"Farha, huh…" The dirty-blonde girl scratched the back of her head before offering her hand.
"I'm Eshrod. Nice to meet you!"
Farha hesitated before reaching out to shake it, then, her gaze shifted to Elion.
They locked eyes for a moment before he spoke.
"I'm Elion."
Her eyes lingered on him, then flicked to his plate, before turning away.
"You can take what's left in the pot," he said with a sigh.
"Wha—hold on! Why does she get free food when I have to teach you how to use a sword for that?" Eshrod exclaimed in mock outrage.
Farha raised a brow at her, then gave a mischievous smile and helped herself to a plate.
"God, this girl… Who does she think she is?" Eshrod muttered.
Elion smirked, pleased.
"So, that means you're really going to teach me the sword?"
Eshrod stood up, gathering her empty plate.
"Don't worry. When I make a promise, I keep it."
She paused, eyeing her empty dish.
"But you're gonna make more of that delicious stuff for me later, right?"
Elion gave her a crooked smile.
"Well… I kinda had to pay a hefty price to get those ingredients. Didn't bring enough money for seconds, sorry."
"What!? But you said—"
"I said I'd make you something good. Not that I'd cook for you every day for two months."
Eshrod stared at him, stunned, before groaning in defeat.
Farha returned with the last serving of meat and rice. Having caught the conversation, she scribbled something quickly on the same paper that bore her name:
I can procure ingredients if you cook for me too.
Elion glanced at her, muttering under his breath:
"You're kind of breaking my scam here…"
Eshrod was staring at him like she was about to eat him alive.
He sighed.
"Alright, alright… But how exactly are you getting ingredients?"
Farha scribbled a single word:
Connections.
Elion didn't press further. Honestly, it worked out in his favor.
Not like I was planning on eating cafeteria slop for two months anyway…
After washing the dishes and chatting a little, they each went their separate ways for the night. Curfew was at ten, and everyone was required to be up by six-thirty for mandatory training.
Back in the dorm, three others were already there: William, Joart, and the last one Elion hadn't seen before: shaved head, broad shoulders, tank top showing off his solid build. He had a rough look, but his demeanor wasn't unpleasant. He introduced himself politely as Talom, then went back to whatever he was doing.
Elion prepped for bed, brushing his teeth in the communal bathroom outside the dorms.
The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, but it would do. What really bothered him was the snoring. Loud, rhythmic, and relentless. He suspected William—but maybe that was just bias.
He managed to drift off eventually… only to be jolted awake hours later by the blaring morning horn.
Elion sat up, groggy and unrested, but forced himself to get ready.
Throwing on one of the standard-issue tracksuits, he made his way to the back courtyard, where the instructors were about to explain how mandatory training worked.
Plark stood in the center of the courtyard, his posture slightly hunched as he waited for silence. Around a hundred and fifty newly Unlocked had gathered, standing in scattered lines. Naturally, Eshrod stood beside Elion—but he didn't mind as much anymore. He'd grown to at least tolerate her presence.
Once he was sure everyone was present, Plark raised his voice, letting it echo through the courtyard.
"For today's training, I'll be going over the basics again—since yesterday's batch was larger than usual."
He glanced toward Elion's group.
"Training is divided into three phases: physical conditioning for two hours, theoretical instruction for one hour, and then combat training for another two."
He paused, his tone growing firmer.
"We'll begin now. Veterans, answer any questions the new ones might have."
And with that, training began.
They started with laps around the field. Elion kept up at first, lungs burning, chest heaving—but it didn't take long before his pace began to falter. He wasn't used to this kind of physical exertion, and he was quickly paying the price for neglecting his fitness.
Meanwhile, Eshrod was running with ease, talking nonstop as she jogged beside Farha, who matched her stride in silence.
Every muscle in Elion's body screamed—threatening to give up entirely. Sweat soaked his collar, hair sticking to his neck. His usual cool and detached demeanor was beginning to crack.
He was running near the back with the other stragglers. A few dropped out altogether, collapsing in the gravel—but Elion kept going. One thought looped in his mind like a chant:
How much longer…?
The run dragged on, the young man was struggling to maintain consciousness until, finally, Plark called it.
"Enough."
He collapsed on the ground, chest rising and falling erratically, ember eyes staring at the stone ceiling above in a daze. Eshrod stopped beside him, smirking. Farha stood nearby, watching without comment.
"Our cook isn't exactly strong, I see," Eshrod said mockingly, before offering him a hand.
Elion groaned but reached up, letting her pull him to his feet.
"You've got ten minutes to hydrate and recover. Be ready for the next exercise," Plark announced.
I think I'm going to die…
Next came calisthenics. Elion pushed himself, but at one point his body simply gave out. He couldn't finish one of the sets.
