CHAPTER 9: CONFRONTATION
The mess hall was louder than usual.
They were tired. They were battered. But they were still here.
John's lips almost curved.
Almost.
Because peace never lasted long in the Covenant.
The sound arrived first — rhythmic, heavy boots. Not stomping. No — marching. Intentional. Arrogant.
The hall's noise dimmed, as if even sound didn't want to be caught in the path of those steps.
A shadow stretched across the table.
Daren's squad. The crimson fists.
They didn't walk — they prowled. Tall, broad, well-fed in a way that made your fists clench. Their eyes were sharp and hungry — the eyes of those who enjoyed victory because they never expected to lose.
John didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
He could feel their stares like hooks digging into flesh.
Nico paused mid-chew. The twins stopped arguing. Sylas's vines twitched. Amara's ears flattened. Even Thalia's gaze dragged upward — dread flickering in those tired blue eyes.
Daren stepped forward — slow, savoring every moment.
He wanted attention.
He wanted fear.
He wanted dominance returned to him.
John lifted a spoonful of stew. Blew on it. Ate.
The message was clear.
Daren's smile twitched.
"Well look at this," he said, voice smooth and venom-sweet. "The little miracle squad and their fun club. Eating real food. How adorable."
Nico muttered, not even bothering to raise his voice, "Daren has arrived. Someone roll out the red carpet made of donkey shit."
Lucian snorted. Orion didn't even hide his grin.
Daren's eye twitched.
"Still hiding behind jokes?" he asked Nico, smile sharpening. "Just what you would expect from a clown."
Nico leaned back. "Aww, he practiced that one. Did you rehearse in the mirror? Bet you nailed the dramatic eyebrow lift."
A couple of kids nearby choked on laughter before silencing themselves quickly.
Daren's teeth clenched.
But he wasn't here for Nico.
His eyes slid — slow, deliberate — toward John.
"You," he said.
John finally blinked.
Daren took that as a victory. He stepped closer, invading space.
"You think you're untouchable now? One lucky month of scores and suddenly you believe you belong at the top?"
John's spoon tapped the edge of his bowl once. Calm. Firm.
"We didn't get lucky," he replied simply.
It wasn't bravado. Just truth.
Daren leaned down, bringing his face level with John's, voice low.
"You're placeholders. Meat shields. Meant as training dummies for the real warriors — like me."
John stared — not at Daren's eyes, but through him — as though Daren was weather. A nuisance. Something that passed.
That visible dismissal hit harder than any punch.
Daren straightened too quickly.
His squad shifted behind him — eyes flaring, muscles ready to act.
Amara's voice sliced in cold and quiet:
"Last I checked, the placeholders were ranked higher squad."
A ripple of shock cracked through the tension.
Daren turned toward her, animosity sharp.
"Oh, the little wolf speaks."
Her yellow eyes narrowed. "Try me."
Sylas set his bowl down, vines tightening like fists.
"Why are you even here? Go bark at someone who cares."
Nyra tilted her head, staring at Daren's face like she was trying to remember a forgotten memory. "Hm. You remind me of a frog."
Then she looked down. "Sorry, frog."
Malric looked up — just once.
Expression unreadable.
Scarlet eyes cold enough to frost steel.
That was somehow worse.
Daren's jaw flexed.
"It's Funny," he said softly, "seeing the trash acting proud."
He stepped into Malric's space. Too close.
His voice dropped into a hidden pit of hatred.
"Disgrace of the Maltherion."
Malric did not flinch.
Daren sneered.
"We are bred for supremacy, but you? You sit with insects."
"Well, better than being with brainless shit like you," Malric replied quietly, "you really talk too much."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Daren's eyes burned.
He wasn't used to being verbally outmaneuvered. And definitely not by a Maltherion who refused to rise to his provocations.
John could sense it — violence itching beneath Daren's skin.
He was moments away from snapping.
Thomas — shaky voice, but brave — whispered:
"We are all just trying to survive."
Daren's head snapped his direction.
He smiled.
Cruel.
Cruel in a way that promised memories of fear.
"Ah. The weakest mouse speaks. You see, that is how we differ, the crimson fist aren't looking to survive we are looking to dominate, to be the best. "
Thomas shrank inwards. Nico's jaw tightened instantly.
elowen's voice followed — gentle but sharp as a knife.
"You're mistaking cruelty for strength."
