Elarion 6 year old:-
The Gamma training:
Time: 6 months
Crimsonveil — Training Sector Gamma-9
Age: 6 | Session: Controlled Beast Trial
The pit doors groaned open.
From the high scaffold above, Instructor Holst stood beside the Head of Gamma Training. They were not speaking. No one was. The arena had been locked for six full minutes since the beast was released.
No one had expected the child to last this long.
"He was given no power weapon?" the Head finally asked.
"No," Holst replied flatly. "Only a standard sword."
The Head replied "You send him to... survive"
"I sent him to learn."
Then came the silence—the kind that doesn't fall but tightens.
The air shifted. Dry. Cold.
Footsteps echoed from the dust-clouded gate.
The gates had opened twelve minutes ago.
None of the instructors spoke. Not even Host.
They had all heard the beast's roar. They had heard silence follow it.
The Head leaned forward from the iron scaffold, peering down into the low-lit pit.
"Are you sure he went in?" he asked.
Holst did not answer. His gaze never left the gate.
And then—
Steps.
Measured. Barefoot. Soft like rain on dry soil.
The mist parted, and Elarion emerged from the pit.
He wasn't dragging his feet.
Not running. Not limping.
Walking.
He walked., As if no fight had happened at all.
Six-year-old Elarion emerged—shirt torn at the hem, hair damp with sweat. A long slash across his shoulder seeped blood, but it was shallow. His grip on the cracked training sword was delicate—almost artful.
A torn sleeve fluttered at his side. A single shallow cut ran down his left shoulder—red against white skin—but it had already stopped bleeding. His right hand held a cracked training sword, still clean.
Behind him, in the darkness, the beast's hulking form could be seen… crumpled. Its massive ribs had been pierced once, and precisely.
And just as the murmurs began among the onlooking children—
> The beast twitched.
A dying spasm. Involuntary.
Elarion didn't stop walking. He simply turned his head halfway, expression unreadable, like a warning to death itself:
"Stay down."
The beast didn't move again.
---
Behind Elarion, the beast lay still. Breathless. Killed not with brute strength, but with exactitude.
The children watching from the upper viewing cells burst into whispers:
> "Did you see how he moved?"
"He killed him with precision!"
"He just waited… and then…"
"The beast turned and his blade was already there—like he saw the future…"
One of the older boys leaned close to the glass, staring.
> "He didn't flinch. Not even once. That thing was twice his size."
Another whispered, breath caught in her throat:
> "What is he?"
And someone else—quiet, fearful:
> "He never smiled."
---
Above, the Head turned.
"…Did you train him to be like this?" he asked.
"No," Holst answered.
"Then what is he?"
Holst's lips thinned. He studied the boy below—how Elarion wiped the sword blade clean on his own sleeve, even though it was no longer usable.
"…A survivor."
" He seems like a warrior to me though"
"Yeah, indeed he does"
They had no words to describe the event that took place in front of them.
But they saw.
For a moment aura generated from his sword. He wasn't able to hide it or maybe intentionally didn't, subtle show of power not abrupt.
A 6 year old and already a F rank....He is not just a warrior anymore.
He is a Monster, someone the world needs the most, but does the world deserves him—we aren't the one to judge.
----
Crimsonveil – Inner Training Grounds
The scent of burnt flesh still lingered in the tunnels.
It was not his.
But it clung to him anyway—soot in his hair, a streak across his left cheek, unmoved even by sweat.
The third round of trial combat had ended minutes ago.
Seven had entered the pit.
Three had been pulled out breathing.
Elarion was not among them.
He walked out.
Alive. Alone. Upright.
The blade they gave him—iron dull with age—was no longer in his hand. It had broken at some point, lodged into another boy's shoulder. He hadn't pulled it back out. The wound had not been fatal, but it was enough.
He'd passed.
His limbs ached, but in silence.
His ribs stung—someone's heel had landed hard earlier, might have cracked something.
Still, he moved as if unhurt. Straight. Eyes forward. Footsteps light.
For 6 months, every single day was a war. It wasn't so bad , not as bad as what will come in the future.
It was just a trial. Trial before the show.
After 6 months, he will finally left the training ground.
He was on his way back through the outer corridor, a narrow hall that passed close to the administrative wing.
He hadn't expected anyone.
---