CHAPTER 7

Dawn's pale light crept over the training yard, but there was no respite in sight. Our bodies were already screaming, bruises forming on arms, legs, and ribs. Each breath felt like dragging shards of glass through my lungs.

“Back on your feet!” Rebel’s voice rang out like a whip crack. “I didn’t tell you to stop!”

Constantine circled our group like a predator, his eyes cold and calculating. “You think this is hard?” he sneered. “You haven’t even tasted pain yet.” He slammed the butt of his staff into the ground. “Pair up. One of you fights, and the other defends. No holding back.”

We hesitated, our minds racing but bodies frozen.

“Fine,” Constantine growled. “If you’re too scared to choose, I’ll pick. You.” His finger jabbed toward Michael. “And you.” It pointed at me next, like a judge delivering a death sentence.

Wooden staffs were hurled at us, and we caught them out of reflex. My hands trembled around the weapon, the worn wood rough against my blistered palms.

“Go!” Constantine barked.

Michael lunged first, his speed surprising me even in his weakened state. I barely managed to sidestep, raising my staff to deflect his next strike. The wood cracked against mine, my arms absorbing the force.

“Harder!” Constantine shouted. “If I don’t see blood, you’re both running laps!”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and his attacks came faster, more brutal His movements were sharper than I’d ever seen, desperation driving his strikes. I parried as best I could, each block sending shockwaves through my bones. My grip slipped, and his staff clipped my shoulder, sending me staggering.

“Focus, Jamerson!” Constantine’s voice roared, venomous and unforgiving. “That hit would’ve shattered your arm in a real fight!”

I clenched my teeth, shifting my stance. Michael lunged again, but this time, I sidestepped, delivering a hard jab to his ribs. He stumbled, grunted, then smirked. “Nice one,” he muttered before coming at me again.

By the time Constantine called the match, we were both battered, bruised, and gasping for air. He patted us on the shoulders with a weight that felt more mocking than encouraging. “Next pair!”

Later, we bandaged what we could and watched as Phoebe faced off against Brock, a towering brute who seemed unstoppable. She moved with a ferocity that belied her size, her determination blazing like a firestorm. Brock had her pinned to the ground, but her legs coiled like springs, launching him off with a surprising burst of strength. She rolled to her feet, sweat dripping down her face, and charged him again.

“Good!” Rebel’s voice boomed from across the yard. “But don’t just react—control the fight!”

Brock swept her legs out from under her with a calculated move, slamming her back into the dirt. Phoebe groaned but didn’t stay down. She was relentless, and even as her body faltered, her spirit never wavered.

Endurance drills followed, pushing us past the limits of sanity. Climbing ropes, scaling walls under a rain of weighted sacks—failure was met with punishment, and success only led to harder challenges. Diana bore the brunt of one such trial, her slender frame pitted against the unforgiving wall. One of the trainers was throwing sacks at her.

“You call that climbing?” Rebel sneered. “Even a child could do better!”

A sack slammed into Diana’s shoulder, nearly dislodging her grip, but she clung on, teeth gritted, defiance burning in her eyes. When she finally reached the top, she collapsed onto the platform, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Constantine called an end to our session with a sharp whistle. “Think you’ve earned rest?” he snarled. “Think again. Everyone—on the ground. Push-ups. Now.”

We dropped without hesitation, our bodies screaming in protest.

“Count out loud!”

“One... two... three...” Our voices were ragged and weak.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Four! Five! Six!”

My arms trembled violently, and when they finally gave out, Constantine’s boot found my ribs. “Get up, Jamerson! You don’t stop until I say!”

I forced myself up, every inch of movement agony, my vision blurring as the ground swayed beneath me.

By the time the sun was fully up, we were lying in the dirt, utterly spent. Some initiates had vomited from the effort; others simply passed out where they stood. Rebel and her trainers walked among us, their expressions unreadable.

“You’ve made it through your first session,” Rebel said, her tone almost mocking. “Barely. If you think this was hard, Let me assure you—it wasn’t. This is just the beginning. Tomorrow, it gets worse.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over us. “You have one hour to eat and recover. After that, it’s the pit.” The pit sounds like a horror movie, where people go to die.

The pit turned out to be a circular arena, its walls high and smooth, impossible to climb. Sand covered the floor, gritty underfoot. Weapons of all kinds were mounted on the walls: staffs, daggers, blunt swords.

Rebel stood at the edge, her arms crossed, her presence as commanding as ever. “This is where we separate the weak from the strong. The rules are simple: stay standing, and you win. Fall, and you’re out. Pair up. Choose your weapons.”

Phoebe grabbed a staff, her knuckles white as she gripped it. Michael opted for a weighted chain, its ends tipped with small, blunt hooks. I hesitated before reaching for a pair of short swords.

“Jamerson,” Rebel called out, pointing at me. “You’re first. Into the pit.”

I stepped into the arena, the sun beating down on my shoulders. Opposite me, a burly initiate with a jagged scar across his cheek stepped forward, gripping a long spear.

“Begin!”

He came at me fast, his spear thrusting toward my chest. I dodged, sidestepping and slashing with one of my blades. The spear scraped against my arm, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Too slow!” Rebel shouted. “You’ll be dead if you don’t move faster!”

I gritted my teeth, blocking his next attack with one sword while aiming for his legs with the other. He jumped back, but I pressed forward, forcing him onto the defensive. Finally, I saw an opening. I swept his legs out from under him and pressed a blade to his throat.

“Enough!” Rebel’s voice cut through the tension. “Jamerson wins.”

As I staggered out of the pit, my body shaking, one thing became clear: this wasn’t training. This was war. And survival wasn’t guaranteed.