*Clang! *CLANG!
The sound of swords clashing, metal banging, and gruff voices filled the air—surrounding Kain as Merilyn left him at what seemed to be another training camp for soldiers, akin to Jinn's.
But these soldiers were a bit different from the usual Zerafhon troops—the ones Kain could see wore heavy, full-body armor as they jogged around the area.
"W-What am I doing here!?" Kain said in a panic, looking around with his hands on his head. "Lady Merilyn must have made a mistake—oh no!" he cried out.
One of the soldiers nearby, having heard Kain's outburst—scoffed. "What's a slave like this doing here?"
Another soldier answered as he shrugged, "No idea, but Lady Merilyn brought him here herself."
Murmurs spreaded throughout the area, voices filled with mockery and curiosity surrounding Kain's ears from all directions, making him uncomfortable.
Then, a loud and rough voice cut through all the noise.
"So this is the child I'm supposed to train!?" shouted an old man, his voice boomed as he looked Kain up and down. "You've got arms like a half-starved dog!"
Laughter erupted from the soldiers around them, and Kain felt his eyes start to get wet in tears.
The old man noticed right away.
His expression then grew serious. "Come, boy—I will shape you into something new," he said, his mouth curling into a sharp smile as he motioned for Kain to follow him into the barracks—to which he followed.
The smell of sweat, the sound of blades being sharpened, and the rough voices of soldiers filled the air.
As the old man and Kain walked through inside the barracks, every soldier stood tall and straight— before raising their arms in a firm salute.
The word "Captain" was heard again and again from the soldiers nearby, echoing with respect as they passed by.
Eventually, they reached what looked like an armory.
Weapons of all kinds lined and attached at the walls, but the old man walked straight toward a particular shelf and grabbed a sword.
It was short—nothing special, just the right size for someone like Kain.
With a quick motion, the old man tossed the sword toward him.
Kain flinched.
Instead of catching it, he jumped out of the way in fear, worried that the blade might cut him.
*Clang!
"Pick it up, boy—and follow me," the old man ordered. He stepped past Kain, then stopped and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Steel can be forged in fire," he said, voice steady and serious, "but courage must be hammered into the heart—we'll burn the fear out of yours, boy."
"B-But I can't fight!" Kain stammered, his face pale with fear.
The old man's eyes narrowed as he turned and gave Kain a sharp glare. There was no kindness in it—only fire.
"You will learn how to fight, or you—will die."
The tone in his voice sent a chill down Kain's spine.
Fear gripped him, and his legs trembled—but still, he bent down, picked up the sword, and followed after the captain, even if his steps were slow and unsure.
Kain always knew that he was a fearful child. Fear had followed him for as long as he could remember, creeping into his thoughts and weighing down his steps—his actions and his words.
He wasn't brave like the others, not someone who stood tall in the face of danger—like Jinn, or dreamed of glory on the battlefield. He didn't have the power to protect his friends nor the intellect or wittiness to contribute.
The idea of holding a weapon, of hurting someone—or being hurt—made his blood go cold, sending a wave of fear across his veins.
All he had was fear gripping his very soul—his very being, as if he was cursed.
So he stayed at the back, trembling, along with the small, quiet hope that maybe—somehow—that would be enough and everything would be all right.
Yet Kain knew he was a liability—and deep inside him, he hated himself for it.
That's the reason why Kain kept moving forward, following the old soldier—since within him, there is a fire that wants to spark and burn.
So he can stand along his friends, so he can move forward with them—together.
===
After a while,
The two of them stepped out of the barracks and into an open training yard. Soldiers nearby paused what they were doing, turning their heads to watch. Some leaned against posts, others crossed their arms, eyes fixed on Kain and their captain.
"Hey man... look!"
The Captain raised his hand and pointed to one of the soldiers. "Zorek. Get the staff."
Without a word, Zorek obeyed.
He walked over to a rack and picked up a long training pole with dull edges—still heavy enough to hurt.
Kain felt his stomach twist at the sight of the stick.
The Captain stepped closer to him and spoke low but clear. "Boy, you're here to break—so you can be rebuilt stronger," he tapped the stick on his hand. "And break you shall."
Kain swallowed hard. His legs already felt weak beneath him.
"Stand still. Don't flinch. If you do, we shall start over. If you run—you fail."
The soldiers formed a loose circle around them. The noise of the camp slightly quieted. All eyes were on Kain as he stepped into place, his knees shaking.
Zorek raised the pole and swung—not at Kain, but just past his shoulder.
*Swoop!
The air sliced past his ear with a sharp whoosh.
Kain flinched and ducked.
Laughter broke out from the soldiers.
Yet, the Captain didn't laugh. He said only one word "Again."
Kain stood up again.
Zorek swung.
*Swoop!
This time, Kain turned away, his arms flying up on instinct.
"Again."
Another swing.
*Swoop!
Kain let out a short yelp and took a step back.
"Again."
Each time, the fear moved before Kain could stop it. His arms jerked, his legs stepped back, his body trying to run. Shame rose in his chest like fire as the soldiers continued to laugh at him.
The voices started again as the mocking words pierced Kain's ears.
"Is this a joke?"
"He won't last a day."
"Get the hell outta here—you slave!"
But the Captain didn't yell. He didn't lose his patience.
"Again."
Fear still gripped Kain's soul, making his legs tremble, his sweat cold and his breath ragged and uneven.
Yet, he stood up again.
"He keeps flinching, Captain," Zorek said, glancing Kain's way.
"Let him," the Captain answered. "Fear's buried deep. We'll pull it out—one tremble at a time."
By the tenth swing, Kain was soaked in sweat. His skin looked pale, and his arms shook. But he still got back up.
Every time.
Not brave.
Not strong.
Not witty.
Nor smart.
But he stayed.
And to the Captain, for now, that was enough.
A smirk curled on the Captain's mouth. "I am called Verkyn—Captain of the Crimson Knights of Sorellia," he said, his voice steady and proud.
He raised the stick and pointed it at Kain. "What's your name, boy?"
Kain wiped the sweat from his brow—trying to keep his balance as his legs shook beneath him. He looked up at Verkyn, nervous but trying to speak.
"I-I'm K-Kain, sir..." he stammered.