Victor's POV
Victor opened his eyes—
—and found himself swinging an axe.
Wood split beneath the blade with a dull, familiar thock. Chips flew, biting into his arms and chest. His muscles moved on instinct, body repeating a rhythm carved deep into memory.
He froze.
The axe hung mid-air.
The world around him was wrong, and his chest tightened with unease.
He stood in a small clearing just outside a village, the grass trampled flat beneath countless footsteps that hadn't existed in years. The ground bore old grooves where carts had once passed, shallow ruts half-swallowed by regrowth, as if the land itself was remembering habits long abandoned.
A tiny cottage sat a short distance away. Its wooden walls were patched with mismatched planks, warped by rain and sun, the roof sagging slightly at the edges. Smoke curled lazily from a squat stone chimney, thin and grey, carrying the scent of burning logs. Too calm. Too normal.
A crude fence enclosed a handful of sheep and goats. They grazed lazily, bells chiming softly with each step, the sound steady and unhurried. The animals looked healthy. Safe. Alive.
The air smelled of damp earth, freshly cut wood, and livestock, simple, honest smells that clawed at Victor's chest. This wasn't just a place. It was a life. A quiet one. The kind that had ended too abruptly to ever feel real again.
And that was the problem.
Everything was exactly as he remembered it… down to the details he had never wanted to recall.
Home.
No—
Impossible.
"Vickyyy, what's with that stupid look on your face, idiot?" a voice barked. "Keep chopping. Sun's going down."
Victor's breath hitched.
That voice was rough. Loud. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
He turned.
A young man stood a few paces away, bare-chested, muscles corded and thick from years of labour. Sweat ran down his skin. Black hair clung messily to his forehead, brown eyes sharp and alive, eyes identical to Victor's own.
Hector.
His brother.
Victor's mind screamed.
"Br—brother?" The word slipped out, broken. "No… no, this isn't possible."
His heart began to pound. The axe slipped from his hands, hitting the dirt with a dull thud.
"This is a lie," Victor whispered. "You're dead."
He turned and ran.
"Vicky! Hey—where the hell are you going?" Hector shouted. "Stop running!"
Victor didn't listen.
He ran past the fence, past the grazing animals, past the cottage. His feet pounded against the dirt until the house disappeared behind trees and tall grass. His lungs burned. His thoughts tangled into panic.
No. No. No. This can't be real.
He collapsed beneath a large oak, bark rough against his back. His hands trembled as he buried them in his hair, rocking slightly.
"This is the trial," he muttered. "It has to be."
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Unhurried.
"Vicky," Hector said, standing over him, arms crossed. "You really think you can dodge wood-chopping duty that easily?"
Victor flinched.
"Not this time, brat."
Suddenly, hands grabbed his shoulders.
Victor sucked in a sharp breath, panic spiking like a blade.
"Why are you freaking out?" Hector asked, frowning. "It's just wood. Did swinging an axe traumatise you so much?"
"It's not about the damn wood, you muscle-brained idiot!" Victor snapped, voice cracking.
Hector blinked.
Victor looked up at him, eyes wide, wet, desperate.
"You died," Victor said. "You died right in front of me."
Silence.
Then Hector burst out laughing.
A loud, genuine laugh, the kind Victor hadn't heard since
"You idiot," Hector said, reaching out and smacking the top of Victor's head. "If I'm dead, then what am I doing standing right here?"
The impact stung.
It was real.
Hector grabbed Victor by the arm and hauled him upright. "Come on. You're acting weird."
Victor didn't resist.
He was dragged back to the cottage, boots scraping against the dirt as he struggled half-heartedly. Hector ignored his protests, stripped him of his grime, and dunked him into cold water that stole the breath from his lungs. Victor cursed and thrashed, but it was useless; Hector had always been stronger.
Rough hands scrubbed dirt from his skin, not gentle, not cruel either, just Hector, practical and unyielding, as if routine could force the world back into place. By the time Victor was done shivering, he was shoved onto a wooden chair that creaked under his weight.
A steaming bowl of thick meat stew was placed in front of him. The smell hit him instantly, rich, familiar, comforting in a way that hurt. A glass of milk followed, set down with a dull thud.
"Eat," Hector ordered. "You need energy if you're going to be useful."
Victor stared at the food.
His hands shook as he lifted the spoon.
