*Transitioning into Kain's POV
*Clang! *CLANG!
The sharp, unforgiving ring of metal against metal filled the open air, mingling with the deep grunts of effort and the rough shouts of command.
The din echoed across the training grounds, a cacophony of discipline and violence, surrounding Kain like a tide he could not hold back.
He stood at the edge of the chaos, abandoned to his fate by Lady Merilyn, who had departed without hesitation, leaving him stranded at what seemed to be another military training camp—similar in purpose to Jinn's, but somehow heavier in atmosphere.
Here, the soldiers were built like walking walls, each one covered in heavy, full-body armor that shimmered dully under the light.
They jogged in perfect rhythm, their movements precise despite the weight they carried.
Their helmets concealed their faces, making them look more like living weapons than men.
Kain spun in place, overwhelmed, panic rising in his chest like rising steam.
"W-What am I doing here!?" he cried aloud, pressing both hands to his head as he turned in a slow circle.
"Lady Merilyn must have made a mistake—oh no, oh no!"
His voice cracked in desperation, drawing the attention of several nearby soldiers.
One of them scoffed loudly from behind his helmet. "What's a slave like that doing here?"
Another soldier shrugged in reply, barely glancing Kain's way. "No idea. But Lady Merilyn dropped him off herself."
Their voices weren't subtle.
Murmurs began to spread like wildfire throughout the grounds.
Dozens of soldiers turned their eyes on Kain, and the air around him became thick with mocking chuckles, quiet whispers, and sneers that sliced through him worse than any blade.
Embarrassment crept in, prickling his skin, making his cheeks burn as he lowered his head.
His hands trembled at his sides, helpless to do anything but endure the weight of their eyes.
Then, like the blast of a war horn, a booming voice erupted and shattered the whispers.
"So this is the child I'm supposed to train!?"
The voice was rough and commanding—so loud it seemed to shake dust from the walls.
The one who owned it was an older man, thick with muscle and grit, his eyes sharp and unflinching as they scanned Kain from head to toe.
"You've got arms like a half-starved dog!" the man barked.
Laughter exploded around them like gunfire.
Some soldiers clutched their sides.
Others pointed.
Kain felt the sting of tears rising in his eyes, his chest tightening painfully with every breath. The humiliation was complete.
But the old man's expression shifted slightly—not toward pity, but toward something heavier.
Stern.
Direct.
His voice lowered, steady as steel. "Come, boy," he said, curling his fingers and gesturing for Kain to follow.
"I will shape you into something new."
His smile was sharp—not cruel, but not soft either.
It was the kind of smile a blacksmith gave an unshaped blade.
Kain hesitated, then slowly obeyed, his feet dragging behind him as he followed the old soldier into the barracks.
The interior was soaked in the scent of sweat and iron.
*ssshk *ssshk!
*distant murmuring
The constant scrape of sharpening blades rang faintly beneath the sound of marching boots and raised voices.
Everything about the place radiated discipline and violence, and Kain felt like a broken piece that had been thrown into the gears of a machine.
As they walked deeper inside, something strange happened—every soldier they passed stood tall and saluted.
"Captain!" they called in unison.
The name echoed down the corridor.
It carried weight, reverence.
Power.
Eventually, they reached a section of the barracks that resembled an armory.
Weapons of all types filled the walls—swords, halberds, axes, and more, all perfectly aligned like a mural of death.
But the captain didn't browse.
He walked straight to a single shelf and pulled out a short sword.
It was plain, without ornament or flair, but functional.
The perfect size for someone still growing.
With a single motion, he tossed it toward Kain.
Kain yelped and instinctively dove out of the way.
*Clang!
The blade hit the floor and spun once before settling flat.
"Pick it up, boy," the captain ordered flatly, stepping past him.
Then he stopped and placed a heavy, calloused hand on Kain's shoulder.
"Steel is forged in fire," he said. "But courage... courage must be hammered into the heart."
His grip tightened ever so slightly.
