chapter 3.2

The morning sun cast a weak glow over the central headquarters of The Wall, illuminating the training grounds where the echoes of past battles lingered. The stone walls surrounding the yard bore deep cracks, and the ground was scarred with the imprints of countless warriors who had trained and fought there.

Worn-out wooden dummies stood in the field, their surfaces carved by thousands of slashes. Straw mannequins, battered beyond recognition, were scattered across the training area. Near the far end, archery boards were riddled with holes—some from missed shots, others from precise strikes.

At the center of it all stood Alcard.

His posture was firm, his stance unwavering, though fatigue clung to his face. Before him, five Outcast recruits stood in a stiff formation, gripping wooden training swords that felt far too heavy in their trembling hands. Their expressions ranged from tense determination to barely masked fear.

Alcard's crimson gaze swept over them, cold and assessing. Then, with a steady, commanding voice, he broke the silence.

"Strike straight ahead," he ordered, his tone sharp as a blade. "Imagine your enemy is bigger than you, stronger than you, and will show no mercy."

With flawless precision, he demonstrated the technique, his sword slicing through the air in a clean, powerful arc. The recruits tried to mimic his movements, but their efforts were clumsy—unrefined and lacking strength. A few stumbled, their wooden swords slipping from their grip.

Alcard did not scold them. He simply adjusted their posture, pushing a shoulder here, correcting a wrist there, his approach efficient yet unforgiving. A single mistake on the battlefield could mean death—better they learn that here than in the heat of battle.

Before the training could continue, a disturbance broke through the rhythm of the drills.

The sound of heavy footsteps and the clinking of chains echoed from the entrance to the yard. All heads turned toward two senior Outcasts approaching, their weathered cloaks fluttering lightly in the morning breeze. Their eyes, red from the Bloody Potion, gleamed with an unnerving intensity. But they were not alone.

They dragged behind them a group of ten prisoners, their wrists and ankles bound in heavy iron chains.

Alcard let out a quiet sigh as he motioned for the recruits to stand down. He walked toward the gathered crowd, his expression unreadable.

The two Outcast veterans stopped before him, offering a brief nod before the taller one spoke.

"A shipment from Lord Felgar," he stated flatly. "Ten of them. Crimes vary."

Alcard's gaze moved across the line of prisoners, assessing each one with the calculated detachment of a warrior who had seen too much. Their faces were diverse—some pale with fear, others hiding their terror behind forced indifference. A few bore fresh bruises and tattered clothing, suggesting they had put up a fight before their capture.

And then there were those who had already given up—their empty eyes staring at nothing, as if their fate had been sealed the moment they were thrown into chains.

One of the recruits near Alcard whispered, his voice barely audible over the rattling of metal.

"Will they become Outcasts like us? Or… are they being sent south to be monster bait?"

Alcard didn't answer immediately. He simply cast the recruit a cold glance before replying in a low, measured tone.

"That depends on Oldman."

As if summoned by name, Oldman appeared from the main barracks. His steps were slow, but his presence alone was enough to silence the gathering. He studied the prisoners with impassive eyes, appraising them like a merchant inspecting goods. The two Outcast veterans pulled the prisoners forward, ensuring none would attempt to flee.

"Ten from Lord Felgar," Oldman muttered, tracing his fingers along the iron chains of one prisoner. His voice carried no sympathy, as if this was just another routine affair.

One of the prisoners—a man with disheveled hair and a face marred with bruises—dared to speak.

"We're innocent!" he pleaded, his voice raw with desperation. "We were falsely accused of rebellion! Please, you must let us go!"

Oldman's expression remained unreadable.

His voice, however, was unwavering—a decree carved in stone.

"Your past no longer matters," he declared. "The moment you were sent here, you ceased to be who you were. From this day forward, you are Outcasts. You will live by The Wall's rules—or you will die."

A shudder passed through the prisoners. Some grasped the weight of their fate instantly, their faces draining of color. Others remained defiant, still fighting the reality of their new existence.

From the folds of their cloaks, the senior Outcasts retrieved small glass vials filled with a thick, crimson liquid.

Oldman lifted one of the vials, holding it up for all to see.

"This is Bloody Potion," he said, his voice as sharp as a blade. "Without it, you will not survive against the monsters. With it, you might. But the price you will pay is greater than you can imagine."

A ripple of panic spread through the prisoners. Some struggled, attempting to break free from their chains, but they had nowhere to run.

The veteran Outcasts moved swiftly, forcing each prisoner to drink the potion one by one.

The air was filled with choked gasps, coughing, and muffled cries as the burning heat of the potion surged through their veins. It was not just pain—it was transformation. Their bodies trembled violently, their breathing erratic, and the first signs of change began to show.

Slowly, their eyes began to shift—a dull red tint creeping into their irises.

Alcard watched, his expression stoic. He had seen this same ritual countless times.

He remembered his own first time—the fire in his blood, the pain so intense it felt as if his body was tearing itself apart.

And he remembered the truth that came after.

That once you drank Bloody Potion, you would never be the same again.

When the last prisoner had swallowed the potion, Oldman stepped forward once more.

"Your chains will be removed," he said coldly. "From this moment, you are Outcasts. You will follow orders—or you will die."

One by one, the iron shackles fell to the ground, the prisoners—now initiates—standing unsteadily as the potion's effects took hold.

Oldman turned to Alcard, his expression grim.

"Train them. Teach them what they must know to survive. If they fail, it is their own fault."

Alcard nodded, his gaze locking onto the ten new Outcasts, their faces still contorted with pain and fear.

His voice, though calm, carried a weight they could not yet understand.

"You'll get used to it," he said simply. "This is our path—the path of those who have been discarded."

As Alcard stood among them, he saw fragments of himself in their expressions—the same fear, the same uncertainty, the same realization that they had been cast aside by the world.

And behind them, The Wall loomed high, an unforgiving witness to all who had walked this path before.

And all who would follow.