The sun had barely slipped beneath the rooftops when the mission ended, but the world inside the organization already felt darker than the warehouse Balik had crawled through. The corridor leading from Varun's office stretched in front of him like a narrow throat—damp stone, cold lamps, the faint metallic scent of oil and sweat soaked into walls that had heard too many secrets.
Balik walked behind Varun, quiet as always, though his heart had not slowed since he climbed out of that warehouse roof. Each step struck the stone too loudly in his ears. The box hidden beneath his shirt was a cold little reminder of what he'd touched—what had touched him back. He didn't look down, didn't adjust his clothes, didn't let his fingers tremble toward it.
"Tonight," Varun said without turning, "you stop being Tier One."
No emotion. Just a decision. Just a shift in category.
Balik didn't answer. He kept his head lowered slightly, shoulders straight, steps silent behind the man's boots. His eyes flicked once to the side where the wall lamps cast thin yellow strips on the floor. Shadows stretched and bent, swallowing his own outline until it barely looked attached to him.
Varun stopped in front of a metal door with a heavy sliding bolt. He tapped the frame twice. An instructor inside unlocked it.
"This way," Varun said. "Your new quarters."
Balik stepped inside quietly.
Tier-2 barracks weren't luxurious. They weren't meant to be. But compared to Tier-1's crowded concrete room where children slept stacked like tools waiting to be sorted, this space felt like… distance. A narrow room stretched ahead with ten thin beds lined along both sides. A lamp hung in the center. Each bed had a folded blanket, and beside each—small metal lockers, rusted edges smoothed from years of hands opening them with trembling fingers.
Tier-2 lived here. This was where people who had stopped being raw material were pushed into becoming tools.
Mira sat on the far bed, braid loose over her shoulder, her brown eyes reflecting the dim light. She didn't smile when he entered. She didn't acknowledge him with a nod or greeting. She simply looked.
Ishan leaned against the wall near the back, polishing the sword Balik had given him on the rooftop. The cloth moved in slow, smooth strokes, and even in this poor light the mana-steel glinted faintly. He didn't grin like before. He didn't joke. He just lifted his gaze slightly when Balik entered, amber-gold glowing for a heartbeat, then returned to the blade.
Varun gestured toward the empty bed near the middle.
"You sleep here," he said. "Locker is yours. Don't damage it. Don't lose anything. Don't get robbed."
Balik nodded once.
"Starting now," Varun continued, "you train as Tier-2. It's harsher. It's lonelier. No more coddling of children—everyone here knows what failure means."
A faint metallic scream sounded in the hall outside, a muffled thud following it. Someone else failing somewhere else.
Varun didn't react.
"Mira and Ishan," he said without looking at them, "are not your caretakers. They won't protect you. They won't guide your training. They watch you because you belong to the same mission unit. That's the only reason you sleep in the same room."
Mira's eyes didn't shift. She might as well have been carved from the stone behind her.
Ishan muttered, "He knows."
Varun ignored that.
"You get better clothes, better meals, access to showers, and a few minutes of privacy. But everything has a price."
Balik met Varun's eyes.
Varun stepped forward and crouched so his face was level with Balik's.
"The price," Varun said quietly, "is that you no longer get to say 'no' to anything."
Silence settled around the room like cold dust.
Balik didn't blink. "Yes."
Varun stood again, satisfied or indifferent—Balik couldn't tell which.
"You'll receive your weapons in the morning," he said. "Today, you rest. Tomorrow, you begin learning what it means to hurt without hesitating, to obey without flinching, to become something even the Outer Circle can use."
He turned and left.
The door shut behind him with the cold finality of a lid sealing a box.
For a few breaths, the only sound in the room was Ishan running cloth along his blade. Mira didn't speak either. The air felt heavier around her now—earth-still, earth-silent.
Balik set his small bundle on the bed. The mattress felt thin but soft compared to the hard floor of Tier-1. The faint scent of old soap told him this room was cleaned at least once a week.
He sat, letting the weight in his chest settle into something harder, something tight.
"Welcome," Ishan murmured.
Balik looked up.