The air thickened.
Daren's squad bristled.
Hands hovered near concealed blades.
Muscles coiled.
John tapped his spoon again — once.
Enough.
He finally looked up, eyes steady.
"fuck off."
Calm. Sharp. Unnegotiable.
Daren blinked.
For a heartbeat, confusion replaced anger.
"You dare—"
Daren leaned in, forehead almost touching John's.
"You think this cold act makes you strong? You think you are scary?"
His voice dropped further, dripping venom.
"You're a coward pretending to be someone great."
John blinked once.
"I said," he repeated, "fuck off."
Daren took a step back as though pushed — not physically, but by the weight of being dismissed.
He struggled to regain control.
Mocking grin returning like a cracked mask.
"This isn't over," he spat.
"When the real trials begin, you will break. Your little team will shatter. I'll make sure of it."
John's expression didn't change.
Daren hated him for that.
He opened his mouth again—
DING—
The sound hit like thunder.
A clear, ringing bell.
The entire hall froze.
Then a voice — everywhere and nowhere — filled the air:
"All squads — report to the Grand Hall immediately."
No footsteps.
No projection crystal.
Just a voice that existed because it decided to.
Some kids shivered.
Others stood face grim. No one disobeyed.
Daren exhaled, forcing himself to smirk again.
"Well. Saved by the bell."
He turned sharply, cape swaying.
"But enjoy breathing while you can."
His squad followed, boots drumming like war beating a path forward.
John's table remained frozen for a second.
Then Nico leaned back with a grin:
"Well… someone's insecure."
Lucian nodded. "Pathetically."
Orion raised his hand. "On a scale of zero to tragic? That was tragic."
Amara smirked. Even Thalia's lips almost twitched.
John picked up his bowl. "Eat faster," he said.
"We'll need the energy."
The Covenant's fortress was carved into a mountain — an iron skeleton wrapped in ancient stone. Every hallway felt like a rib cage. As John's squad stepped out of the mess hall along with the other children, the walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
The Grand Hall waited ahead — a looming gate of black metal marked with glowing runes. They slid open soundlessly at their approach.
Inside…
It was like stepping into a temple built by gods who had replaced faith with dominion.
Towering obsidian pillars reached into a ceiling lost in darkness. Veins of blue light pulsed through the stone like lightning trapped in rock. Holoprojectors flickered overhead, displaying maps of worlds John couldn't recognize — floating continents and shattered stars.
The floor was polished metal — so reflective the children seemed to stand on the edge of a void. Symbols spiraled outward beneath their feet, shifting faintly, as if alive.
Rows of Covenant Soldiers in black armor lined the outer walls. Their helmets hid any trace of humanity — faceless enforcers of obedience.
John's squad moved into formation, as trained. They weren't the first group here — the hall filled quickly, voices falling into silence piece by piece.
Nico leaned closer, whispering,
"No matter how many times I see it, I still get surprised."
Amara didn't even argue. "Stay alert."
Kaelen's group drifted near, joining them naturally — instinctively — like two smaller boats trying not to be swallowed in a storm.
Daren's squad took a position near the front. Daren straight-backed, chin lifted, expression smug — as if he believed this entire hall existed for him alone.
Sylas's vines twitched nervously. Thomas subtly pressed closer to Sylas. Elowen kept her wings tightly compressed.
Then a familiar figure entered.
Bill.
The same man who had struck John on day one — the moment his memories faded into darkness. His presence oozed authority and violence. The whip at his belt wasn't decoration — it was his voice.
Daren's squad straightened automatically at his approach — synchronized, trained into obedience.
'Of course.' John's stomach tightened. 'Birds of the same feather flock together.'
Bill smirked as he surveyed the hall, passing his gaze over the children like hunting knives. When it slid onto John — a flicker of recognition, then annoyance.
John stared back.
No flinch.
No fear shown.
Not anymore.
Nico whispered, "Ugh. Captain Whiplash is back."
Lucian added, "His face looks like a dad joke, if that even is a thing."
Orion nodded very seriously. "A bad one."
Bill's eyes snapped toward them — even without hearing, he sensed mockery like a predator smells blood.
But before he could act, the air shifted.
Torches along the upper wall ignited simultaneously — dark purple flames twisting like smoke underwater. The obsidian pillars glowed brighter. The metal floor hummed.
