Imagine escaping a hellhole… only to land in a polished pit.
Eylin exhales slowly.
I don't trust these people. Not one bit.
Especially that red-eyed lady.
Kidnapping. That's what this is, right?
He scratches the side of his head.
…Well.
It's not like I fought that hard.
I walked in.
Voluntarily.
"Sigh."
What men do for wealth.
Or was it power?
Or—
Love?
He snorts to himself.
Yeah. Right.
Who cares. There's a roof over my head and the promise of three meals a day.
Speaking of meals—
His stomach growls violently.
"…traitor."
Where is that bombshell of a handler?
I'm starving. And every instinct I've got says whatever's waiting out there won't care if I'm dizzy from hunger.
Void lesson number one:
A starving body is a slow body.
He swings his legs off the bed carefully, ignoring the protest in his ribs.
Sigh.
Let me go check it out myself.
Immediately—
Damn. My nosy self is going to get me killed one of these days.
He moves toward the door anyway.
Because curiosity has always beaten caution.
And because he needs a training ground.
If I don't reinforce what I learned, it'll fade.
Leverage.
Timing.
Breath under pressure.
Those insights were carved into him with pain. Losing them would be an insult.
From aspiring Grand Mage…
To practicing methods long dead.
Martial combat.
He shakes his head.
Who would've thought.
Sigils and mana theory replaced by hip alignment and joint manipulation.
Life is ridiculous.
But then—
That old bastard flashes in his mind.
The strike.
Little Eight crumpling.
Humiliation burning like acid.
Yeah.
He's to blame.
Eylin grips the door handle and pulls it open.
And—
There she is.
Leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, glasses catching the hallway light. Her red eyes gleam faintly behind the lenses.
She doesn't look surprised.
She looks… patient.
"Took you long enough," Kaelin says, pushing off the wall before he can respond. "Follow me, rookie. You've got things to learn."
A vein pulses at Eylin's temple.
"This bitch…" he mutters under his breath.
Kaelin pauses mid-step.
Adjusts her glasses.
Slowly turns her head toward him.
"Just say it," she says calmly. "You've got a problem?"
He steps out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.
"You tell me, handler. My stomach's staging a rebellion."
Her gaze drops briefly to the way he's clutching his abdomen.
Then back to his face.
A small shift.
"Ah."
She pivots smoothly.
"Cafeteria first."
"Thank goodness," Eylin mutters, falling into step behind her.
The hallway is wide. Clean stone. Guards stationed at intervals. No one stares openly—but they notice.
Always noticing.
Eylin straightens slightly despite the pain.
He doesn't like being watched.
Kaelin walks with measured confidence, every step deliberate.
"You'll need fuel," she says without looking at him. "Today won't be light."
"Oh?" he replies. "Am I dying again?"
"Not unless you make poor decisions."
He snorts.
"So fifty-fifty?"
Her lips twitch faintly.
"Lower."
They turn a corner.
Voices grow louder ahead. The scent of cooked meat and baked bread drifts through the corridor.
Eylin's stomach growls again, louder this time.
Kaelin glances sideways at him.
"For someone suspicious of us," she says, "you're remarkably comfortable following me."
He smirks.
"If you wanted me dead, you wouldn't waste good food first."
A beat.
"Correct," she says.
He pauses mid-step.
"…Wait."
She keeps walking.
He hurries after her.
And as they approach the double doors ahead, Eylin feels it—
Eyes.
More than before.
Assessing.
Measuring.
The pit might be polished.
But it's still a pit.
And something tells him lunch isn't the only thing waiting on the other side of those doors.
The double doors swing open
Noise hits first.
Metal trays. Laughter. Low arguments. Boots scraping stone.
The cafeteria is larger than he expected- long wooden tables arranged in rows, high ceilings, iron chandeliers burning steady flame. It smells of roasted meat, spiced broth and fresh bread.
As for the figures occupying the tables, only a single word can describe them.
WARRIORS
Not soldiers but warriors in training.