Memories surged.
Their father had died in a workplace accident. One morning, he left with a tired smile and a packed lunch. By nightfall, all that came back was his name, spoken in hushed voices, and a body that didn't move anymore.
Their mother lasted a little longer. Long enough to stop smiling. Long enough for her eyes to grow hollow. Then one day, she packed a small bag, kissed neither of them, and walked away. Unable, or unwilling, to carry the weight of two growing boys and a life that had already broken her.
After that, it was just the two of them.
Hector and Victor.
They built this life together with hands too small for the work they did. A crooked little house on the edge of the village, pushed there because no one in the village wanted it closer. Walls patched with mismatched wood, a roof that leaked when the rain was heavy. A fence hammered together from scavenged planks, barely strong enough to keep the animals in, or the world out.
They raised sheep and goats. Fed them before feeding themselves. Farmed stubborn soil that tore at their palms and gave little back. Winters were thin. Summers were cruel. Every meal was earned, every night survived.
It wasn't easy. It was never easy.
But it was theirs.
Hector's Core Talent, Farming, kept them alive. Not powerful. Not impressive. No shining aura or killing edge. Just the quiet certainty that seeds would grow, animals would live, and food would be there tomorrow if they endured today.
And Victor had believed, truly believed, that was enough.
For a while…
Life had been good.
Until that night.
The screams of animals tore through the dark, raw and desperate, cutting straight into Victor's bones. Sheep bleated in panic. Goats crashed against the fence. Something was wrong.
Hector was already moving. He grabbed his weapon, voice sharp but steady, telling Victor to follow. No hesitation, no fear.
They reached the clearing.
A monster stood there, sleek, low to the ground, its body coiled with muscle. Leopard-like. Too fast. Too quiet. Moonlight slid across its hide, caught in the glow of its eyes as it lifted its head and stared back at them.
Victor was fifteen. Newly awakened. A Soldier in name alone.
"Vicky," Hector had said calmly, as if this were any other night. "Stay sharp. We can take it. It's alone."
Then the monster roared.
The sound crushed Victor's chest. Its gaze snapped to him, locked on, unblinking. Predatory.
Fear hit like a hammer.
His fingers went numb. The weapon slipped from his grip and struck the dirt with a dull sound he would never forget. His knees buckled, fell to the ground. His breath caught. His body refused to move.
"Vicky, don't pan—"
Hector turned back toward him.
In that single moment of distraction—
The beast lunged.
It moved faster than thought, a blur of muscle and hunger. Jaws snapped shut around Hector's neck with a wet, brutal sound. Flesh tore. Bone scraped. Blood burst free, hot, dark, spraying across the dirt, splashing the fence, staining the night itself.
Victor froze.
Hector staggered under the impact, boots carving trenches in the earth as the monster's weight dragged him down. The jaws stayed locked, shaking once, twice, like a predator finishing its kill.
And yet
Even then, even then, Hector didn't scream.
He twisted with what little strength he had left. His body trembled. Blood poured down his chest. But he forced his head to turn. Forced his eyes to find Victor.
He smiled.
A small, tired, gentle smile. The same one he'd worn a thousand times after a long day of work.
"Run," Hector said softly. "Don't look back."
Victor ran.
He ran until his lungs burned raw, until his legs screamed and threatened to fold beneath him. He ran through brush and darkness and tearing fear, tripping, stumbling, never daring to turn his head.
The sounds faded behind him.
He ran, and ran, and kept running.
He reached the village and screamed about the beast, words tumbling out between gasps and tears. Men grabbed weapons. Torches were lit. Later, the monster was hunted down and killed.
But when the adrenaline drained away, reality crashed down on him.
What had I done?
The truth struck like a blade to the chest.
He collapsed.
"NO. NO. NO. NO."
His voice broke as he screamed into the dirt. "I'M THE REASON HECTOR DIED. I RAN AWAY, LIKE A COWARD."
His fists slammed into the ground again and again.
"IT'S ALL MY FAULT. MY FAULT."
He repeated it until his throat tore raw, until his body gave out, until darkness swallowed him whole.
He never stopped blaming himself for that day. Not once. Not for a single night. He told himself that if he had been braver, if he had stood his ground, everything would have been different.
And now
Now, inside the trial, Hector stood right in front of him.
Alive.