Chaos erupted.
Men and women scrambled for weapons scattered on the ground. They were obviously bruised and injured, much like Lysander, yet they forced themselves to their feet and attacked the man as if their lives depended on it—which, in fact, was not far from the truth.
Lysander felt a subtle trickle of dread creeping across his skin, much more subdued than the earlier gaze that had felt like a weight pressing down on him.
This new sensation could easily be mistaken for sweat due to nervousness, but Lysander sensed that, perhaps because of his calmness before the transmigration, the fear impacting him was less effective than it was on the others.
It felt as if an external force was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, and he realised he could exert just a little focus to alleviate it.
He pondered, Maybe it's due to the aftereffects of the transmigration phenomenon that granted him this partial immunity.
Despite the disorder around him, Lysander's mind remained surprisingly calm. The man was rampaging through the crowd, laughing maniacally as he unleashed a flurry of punches, kicks, and even headbutts to cut down those who opposed him.
Lysander found it strange how the man's behavior revealed his need to assert his superiority. His maniacal laughter during the violence and declarations of killing everyone if they did not kill him seemed unnecessary if he truly believed in his prowess.
It was more likely that this was a façade designed to instill panic among the people. The fact that he tried to tempt everyone with food portions, as well as the fear he felt pulling at his mind earlier, reinforced this idea: the man was not confident in his ability to kill them all with his bare hands; hence, he used methods that caused disorder and confusion.
The more Lysander thought about it, the more it made sense. Therefore, the man might also have a weakness he could exploit. Of course, it would not be wise to rush in right away because, although the man wasn't confident in dealing with the approximately one hundred people in the room, he had no problem if they were in a state of confusion.
Observation, Lys decided. As it turned out, is unpopular here. And dying enthusiastically seem to have better attendance
He watched as the first wave reached the man. Unsurprisingly, they did not last long. But their attempt provided crucial information about the man that Lys could exploit.
The man — whom Lys shall now call Crazy — stepped once to the side, letting a wild swing overextend. A knee struck a stomach. A palm snapped forward, open-handed, and the attacker collapsed as if his tendons had been cut (perhaps they were), let out a hoarse, broken sound.
Another came from behind. Crazy pivoted, the motion fluid and unforced, and drove an elbow into the base of the neck. The body dropped without a cry.
There was no wasted movement. No unnecessary force.
The lesson, as far as Lysander deduced, wasn't solely about brutality — though there was a lot of it involved — but also about being efficient in killing. It might have been obvious, given that he had to face nearly a hundred attackers, and he needed to cut down each one as quickly as possible to move on to the next. However, he deliberately delivered blows that appeared gruesome and caused a lot of pain, all to mask this aspect of efficiency and incite as much fear as possible.
Lysander exhaled slowly and shifted his stance, adjusting his feet on the uneven stone to test the traction. His body protested the movement, a flare of pain along his thigh, but he ignored it, his eyes tracking the man's footwork, noting how he never fully planted both feet, always prepared to move and redirect.
Someone collided with Lysander's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. He stepped back instinctively, catching himself before he fell, his heart hammering.
Stay upright.
He edged sideways, keeping his distance and allowing others to rush ahead, their desperation loud and obvious. Screams punctuated the cavern, followed by dull impacts and the wet sound of bodies hitting the stone.
A boy near him lunged forward, wielding a jagged piece of metal, his movements frantic and uncontrolled. He lasted three seconds. Crazy caught his wrist, twisted it, and released him only after the arm bent in a direction it should not have.
The boy did not stand again.
Lysander swallowed.
He stepped forward — not toward the man, but along the periphery, moving deliberately and avoiding sudden bursts of chaos. When the man's gaze swept past him, it did not linger.
Good.
When a strike came too close — a backhand aimed for someone else — Lysander ducked beneath it, feeling the displaced air brush his hair. He retreated immediately.
A golden-haired boy faced off against Crazy, sword in hand. He swung down at Crazy but was quickly disengaged, receiving a kick aimed at his face.
The boy skillfully avoided the kick and flipped backwards to create distance. He then followed up with a horizontal swing of his sword toward Crazy. The two exchanged several blows before the boy fell to his back.
Despite being cornered to the ground, the boy's face revealed no fear, only eyes blazing with hatred and determination. Crazy nodded in approval before continuing to engage with another opponent.
The floor was slick in places: blood, water, and both.
The lesson continued until bodies littered the ground — some unmoving, others groaning faintly. When Crazy finally stepped back, not a hair out of place, the silence that followed was heavier than the screams had been.
"Collect the dead," he said.
Figures emerged from the shadows, all clad in black robes, masked and efficient. They began to dragging the bodies away without ceremony, leaving dark streaks across the stone.
The man's eyes passed over the survivors once more.
"We repeat this in three days."
And with that, he turned and walked away, footsteps fading into the darkness. Lysander remained standing, chest heaving, legs trembling beneath him.
He had not struck once. He had not been struck directly either.
And for the first time since waking in this broken body, he understood something with unsettling clarity.
This was training meant to teach only those who are either outstanding geniuses who thrive in such a forced environment or those who could stay calm and observe the situation. Perhaps whatever they hope to achieve through these 'lessons' lies in these two types of people.