Men and women of varying builds. Scarred, muscled, lean, composed. Some laughing loudly others sitting in silence and the few weird ones watching everything.
And when Kaelin steps in…
The noise dips.
Not fully.
But noticeably.
Respect.
Fear.
Recognition.
Eylin notices.
Of course he does.
Kaelin walks forward without hesitation.
"Tray, "she says.
He grabs one, trying not to look like he's absorbing everything.
Too late.
Eyes are already on him.
Assessing.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with braided dark hair leans back in his seat, chewing slowly. A scar cuts from his ear to his collarbone.
He looks at eylins up and down.
"New meat?" the man asks lazily.
Eylin keeps walking.
He doesn't answer.
A woman across the room snorts. She's compact, wiry, with short silver hair and forearms wrapped in cloth.
"He looks half-dead" she says.
"Mind your own business !!" Kaelin interrupts showing a slip of composure.
"Tsk...think you can keep this one alive long enough little K.." she counters the entire hall going silent.
.
"Mind your own business," Kaelin says sharply.
The shift is small.
But it's there.
The silver-haired woman leans back in her chair, boots propped on the bench across from her.
"Relax, little K," she says lazily. "Didn't mean to hit a nerve."
The hall quiets.
Not completely.
But enough.
Eylin notices.
Of course he does.
Little K.
So Kaelin isn't untouchable here.
Good to know.
Sera — because that must be her — lowers her boots and stands.
She's compact. Lean. Movement efficient even in stillness.
Her eyes slide to Eylin.
"He looks half-dead," she says. "What happened to him?"
Kaelin's tone smooths out instantly.
"Intensive conditioning."
Murmurs.
Rovan — the braided giant — snorts.
"Conditioning?" he repeats. "He moves like someone who's been strangled recently."
Eylin's fingers tighten slightly around his tray.
Strangled.
If only you knew.
Sera steps closer.
Not aggressive.
Curious.
She circles him once.
Slow.
Assessing posture.
Weight distribution.
Breathing rhythm.
"You're compensating for rib trauma," she says casually. "But your stance is stable."
Her eyes narrow slightly.
"You weren't trained here."
Statement.
Not question.
Eylin shrugs.
"Didn't know this place owned combat."
A few trainees chuckle.
Rovan stands.
Slow.
Heavy.
"You're unranked," he says. "Which means you don't talk like that yet."
Unranked.
So that's how this works.
Hierarchy.
Structured dominance.
Kaelin steps in smoothly.
"He will observe today."
"Observe?" Rovan scoffs.
"He's not cleared for contact," she replies evenly.
Sera tilts her head, still watching Eylin.
"There's something off about him," she says quietly.
Not mystical.
Not supernatural.
Just instinct.
"He doesn't move like a beginner."
Because he isn't.
He just didn't learn here.
Eylin finally looks directly at her.
Measured.
"What's the penalty for standing wrong?" he asks.
A faint smirk touches her lips.
"Depends who's correcting you."
Rovan cracks his knuckles once.
The sound echoes lightly.
"In this hall," he says, "rank decides who gets corrected."
Silence.
Eylin considers him.
Considers distance.
Angle.
Center of gravity.
The old instincts hum beneath his skin.
But he does nothing.
Not yet.
Kaelin notices that too.
Good.
She leans slightly toward him.
Low voice.
"You're being measured."
"I figured," he mutters.
"Control your impulses."
His jaw tightens faintly.
Impulse got him through hell.
But here?
Impulse might get him killed politically.
He finally grabs a bowl of broth and some bread.
Moves to sit.
Eyes follow him.
Still assessing.
Sera returns to her seat but doesn't stop watching.
Rovan sits slower than before.
As if disappointed there wasn't a scene.
The noise gradually resumes.
But it's different now.
Focused.
Eylin takes his first bite.
Warm.
Salted.
Real.
He exhales quietly.
Then murmurs just low enough for Kaelin to hear—
"So, this is the pit."
She doesn't look at him.
"Yes."
A beat.
"And you're at the bottom."
He smirks faintly.
Good.
He's used to climbing.