"And we'll burn the fear out of yours—whether you like it or not."
Kain's throat felt dry. His stomach twisted.
"I-I can't fight!" he gasped, his voice thin and shaking.
The captain's eyes turned to him.
Narrowed.
Focused.
No warmth—only heat.
"You will fight," he said coldly, "or you will die."
The words struck like a blade to the spine.
Kain's legs trembled.
His heart pounded.
But slowly, he reached down, his fingers curling around the hilt of the fallen sword.
It was heavier than he thought.
It didn't feel right in his hand. But he gripped it anyway and followed the captain with steps that were unsteady—but moving forward nonetheless.
Because Kain knew, deep down, what he was.
He was a coward.
A child.
A liability.
He had always been the weakest link, hiding in the shadow of stronger friends.
Fear had ruled his every decision since the moment he was old enough to remember.
The mere thought of hurting someone—or being hurt—froze his blood.
It was a curse, a chain wrapped around his heart, and he hated it.
He hated himself for it.
And yet... something within him burned.
A spark.
Fragile.
Faint.
But real.
And that tiny ember kept him walking forward.
Because if he couldn't be strong, he could at least try.
He could at least change.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it broke him.
Even if it killed him.
Eventually, they stepped outside into a wide open training yard.
The soldiers scattered across the grounds paused, one by one, their gazes slowly turning toward Kain and the captain.
Some crossed their arms.
Others leaned casually against walls or posts.
But every single eye followed them.
The captain raised a hand and pointed to a nearby soldier. "Zorek. Get the staff."
Zorek obeyed instantly.
He retrieved a long wooden pole from a rack—a training staff, dulled at the edges, but still heavy enough to bruise bones and rattle nerves.
Kain's stomach turned at the sight of it.
The captain stepped closer to him and spoke with a quiet sharpness that cut deeper than shouting.
"Boy," he said, tapping the staff against his palm, "you're here to break. Because only once you're broken... can you be rebuilt."
He gestured to a spot at the center of the yard. "Now stand."
Kain swallowed hard.
His mouth was dry.
His feet felt like lead.
"Stand still. Don't flinch. If you do—we start over. If you run—you fail."
A ring of soldiers began to form around them.
The training yard quieted.
.
.
.
Kain stepped into place, his legs like trembling reeds, his fingers gripping the sword too tightly.
Zorek raised the staff and swung—not to hit, but just past Kain's shoulder.
*Swoosh!
The air whistled past his ear, fast and sudden.
"H-Heek!"
Kain flinched and ducked.
Laughter erupted like thunder.
But the captain didn't laugh.
"Again."
Kain stood.
Another swing.
*Swoosh!
He turned away.
His arms flew up instinctively.
"Again."
Another.
*Swoosh!
He yelped and stumbled back.
"Again."
Each time, his body betrayed him.
Each time, fear acted faster than thought.
And the crowd around him mocked him with every failure.
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"He won't survive a day."
"Go home, slave!"
But the captain never yelled.
Never scolded.
His voice was calm.
Absolute.
"Again."
Fear remained.
*Swoosh!
But Kain stood up again.
*Swoosh!
And again.
*Swoosh!*Swoosh!
And again.
*Swoosh!
By the tenth swing, sweat poured down his back.
Yet finally—finally, he stood still without flinching.
His limbs shook.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, desperate breaths.
He wasn't brave.
He wasn't strong.
He wasn't clever.
But he stayed.
And that—just that—was enough.
The captain finally stepped forward.
A faint smirk pulled at his lips—not one of mockery, but of quiet recognition.
"I am called Verkyn," he said, his voice rich with pride. "Captain of the Crimson Knights of House Sorellia."
He lifted the training staff and pointed it directly at Kain's heart.
"What's your name, boy?"
Kain wobbled on his feet.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, then straightened as best he could—his breath ragged, his voice trembling.
"I-I'm K-Kain... sir," he whispered.
But this time, there was just a flicker of fire behind it.