Lys was deep in thought when a sudden sound broke the silence.
Clang!
A dull noise echoed from the ceiling of the basement. Everyone's gaze turned upward. A ray of light flickered from a torch held by a black-robed supervisor, who then threw down a rope attached to a large basket.
Inside the basket were various foods, enough for one person to eat.
"It's food!" many people exclaimed. The only sustenance they had in the cave consisted of moss, with the occasional appearance of small rodents.
The crowd cheered. However, their joy quickly faded when the golden-haired boy stepped forward to claim the basket. Of course, Lys thought, The food is his because he landed a hit on Crazy.
The hunger of the people seemed to reach its peak as they rushed towards the basket like desperate anglerfish. Having starved for so long, their eyes lit up at the sight of something to eat.
The golden-haired boy held his ground, sword in hand. Given that he had successfully struck Crazy, the food rightfully belonged to him, demonstrating his skill was greater than that of most present. If too many people swarmed him for the food, he would undoubtedly be in danger.
However, no one dared to engage him first, fearing for their lives, knowing what he achieved through exchanging not one, but several blows with Crazy was no lucky feat. The crowd formed a hesitant circle around the boy and his basket; no one was willing to step closer.
The boy's eyes seemed to convey: Anyone who takes a step further will be cut down! The encirclement lasted for around thirty minutes before the crowd reluctantly dispersed in disappointment.
Lysander decided that he would first have to observe the situation. Charging blindly without information would be suicide, especially in this situation. Also, Lys noted, I'd have to observe that golden-haired boy further.
◈ — — — ◈
Seth and the regal-looking man descended a set of ancient stone stairs that led them deep underground. The echoing clank of their footsteps, despite his efforts to look forward to his promotion, unnerved Seth to some degree. Cardinal Morriet guided him through winding corridors of the secret level and then pressed his palm against a slightly ajar stone brick, causing a door to open in the wall.
Seth entered a spacious chamber that contained a large, round table. Five individuals were already seated around it, quietly awaiting the start of the briefing.
When Cardinal Morriet entered, they all stood up and saluted him. There were three men and two women. The oldest candidate appeared to be in his mid-thirties, while the youngest was at least five years older than Seth himself. All of them wore serious expressions and regarded him with somber respect.
Cardinal Morriet waved a hand. "At ease. No need for ceremony."
The candidates hesitantly nodded, then relaxed and sat down.
Morriet loosened the navy blue sash around his black-robed uniform and leaned back in an empty chair.
Finally, one of the candidates glanced at the Cardinal and asked, "Excuse me, sir. Who is this young man? Is he your new adjutant?"
Morriet looked at the candidate, remained silent for a moment, and then smiled. "Him? Gods, no. This 'young man' is Candidate Seth, the latest and final addition to the command structure of this generation's batch of Cardinal Candidates. He is not only one of the youngest in the history of our order to reach the Fifth Order rank, but has also slain more men in his rise than most of you combined. So… please give him a warm welcome."
Everyone gave a light clap.
"We will wait for another person," the Cardinal said as he assumed a loose posture on his chair.
After a while, the silence became so profound that it almost seemed as if the Cardinal had fallen asleep, his golden crest on his robes pulsing faintly with light. However, none of the Candidates dared to shift from their positions or speak, maintaining a straight and perfect posture.
As dignified as they appeared, Seth knew better. Each of these individuals had clawed their way through hell, using nails and teeth, and had taken countless lives to reach their current status. Everyone in this room was a killer. Seth understood this especially well, because he was one, too.
The stone door slid open once more, producing a loud, jarring noise as rough stone ground against stone. Another person entered, causing all the Candidates to stand up straight and place their left hand over their hearts, where their silver crests were located — a gesture of salute to a superior.
The man who just walked in carried a golden crest as well, marking him as a Cardinal, one with the same rank as Morriet and only over ranked by the Leader himself! The man nodded, signaling everyone to sit down.
The newly arrived Cardinal had a sharply chiseled face that made him appear to be in his early thirties, similar to Cardinal Morriet's age. However, his most striking feature was his exaggerated smile, which bared his teeth and overshadowed his handsome looks, creating an unsettling impression. Light particles seemed to linger around his skin.
"Candidates, this is Cardinal Fjor, a Cardinal who is very close to and trusted by the Leader," Morriet introduced. As Seth and the candidates bowed, Cardinal Morriet turned to the newly arrived man.
"How many did you kill today?"
"Not an overly large amount. Mostly the crippled and depressed ones. It's to create fear, you know?" the Cardinal replied with a slight accent. Seth vaguely recalled hearing this type of accent before — perhaps somewhere in the north, maybe Serathian?
"Were there any promising ones among the new acolytes this generation?" Cardinal Morriet asked.
"A few," Cardinal Fjor said. "Some have already shown signs of spiritual attunement."
"And what about the Leader's son?"
"Has quite a bit of prowess, already demonstrating 'n affinity for the spirits. He knows how to observe and wait for opportunities. Caught me off-guard once," Fjor said, pausing before adding, "Another interesting boy, I found. Knows how to use spirits to his advantage as well, though he hasn't quite mastered controlling them yet."