Ever since I was a child, I kept small knives tucked in my socks—secured in little straps fastened just above my ankles.
Not because I enjoyed carrying weapons, but because once, I didn't… and that mistake carved itself into memory. I wouldn't be who I am today without that unpleasant reminder.
---
Rain crashed down in sheets, lightning and thunder fighting to drown out the cries of the children beneath the storm. Behind a massive villa stood the training grounds—where noble families of the kingdom of Grisaia raised orphans to become disposable soldiers. They gathered the lost, the outcasts, and the unloved, promising them a slim chance at standing beside those born with silver spoons shoved in their mouths.
"Out of three hundred lesser humans, only twenty remain."
A tall man read from a piece of paper. I wasn't sure how the damn thing wasn't dissolving in the downpour. My muscles tensed; I crouched slightly, fingers brushing the knives on my ankles—not to attack, just in case. Everyone around me was the same. Those who survived came out with mixed emotions: fear, numbness, silent fury.
Three months in a forest crawling with Demonbloods…
Three months deciding whether to help or kill the peers we met…
Three months fighting to live long enough just to collapse here.
One by one, children emerged from that darkness, clothes torn and soaked with dried blood. Some returned missing limbs. Others were hollow-eyed or shaking. I wasn't sure what I felt—relief, maybe. Or just the absence of fear.
"You lot are the lucky ones this time, huh? Get inside and take showers. You all smell like death."
We followed the tall man inside. I stayed in the center of the group, watching the others. The girl in front of me had small claw marks trailing across her neck—too clean to be from a large Demonblood. Probably a Hasty. Quick, silent, irritatingly precise.
She must've felt my stare. Her eyes slid to the side, full of annoyance.
I looked left. A boy was helping another hobble forward, the injured one missing an entire leg. Tears welled up, but he kept moving.
"We survived. Tough it out a little, will ya?"
The support boy muttered, half-irritated, half-concerned.
The injured one only nodded.
We entered a hall lined with metal bunk beds arranged in perfect rows.
"This will be your temporary shelter. Rations will be distributed later."
Normally, that would spark a dozen questions, but silence held the room in a tight grip.
Finally, someone spoke.
"What about the injured?"
"What about them?"
The tall man didn't even blink.
He continued, tone flat.
"Supplies are over there—enough to keep you alive until the selection. Lost limbs don't grow back. If your masters pick you, maybe you'll get prosthetics. But really… who wants a cripple for a duke's slave?"
Then he walked out as if he'd commented on the weather.
Children shifted uneasily. Some looked at the disabled with pity, as if pity had any weight here.
"…asshole,"
the support boy whispered.
"It's fine. I'll get picked. Losing a leg won't matter."
Thin voice. Forced hope. Or denial.
---
The room was quiet except for a few hushed whispers. A man wearing a leather vest walked in and tossed several ration bags onto the floor.
"Line up. Take one each. If I catch you taking more, you'll be punished. Understood?"
We nodded.
"Sir? Is there a separate bath for genders?"
A girl asked.
"There is. Left side for females, right for males. Didn't the commander debrief you?"
Shakes of heads.
"…he just told us to prepare for the selection."
"That idiot. No wonder this place stinks. After you eat, wash up before lights out."
Most kids didn't question the signs because most couldn't read them.
I took my ration and returned to my bunk. I wasn't sure if I was hungry. My body probably was, but appetite wasn't something I had left.
Rumble.
Someone's stomach growled. I glanced down. The claw-mark girl. Empty ration packets lay beside her.
"Hey. Still hungry?"
I asked.
She looked up. Recognition filled her face—and annoyance.
"You again? Why are you always looking at me?"
"Always? This is only the second time."
I considered keeping the food, but her stomach growled again. This time, she actually looked embarrassed.
"…how about you?" she muttered. "You look like you haven't eaten either."
"Nah. Don't feel like it."
I handed her my portion. She hesitated, then accepted it—trying not to look grateful.
"…Ciel."
"What?"
"My name. It's Ciel."
A small smile tugged at my lips.
"Nice to meet you, Ciel. I'm Rein."
Ciel, huh? Isn't she a little too young to be here? A red haired girl with green eyes... She looks a bit familiar now that I think of it. But yeah, she can't be...can she?
A weird thought entered my mind. It's might just be me overthinking things and maybe it's useless to think about it. Before I could reach a conclusion, Ciel spoke up.
"So...how'd you get into all this...mess?"
"Hm? Doesn't everyone here have the same reason why they're here?"
"I doubt everyone here got sold off for being useless."
"....is that why you're here?"
"...part of it is. How about you?"
"I had nowhere else to go really. I was just...running. I kept on running until I found myself being dragged into a weird place."
"Talk about vague."
Our conversation went on and on. Questions after questions about each other's personal information. What I got from Ciel was that she was fourteen, three years younger than me. How can someone so young be here? Then again, everyone here has the average age of sixteen.She was from an orphanage in the country of Vetrane.
She was supposed to be transferred into another one but she ended up being sold to a shady person and that person turned out to be a trader.
She apparently got her scar in the first month inside the forest when a hasty–a small rabbit with the blood of a demon got to her when she was asleep.
How can it scar in just three months?
I've heard that there are other races that heals twice as fast as humans, some can even get rid of their wounds in an instant. But looking at Ciel, she just looks a hundred percent human.
"I heal fast. I don't know why. Maybe I'm not really human."
That's all she said when I asked her about it.
"It's unfair to talk about my past without hearing yours."
"...let's just say that it was
-End of Chapter 1-