The training grounds smelled like steel and sweat.
Kaen stood in the center of the dirt square, barefoot, shirt damp with sweat. A wooden blade lay at his side, splintered from the last round. Blood trickled from his lower lip, the copper taste settling on his tongue.
Opposite him, a boy two years older — lean, fast, eyes sharp — held his stance with perfect form. His name was Riku. He had trained for four years. Kaen had trained for four days.
Kaen lunged again.
His strike was wild — too wide, too angry. Riku ducked, drove his knee into Kaen's gut, and swept him to the ground. Dust rose around them as Kaen landed hard.
"Again," Riku said coldly, offering no hand.
Kaen pushed himself up, chest heaving, ribs bruised. He grabbed the wooden sword again.
Yoru stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed.
"Form means nothing if you don't learn to control yourself," she said. "You're not fighting to win. You're fighting to survive."
Kaen didn't speak. His lip was bleeding again. His vision blurred at the edges, but he wasn't dizzy. He was angry.
He raised his sword and stepped forward.
Riku shook his head. "You'll never make it."
Kaen charged. This time, he didn't swing. He waited.
The moment Riku moved to counter, Kaen shifted his feet — a small motion, enough to change the angle. He ducked under Riku's swing and slammed his shoulder into his chest.
Riku stumbled back.
Kaen followed up with a strike to the ribs. Then another. His hand stung from the force, but he didn't stop. The third strike hit Riku's shoulder hard enough to knock him to one knee.
Kaen raised the sword again, ready to end the match.
"Enough," Yoru called.
Kaen stopped mid-swing, breathing hard. His arms trembled. His heartbeat roared.
Riku spat blood onto the dirt. "Lucky."
Kaen turned and walked off the field without a word.
Later that night, he sat at the edge of the training quarters, staring up at the sky.
No stars.
Only ash.
It drifted in soft flakes, coating the world in gray. It never stopped. Every breath he took carried a taste of the dead.
Yui sat beside him, wrapped in a too-large cloak. Her hand found his sleeve again. She still hadn't spoken. Not even once. But she was always near.
Kaen didn't mind the silence.
He looked at her, then back to the sky. "Do you think… when this is over, we'll go home?"
Yui didn't answer.
There was no home to go back to.
The days blurred.
Training became routine. Hours of blade work, stance drills, breathing forms. His body adapted quickly — faster than it should. Muscles hardened. Pain became familiar. The others began to whisper.
Some feared him. Some envied him.
Riku avoided him now.
Only Yoru watched him closely. Not with approval — with suspicion.
She saw the way Kaen fought. How his reflexes were too sharp. How his wounds closed just a little too fast.
She never said it, but Kaen knew. She was waiting. Watching.
And so was something else.
That night, Kaen awoke in sweat.
The mark on his chest was glowing again — brighter this time. Like a brand, lit from inside. His fingers trembled as he touched it.
Then he heard the voice.
Not in his mind.
Not this time.
In the room.
He turned slowly.
There, in the corner, where the shadows stretched unnaturally long, a shape crouched.
Not quite man. Not quite demon.
Its face was hidden beneath a mask of cracked bone, and black fire curled from its spine like tendrils. It didn't move. It only stared.
Kaen's breath caught in his throat. He reached for the knife under his blanket — dull, but real.
The thing tilted its head.
Then it spoke.
"You are not him… and yet, you are."
Kaen rose, blade in hand. "What are you?"
"A memory."
Its voice was cold. Hollow. But layered — like more than one voice speaking at once.
"Or perhaps a warning."
Kaen's hand tightened around the hilt.
"I'll kill you if you come near her."
The figure stepped forward — not walking, but gliding. It passed the moonlight, and Kaen saw its eyes.
Empty. Burning. Endless.
"There are things inside you that do not belong. Things that were buried long before you were born."
Kaen raised the knife.
The figure stopped.
"The seal is cracking."
Then it vanished.
Gone.
No sound. No trace. Just air.
Kaen's knees buckled.
The room was cold.
Too cold.
He turned to Yui — she was still asleep, undisturbed.
But the mark on Kaen's chest now glowed even brighter.
Yoru stood at the edge of the outpost, gazing toward the east where the forest stretched far beyond the horizon. She had felt it — the shift in the air. The pressure of something ancient, stirring beneath the ground.
An old slayer joined her. Wrinkled, blind in one eye.
"You feel it too?" he asked.
Yoru nodded slowly. "The seals are weakening."
The old man exhaled. "Then the others will return soon."
Yoru's eyes narrowed. "And the boy?"
"Keep him close," the man said. "But be ready."
Yoru's hand touched the hilt of her blade.
Far below the outpost, under the roots and stone, the seals cracked.
Chains twitched.
Whispers slithered through the dark like smoke.
"He lives. The vessel lives."
A thousand voices rose.
Not screams.
Laughter.