The Last Sanctuary

Solvyr sat on the cold stone bench of the barracks, rolling his stiff shoulder. The uniform they had given him was slightly oversized, the fabric stiff and coarse against his skin. The other recruits, packed tightly into the cramped room, whispered in hushed voices, their gazes flicking toward him with varying shades of amusement, disdain, and curiosity.

They had already heard the rumors.

The Weakest Awakener.

Solvyr ignored them. He had no use for their opinions.

Across the room, Gilbert leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression. His presence loomed like a shadow, his stare a weight Solvyr could feel pressing against his skin. There was no judgment in Gilbert's eyes, no pity—just cold calculation.

Solvyr met his gaze without flinching.

"Regret it yet?" Gilbert finally spoke, voice even.

Solvyr tilted his head slightly. "Not yet."

The older man smirked. "You will."

Before Solvyr could respond, a door slammed open. A towering man entered the room, his boots striking the stone floor with the weight of authority. A long, jagged scar ran across his temple, disappearing beneath his buzzed hair. His uniform was crisp, but his eyes held the deadened weight of someone who had seen—and survived—too much.

The recruits fell silent.

"Listen up, maggots," the instructor's voice boomed, each syllable cutting through the room like a blade. "You are nothing. Less than nothing. But if you survive, you might just be worth burying with a name."

A few recruits stiffened. Solvyr remained still.

"Combat trials start now. No rules. You win, you move forward. You lose, you crawl back home—if you're still breathing."

No hesitation. No time to prepare.

The tension in the room thickened as the recruits processed the words. Some hesitated, shifting nervously. Others straightened, forcing bravado onto their faces.

A boy stepped forward first—broad-shouldered, muscular, with a cocky smirk stretched across his lips. He cracked his knuckles, his confidence thick enough to suffocate the air around him.

"Who's up?" he asked, scanning the room. His eyes settled on Solvyr, and his smirk widened.

The instructor's gaze followed.

"You."

Solvyr stood, exhaling through his nose. He could feel the eyes of every recruit on him. Some eager, some expecting a quick humiliation.

The stocky boy stretched his arms. "Finally, a warm-up."

A loose circle formed as the recruits backed away. Solvyr stepped in. The boy across from him shifted his weight, his stance solid, but his movements betrayed overconfidence.

He wasn't a fighter.

He was a brawler.

The stocky boy lunged without warning, swinging fast and hard. Sloppy. Predictable.

Solvyr didn't dodge.

The punch connected against his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His vision blurred for half a second. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, but he remained standing.

Gasps rippled through the recruits. Someone snickered.

The boy stepped back, frowning. "Huh?"

Solvyr blinked, rolling his jaw. Blood pooled in his mouth, the metallic taste sharp on his tongue. He spat onto the dirt floor.

"You hit like a child."

The boy's expression twisted in anger. He swung again—faster, sloppier.

Solvyr moved.

He shifted just enough to let the punch brush past his cheek, his body slipping past the blow like a whisper. Then, he stepped forward. His elbow drove into the boy's ribs, the force behind it precise, controlled.

The crack of impact was muffled, but the boy's reaction was instant. His breath hitched, his body staggering.

Solvyr didn't let him recover.

He hooked his leg behind the boy's knee and twisted. The boy's balance shattered. He crashed onto his back, a choked gasp escaping his lips.

Solvyr was on him before he could react, his knee pressing into his chest, his fingers wrapping around his throat.

The stocky boy flailed, his hands clawing at Solvyr's wrist. His eyes, once filled with arrogance, were now wide with something else.

Panic.

He wasn't afraid of losing.

He was afraid of what Solvyr would do next.

The room was silent. No one laughed now.

"Enough," the instructor said.

Solvyr released him immediately and stood, stepping back.

The boy gasped for air, coughing as he rolled onto his side.

Solvyr didn't look at him. He was focused on the instructor, waiting for what came next.

Gilbert chuckled from across the room. "Not bad."

The instructor nodded. "Move forward."

Solvyr stepped back into line, ignoring the way the other recruits eyed him differently now.

He hadn't won because he was strong.

He had won because he knew what it meant to be weak.

And he would never be weak again.