Debt

The week was a blur of bruises, exhaustion, and unrelenting, unpredictable hell that was Prime's wicked idea of 'training'.

He didn't believe in structure in the least bit. No warm-ups, no routines. Every day was chaos. One moment I'm blindfolded, forced to fight with hearing alone, next I'm dodging stones Prime hurled at me from rooftops. Some morning I'd wake to find my room booby-trapped, forcing me to think before my opens open fully. And the sparring, pure hell.

"If you expect the world to go easy on you, you're already half dead," he'd say after knocking me on my ass for what had to be the twelfth time in the same hour. He took his time to pick me apart. I had the endurance and stamina. I had the strength and speed. I had the technique. Apparently I didn't have the mindset, the instinct to kill.

It wasn't that I didn't understand. I did. I just couldn't change as fast as I wanted. When Prime threw me into scenarios where I had to "kill" an opponent, I hesitated. I second-guessed. The moment of doubt would get me cut, bruised, or left on the ground catching my breath. He never let me slide.

"You hesitate, you die," Prime would taunt, standing over me after yet another sparring match ending with me sprawled in the dirt. "Your body's quick. Your brain's slower. Fix it."

I scowled but said nothing. I already knew that. Knowing it didn't make it easier. The only thing that came naturally was the Hemlock. The knife home to Eclipsara weren't just weapons; they were an extension of the body, built for speed and lethality. Small, curved, made to slide between ribs, slip through joints—efficient, deadly. Prime drilled the techniques relentlessly. Quick strikes, weaving movements, using the blade in tandem to open-hand combat. By the end of my first week, I could wield the Hemlock instinctively, through I stilll lacked the killer's edge to truly use it.

During one of our rare breaks, Prime leaned against a wall, swirling a flask in his hands. "You're getting better," he admitted. "At least your're not embarrassing me anymore."

I took a slow breath, rolling my sore shoulders. "Thanks, I guess."

Prime grinned. "Don't thank me yet. You're still as dangerous as a staving rat."

I exhaled sharply, deciding to change the subject. I asked him about the exam. "You mentioned some of the Shamans run the exams? What's their deal?"

Prime barked out a laugh, dry. "Oh, those pricks? The runeweavers are the government's pet sorcerers. They scribble their little symbols on people and things to make them stronger. Rats of people they are. Ever seen a man carve a rune into his own chest and then punch through steel? No? Well, stick around."

I frowned, his speech patterns have gotten annoying. "That… doesn't sound too bad."

Prime scoffed. "No, what's bad is how they see themselves. They think they're the gatekeepers of the Shaman arts. Like they're the wise elders of some grand tradition. In reality, they're bureaucratic men and women who get off on forcing kids like you to fight to the death."

I looked down at the Hemlock in my hand, suddenly feeling its weight in a different way.

Prime continues. "Then there's those of the Legion. If the Runeweavers are the insufferable scholars, the Legion are the rabid dogs. The poorest, smallest, and most violent. But they fight like they've got the gods whispering in their ears."

"What kinds of powers?" I ask in fear of the answer.

"Ever seen a corpse catch fire, grow wings, and try to strangle a man to death?"

"No" I blink.

"You will. They summon spirts of the dead, infuse corpses with fire, and turn into living wraiths when you get high enough up the latter. They're outcasts, but no one is stupiud enough to write away their power."

"And so these people are running the exams?" I confirm.

"Welcome to the deep end, kid."

For the first time since landing on this planet, I realized something. Surviving wasn't enough. If I want answers, my memories, my place in this world—I needed to become something more. I needed to win.

And to win, I had to kill.

—----------------------------------------

This vehicle is named a "Oblivis." It is unlike any vehicle I have ever seen, it moved with no driver, no beasts to pull it forward, only the hum of ancient runes burning faintly in it's undercarriage. The enclosed space felt more like a reinforced tent than a proper carriage, the scent of sweat, damp cloth, and something vaguely metallic saturating the air.

Twelve of us were packed inside, perched on crates, sacks of grain, or simply crouched in corners. No seating, just bodies with the gentle sway of movement as we cut through dense forests and toward distant mountains.

Most of the kept to themselves, sharpening blades, adjusting armor, or stealing glances at the competition. A few whispered in hushed tones, already scheming. I feel the tension. Some where barely more than children, wide-eyed and eager. Others carried themselves like seasoned fighters, their expressions unreadable. None of us were allies. Not yet. But then there was him.

A wiry figure lounged across from me, half-smiling like this was all a game. He was younger than me, maybe eighteen, with sharp features, line lips, and a hooked nose. A eyepatch covered one of his eyes, and his nails were long and claw like. Something about him set me on edge. I couldn't tell if it was his confidence or the way he was looking at me—like I didn't know something. He cracked a wide smile and waved at me. My gut feeling only worsened.

The silence of the cargo bay didn't last long.

From a hole in the middle of the Oblivis, the floor shifted. A hollow sound, like something sliding into place. Then, without warning, a figure rose from the darkness below. A man

He stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding attention. Tall, draped in a think, dark cloak, his gaze swept over us as if we were livestock. The murmurs died instantly. His eyes are a gross red, I see upon closer inspection that he is but a projected image, his presence doesn't die to this fact.

"The Governor has stirred the pot," he said, voice carrying over the rattling of the moving Oblivis. "Too many applicants this year. Too many hopefuls who think they belong."

A slow, deliberate pause. He is having fun with it.

"So we'll be cutting the fat before we reach Echohollow."

A ripple of unease pass through the group.

"The test is simple," he continues. "There is a Shaman among you. One of your fellow applicants. He was there to ensure your safety, but not he is your enemy."

I stiffened.

"Find them. Expose them. We will collect a Majority vote when we land. That is all."

A smirk flashes from his face as he disappears in a gradient, his voice fading with him. "If you succeed, you continue. If you fail, you walk back home on foot."

The words settled over us as the wind picks up.

And just like that, the game began.