Ishan's expression was unreadable—some mix of tired pride and careful distance. A flicker of heat radiated from his core, enough to warm the area around him but not enough to be called comfort.
"Don't talk to me much during training," Ishan said. "Makes them think I'm helping you."
Mira added quietly, "And they will punish you for it. Not him. You."
Balik nodded once.
There were rules here. Rules even silence couldn't hide from.
Hours slipped by slowly.
Other Tier-2 trainees came in—boys and girls, older than Balik, some with bruises on their faces, others with dried blood on knuckles or broken nails. None of them looked surprised to see a small new face among them. Some gave him an assessing glance. One snorted.
But one stared too long.
Lima.
Lima had dark copper hair tied back in a messy knot, long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. His grey-steel eyes narrowed when he saw Balik. He had the posture of someone who thought the room belonged to him—the kind of kid who survived Tier-2 by stepping on others and expected no consequences.
Balik recognized the type easily.
Lima walked past, shoulder bumping Balik's as if testing. Balik didn't move—not stiff, not tense. Just still.
Lima clicked his tongue. "Great," he said loudly enough for others. "Another little rat to trip over."
No one reacted. Not even Mira or Ishan—they weren't supposed to.
Balik didn't reply. He lowered his gaze, not out of fear but calculation.
Silence made predators lazy.
Night crept in. The lamps dimmed on their own as their mana cores slowed. The air cooled, the sounds from other wings fading until the whole place felt too quiet, too still.
Balik lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The box under his shirt warmed slightly. The beast core inside pulsed once, like a heartbeat calling out.
He pressed his palm over it.
Not yet.
The breathing in the room shifted. Some steady. Some sharp. Some uneven from nightmares or past wounds. Mira slept curled on her side, braid resting against the edge of the blanket. Ishan slept on his back, one hand resting over the sword he kept tucked beside the bed.
Balik closed his eyes.
Hours passed.
Then the rod slammed the pipe outside.
Morning.
Balik rose immediately. Tier-2 trainees filed out faster than Tier-1 ever had. No dragging feet. No complaints. No small rebellion. They moved like people already chased by someone just behind them.
Balik washed quickly—cold water, rough cloth, steel taste from the pipe above. He dressed in cleaner clothes than before—black shirt thicker than Tier-1's, pants with reinforced knees, boots that actually fit. Still not comfortable. But stronger.
In the yard, Tier-2 trainees stood apart from Tier-3. Mira and Ishan were on the raised platform now, separated from the training field by a small chain fence. They didn't watch Balik specifically—just observed everything.
The instructor walked in with a crate of wooden weapons.
"Tier-2 weapon distribution," he announced. "Collect what you're told, not what you want."
He tossed out knives, sticks, dull practice swords, weighted gloves. Balik received two dull knives—not sharp enough to cut flesh, but heavy enough to bruise bone.
"Don't lose them," the instructor barked. "You sleep with them. You eat with them. If I can't find them on you, you don't get dinner."
Lima received a wooden baton. He twirled it once, then grinned at Balik.
Balik didn't react.
Training began instantly.
No warm-ups.
No caution.
Straight brutality.
Instructor after instructor pushed them into drills—stab, dodge, strike, fall, rise. The sun barely rose before they were all coated in sweat, dirt, and blood from split knuckles and scraped knees.
Balik moved differently now—faster on his feet, body lean and coiled. But Tier-2 wasn't impressed with speed alone.
Instructors hit them with sticks to test reaction.
If Balik dodged too fast—they hit harder.If he dodged too slow—they mocked him.If he froze—they punished him.
By mid-morning, the real test began.
One of the senior instructors stepped forward. He was tall, thick-necked, his eyes pale and unblinking. He looked at each trainee, gaze weighing them like broken tools.
"To reach Tier-2," he said, "you must learn to strip emotion."
Silence.
"Pain strips emotion."
He pointed. "Lima."
Lima stepped forward eagerly.
"Pick someone."
Lima turned without hesitation.
He chose Balik.
Of course he did.
Balik stepped out.
"Hands up," the instructor ordered. "No weapons. Only pain tolerance."
Lima grinned and raised the baton.