The hall darkened — except for the center.
Light gathered there… forming a shape.
A silhouette first.
Then a cloak of deep navy fabric.
Then silver armor etched with runes that crawled like living ink.
He descended as though gravity itself bowed for him.
Lord Roan.
The Branch Commander.
The man who decided destinies.
He was tall — sholders straight — like a tower carved into flesh. His hair was metallic silver, reflecting the pulsing lights. His eyes…
His eyes were wrong.
Pupil-less. Glowing faintly, like stars staring back.
He did not speak at first. He simply observed. The silence felt like pressure tightening around lungs, like the hall itself feared to breathe.
When he spoke, his voice was neither loud nor soft.
But everyone heard it.
"Your first month is finished."
The echo that followed didn't belong to his voice — the hall itself repeated his words, like a prayer forced upon the walls.
Roan stepped forward, hands clasped behind him.
"Stamina. Endurance. Obedience. Pain tolerance."
His gaze swept them like a blade.
"You have survived the foundation."
Survived. Not completed. Survived.
"And now," Roan continued, "we begin the Second Phase."
The flames doubled in size — casting monstrous shadows across the walls.
"Combat."
His eyes found Malric.
"Killing."
Lucian's throat bobbed.
"Intelligence gathering."
His gaze fell to Elowen and Nyra.
"Infiltration, deception, information extraction."
Thalia flinched.
"Knowledge."
Liora's eyes narrowed, as if already preparing for the burden.
"You will learn the structure of our world — and how to break those who oppose it."
John's fists clenched slowly. The Covenant didn't train protectors. They trained weapons.
Roan lifted a hand—and a hologram snapped into existence above the hall.
Projected images:
— Children stabbing targets
— Kids choking one another in trenches
— Bodies of those who failed
— Screaming
— Applause from unseen elites
The message was clear:
Success was survival.
Failure meant ending up as a corpse or worse.
Roan continued without emotion:
"When the next month ends, you will face a Survival Trial."
John's heartbeat stumbled.
Roan added:
"Half of you will fail that test."
Half.
Of 130 children remaining.
Nico swallowed loudly.
Sylas's vines wrapped tighter.
Thomas trembled.
Roan moved again — slow and precise — like his body was made to command armies.
"And now, you will receive the tools that will be a major part of your path."
A gesture.
The walls hissed — and sections of stone rotated, revealing weapon caches sealed in black crystal and bound with glowing locks. Strange shapes rested behind them — swords with energy cores, daggers that purred faintly like beasts, bows threaded with silver veins, spears that shimmered unnaturally.
Roan looked down upon them like a god assigning destinies.
"Weapons are the extension of your will.
They reflect your blood. Your nature.
They will grow with you — or consume you."
A silent wave of awe flowed across the hall.
Even Daren looked overwhelmed for a split second before he masked it again.
Roan spoke one final time:
"Your instructor for weapon discipline will lead you now. His word is law. Disobey him… and you die."
From the side door, footsteps approached — slow but echoing like hammers against steel.
A broad-shouldered man emerged, his armor forged from a black metal that shimmered like oil over a star. His right arm was not flesh — but glowing machine, gears humming beneath rune-etched plating. His left eye glowed faint red beneath a metal socket.
A giant sword rested across his back — taller than he was.
He stopped before the children and spoke:
"I am Varric Ironbrand.
Weapons instructor of this branch of the Covenant."
His voice was gravel soaked in fire.
"You will not choose a weapon."
Confused murmurs.
"You will approach. The weapons will choose you."
Nico whispered, "Okay, now that's kinda cool."
Amara elbowed him to shut up.
Varric slammed his mechanical fist against his palm — a metallic boom resounding.
"If a weapon rejects you — it means you have no future with that kind of weapon and it might just cut you down."
Gulping could be heard from multiple rows.
Nico paled a little. " Ok, not cool."
John didn't look away.
Every nerve in his body was alert — not from fear, but instinct.
This moment mattered.
Varric pointed to the exit at the far side of the hall.
"Follow. Stay in formation. Speak only when ordered."
Roan faded into the darkness like a dream ending abruptly.
Bill stepped forward, whip already drawn.
"Move."
The soldiers along the walls shifted — reminding them of consequences.
John inhaled once.
Then he stepped, leading his squad toward the Hybrid Armory.
Another test.
Another battlefield.
No room left for weakness.