D_Hollow

He’s not trying to be anything. He just never stopped. Kaelen doesn’t speak much. He trains. He listens. He endures. He was six when the world ended. No one came for his block. By the time a rescue team arrived, he had already crawled out—torn up, alone, and changed.

Now he’s nineteen—one of hundreds raised underground to survive what’s still out there.

He doesn’t make friends.
He doesn’t ask questions.
He doesn’t belong on a team—and after a while, no one expects him to.

But he keeps showing up.
Every day. Quiet. Precise. Alone.

And when the others start falling behind,
when instructors stop seeing him as a student and start seeing him as something that doesn’t fit anywhere—he doesn’t flinch.

He’s not there to stand out.
He’s there because nothing else makes sense anymore.

⸻

The Berserker Way is a grounded, psychological dark fantasy about silence, survival, and what happens when you shape yourself into something that doesn’t fit anywhere—but can’t be ignored.

⸻

Originally published on Royal Road by D. Hollow.

The Berserker Way

The corridor lights buzzed above him.

Kaelen walked alone. His body sore. Shirt damp. Mind quiet.

Behind him, Torren had taken the other path. No goodbyes. No words. Just space.

Kaelen turned a corner—and saw them waiting.

Three second-years. Too casual. Too loud.

One of them slapped a fist into his palm with a smirk.

"Big guy's finally out of his cave."

"Hey, look at this one. Big guy, huh? Must be strong just 'cause he's tall, right?"

The voice belonged to a second-year. Confident. Loud. Deployment patches on his sleeve — signs he'd already faced real monsters, not just simulations. Proof he'd seen combat. Proof he wanted others to know.

"Let's see how strong he really is."

The second-year broke into a run. Full sprint. Shoulder down.

And bounced off like steel striking a bunker wall.

His body crumpled backward and skidded down the corridor. The sound echoed—bone, cloth, pride—all slamming into the floor.

A few students backed away. Others leaned in.

Rheya Dusk, standing just past the corner, blinked once. Her hand tightened around the hilt at her hip.

Alric Veil, arms crossed and jaw still bruised, muttered:

More cadets gathered. Even those who hadn't seen the hit felt the air shift.

Kaelen stood still. Didn't flinch. Didn't even glance back.

He reached up and brushed his shoulder with the back of his hand—as if wiping off dust.

The second-year stumbled to his feet. Red-faced. Furious.

"You think you're better than me?! Let's go then!"

Footsteps rushed in from the far hall.

A voice cut through everything. Firm. Sharp. Cold iron in silk.

Her coat shifted like smoke behind her steps.

Eyes scanning. Not glaring—measuring.

A few cadets stood straighter. A few stepped back.

"Combat outside the sparring arena is strictly forbidden. If either of you want a fight—do it the right way."

The second-year straightened, puffed his chest.

"Then I challenge him. Official spar. Right after evening shift."

The hallway buzzed again. A low, rising murmur.

Rheya leaned closer to a nearby student, voice low.

"You shouldn't. Second-years—they've fought outside. Real monsters."

"You're acting like he's already dead."

He glanced at Kaelen again—longer this time.

Kaelen didn't blink. Didn't answer.

He picked up his training bag, slung it over his shoulder, and turned away.

She didn't stop him. Didn't follow.

She only said one thing. To herself:

Good. Let them all watch. Let him show me I wasn't wrong.

He walked past the crowd. Not faster. Not slower.

And behind him, no one dared speak his name.

Because something that big—that quiet—was never just a cadet.

Blood After Bread