Balik inhaled slowly.
The first hit came fast—side of the ribs. A dense, sharp blow that rattled through his chest. His breath stuttered but he didn't fold.
The instructor nodded. "Again."
Lima struck harder—shoulder, thigh, back. Each hit hammered into him with purpose, not anger. Lima enjoyed it, but he also obeyed. Tier-2 learned early that pleasure and order worked well together.
After the tenth strike, Balik's vision blurred at the edges. Not from fear—from the split inside him.
Tejas whispered: You don't deserve this. You're a person. You're—
Balik whispered back: Not here. Not now.
The next hit knocked him to one knee.
"Up," the instructor said.
Balik stood, breath steadying.
Not defiant. Not broken.
Just… controlled.
When the instructor called stop, Lima stretched his shoulders like he was warming up for more.
"Good for now," the instructor said.
Balik returned to the line. Pain throbbed under his skin, but his steps were steady. Blood trickled from a cut on his cheek. Mira's gaze flicked once, but she didn't react beyond that.
Next came the obedience test.
The instructor dragged a small boy forward—new Tier-2. Younger than some. Older than Balik. His eyes wide, terrified.
"Balik," the instructor said.
Balik stepped forward again.
"You will beat him until I say stop."
A silence deeper than the yard settled around him. He felt Mira's stillness from the platform, Ishan's heat spike once.
Tejas's voice rang violently inside him.
NO—stop—don't—you can't—
Balik's fingers twitched.
But another voice—cold, low—pressed over it.
Do it. Survive. Learn. This is Tier-2.
He raised his fist slowly.
The boy sobbed, hands raised.
Balik hesitated.
Just one heartbeat.
The instructor noticed instantly.
"Do you refuse?" he asked, voice calm enough to freeze the skin.
Balik felt something cold drop in his stomach.
"No," he said.
Then he struck.
Not wild.
Not cruel.
Just enough.
Just controlled.
Each hit felt like he was splitting his own ribs, not the boy's cheek. Each thud of knuckles against skin echoed in his bones. Tejas cried inside, voice breaking with each strike.
Balik kept going until the instructor raised a hand.
"Enough."
Balik stepped back.
The boy crumpled, trembling.
Balik's own hands shook slightly. Not from fear. From the struggle inside him tearing further apart.
Mira's eyes were fixed on him. Not judging. Not approving. Just… watching.
Ishan exhaled softly from the platform. A breath Balik felt but didn't see.
The rest of the day pushed deeper.
Weapon drills. Endurance laps. Breath-breaking chokehold practice. Cold-water immersion until limbs numbed. Then came the "kindness cycle" where instructors offered warm bread, soft words, gentle touches on the shoulder—rewards to confuse and reshape.
"You're doing well.""You're safe if you obey.""You're strong because of us.""We protect you.""We are your purpose."
Balik saw it for what it was: manipulation with a soft voice.
Other kids didn't.
Other kids clung to it.
He simply accepted and moved on.
That night, back in the Tier-2 room, everyone lay broken on their beds. Breath rasped. Muscles twitched. The air smelled of sweat and blood and drying tears from kids trying not to be heard.
Balik sat slowly on his mattress. His ribs screamed. His cheek throbbed. The spot where the beast core rested felt cold as ice.
Lima passed him on his way to his bed, baton tapping against his leg.
"You'll break soon," Lima murmured. "I can tell."
Balik didn't reply.
Mira watched from her corner, sitting upright against the wall, necklace glinting faintly under her shirt. Her eyes were unreadable in the dim light.
Ishan lay with one arm over his face, breathing heavier than usual.
Balik lay down slowly, staring at the ceiling.
The pain was nothing.
The silence was everything.
Inside his mind, Tejas whispered brokenly, You hurt someone today…
Balik answered quietly, I survived today.
Something in him shifted again—something small, something sharp.
Not whole.
Not broken.
Just… changing.
Outside, the lamps hummed softly.
Inside, Balik's shadow stretched along the wall, long and thin, bending strangely at the corners of the room as if the darkness was trying to pull him deeper.
Tomorrow would come.
And the price of Tier-2 had only begun.