Plark approached, arms crossed.
"Can't continue, Unlocked Elion?"
He shook his head weakly.
"Then you've got cleaning duty after lunch. One hour. Report to the janitor's office with the other failures."
Ah… fuck.
The silver lining? He got to sit out the last fifteen minutes of the workout and collect his thoughts before the theory segment.
They were herded into an auditorium where Elion's group received a heavy manual.
"Read it during your free time to catch up," an instructor announced.
Today's lecture covered the creatures of the Depths and their threat classifications—Classes I through VI. Creatures beyond Class VI were theorized, but never confirmed. If they did exist, they would spell doom for humanity as a whole. A Class V already required an elite team of Third Fingers to take down. A Class VI… well, if one ever surfaced again, there wasn't much that could be done other than try and limit the damages.
Elion clenched his jaw. He knew this already. He studied history. His mother had died in Horis—to a Class VI.
The rest of the theory passed in a fog. His mind was still rattled from training.
Then it was time for combat.
Back in the courtyard, the cavern ceiling loomed above, with the low orange lights casting long shadows at the edges.
Firearms were used against Depth creatures, but they needed heavy modification to pierce their thick hides. Transporting ammo and weapons through long expeditions was impractical unless one had a specialized ability. So, recruits were trained primarily with swords, spears, and shields.
Plark explained:
"Sword and spear combat has two parts—offense and defense. Both are equally important."
He demonstrated basic stances, movements, and grip. Then he instructed them to pair up and spar under supervision. Some of the more gifted new Unlocked—including Farha—were assigned to help guide the less experienced.
Elion paired with Eshrod. A perfect chance to see what she could actually do.
She picked a straight longsword and stared at it with slight disapproval.
"I usually prefer them bigger…" she muttered.
Elion raised a brow.
"Phrasing, please."
She snorted.
"What? You jealous?"
Goddammit. I take back everything I said about tolerating her.
He chose a shorter, thinner, curved blade. It felt more comfortable in his hand.
Eshrod took a strange stance—sword held high above her head in one hand, the other extended forward.
Weird… not standard.
Elion opted for a basic forward-leaning stance, sword raised.
"Alright, come at me!" she shouted.
"Still phrasing," Elion muttered before lunging.
He aimed for her side, but she didn't wait. Her stance shifted in a fluid motion and her sword came down fast, aimed for his clavicle. Elion barely managed to dodge, stumbling and hitting the ground.
A dull strike landed on his shoulder.
"And you're dead," Eshrod said casually.
"Wha—? I barely had time to move!"
"Well, that's what combat between humans looks like. It is far from glorious, unlike what is depicted in fiction."
She helped him up, then returned to her stance.
"Again!"
He groaned but obeyed—only to be taken down once more.
"Again."
"Aren't you supposed to teach me?" he said, annoyed.
"You need to engrave the feel of combat into your body. Then we do theory."
Elion winced, rubbing a forming bruise. But he stood again.
Farha eventually wandered over, watching their exchange. She gestured for Eshrod to hand her the training sword. Once she had it, she performed a few elegant movements—sharp, fluid, deliberate. She wasn't attacking—she was showing something.
Elion narrowed his eyes, mentally breaking down the motions to understand what she was trying to convey.
Was she saying to loosen up? To flow more?
Maybe…
In their next bout, Elion stopped trying to brute-force his way through. He watched—closely. He studied her footwork, the way her body shifted, the rhythm of her breathing. Slowly, he began to anticipate her movements—though at the cost of losing some of his focus on himself.
If only I could see the truth of her style… the intent… the flaws…
Analyze her movements like I did with Joart's wounds…
He paused. A wild idea sparked.
No way…
He activated his ability, focusing it on Eshrod.
Her body transformed into a shimmering tapestry of chromatic threads—but different from the others he'd seen. There was something festering inside her core. Not broken, like Farha's threads—just… wrong. It radiated a sinister energy.
Elion shook his head and focused. Now, when she moved, the threads shifted, broadcasting the intention and weak points of every motion. He could see where to strike, where to block, how to avoid.
A sly smile crept onto his face as he weaved between attacks, surprising Eshrod. He was about to strike at the weak spot when her sword blocked his thrust. She staggered back slightly before lunging for a decisive strike, but Elion knew what she was about to do.
He strained to dodge, but a splitting headache stabbed through his skull, making him stagger—and in that moment of weakness, he took a hard blow to the ribs and went down.
"You're… starting to get it?" Eshrod asked. She sounded unsure.
Then her eyes narrowed.
"No, that was different. What did you do?"
Elion groaned, pushing himself up.
"I just… tried to read your movements."
She gave him a long, skeptical look.
"Sure you did…"
She's sharper than she lets on… I'll have to be careful.