. He wasn't sure he believed it.
But something in him answered anyway.
"Yes."
[Trial Accepted]
You walk the path of Iron.
You will be broken, rebuilt, and broken again.
There is no salvation. Only shaping.
[Title Acquired: HOLLOW-BORN]
You have nothing. That is your beginning.
+1 Cunning, +1 Resolve
Trait Gained: "Discipline Forged"
A sudden weight settled into his bones—not physical, but something real. Throy gasped, hand clutched to his chest.
Then, like smoke fading in wind, the sensation vanished.
He was alone again. But not the same.
Not quite.
By morning, the storm had passed.
So had something inside him.
Throy moved differently now—less hesitation in his step, more weight behind his stare. He watched the others as they trained, not just as people, but as pieces on a board. Their habits. Their tells. Their weaknesses.
When the sparring matches resumed, he volunteered first.
His opponent was stronger. Older. Overconfident.
Throy let him lead with aggression. Dodged instead of blocked. Sidestepped instead of clashing. He struck when the arm was raised too high. Feinted when the balance shifted too far.
And then, with a final shove to the throat, he won.
Clean. Efficient. Not flashy.
But enough to make heads turn.
Enough for the drillmaster to mutter something to a watching officer behind his cloak.
That night, another log burned in the pit fire. Tharn sat beside Throy, teeth shining in the glow.
"You don't fight like them," Tharn said, chewing dried meat. "You're slippery. Like a lizard with a knife."
Throy said nothing.
Tharn shrugged. "I like it. We're going to be something, you and me."
"Like what?" Throy finally asked.
Tharn grinned wide. "Leaders. Gods. Enemies of empires."
Throy looked at him sidelong. "We're just pit-rats."
"Not forever." Tharn leaned closer. "I had a dream, y'know. We were wearing real armor. Banners behind us. Fire everywhere. You were shouting something I couldn't hear."
"What was I shouting?"
Tharn grinned wider. "Didn't matter. Everyone listened."
That night, the System spoke again.
[Progress Recognized]
You showed restraint, awareness, and control.
Experience Gained: +43
[Level 1 → 2]
Path: Undetermined
Your choices shape your fate.
Throy didn't smile. Didn't laugh. Didn't pray.
He simply stared at the stars again, breathing in the smoke and storm.
He was still nothing.
But nothing was a perfect place to start.