Past

Benedict stepped out of the stone hallway and into the courtyard.

As he passed through, the gathered trainees parted silently, instinctively giving way. A few turned to watch him, others quickly dropped their gaze.

None spoke.

He didn't acknowledge them either. His steps were calm. Purposeful. Unhurried.

At the far edge of the courtyard, two trainees watched as he exited.

The younger one turned to the older man beside him, confusion in his voice.

"Why does everyone avoid him? Who is that?"

The older man didn't answer right away. He picked a training sword from the rack, tested the grip, then finally spoke.

"You're new. You wouldn't know."

He tossed a glance toward the gate Benedict had passed through, as if to make sure he was gone.

"That's Benedict. No one really knows where he came from. He joined as a trainee last year—but he rose fast. Too fast."

The boy blinked. "Because of his hair?"

The older man gave a short laugh. "At first, yeah. The red eyes and flaming hair drew attention. Then the fights started."

He turned, walking toward one of the empty dueling platforms. The younger trainee followed.

"Anyone who looked at him funny, said too much, challenged him—he'd take them apart. Effortlessly.

They said he never broke a sweat."

The boy's eyes widened. The older man nodded.

"Once, he wandered into the First Cohort's courtyard. Got scolded by their captain. Challenged him on the spot… and won."

The boy stumbled a step. "You're lying."

"I saw it."

They reached the platform. The older man stepped up onto the stone surface.

"He's officially Second Cohort. But that's just paperwork. He stays near the commander's courtyard now.Some only commander can restrain him."

The younger trainee looked like he was listening to a fireside tale, barely believing it but not daring to doubt it aloud.

"Is that why even our captain doesn't stop him?" he asked, voice low.

The older trainee raised his sword.

"No one wants to face Benedict. Not unless they're ready to live worse than dead."

Benedict walked out of the training courtyard and into the one neighboring it—the Second Cohort's ground.

He crossed the open space without a word, his presence drawing only passing glances. The Second Cohort was used to him by now. They no longer stiffened the way the First or Third did. They trained. They watched. They stayed out of his way.

He made his way to the far corner of the yard and sat on the weathered wooden bench near the sword rack—half in shade, half in sun. A place he favored when he wanted to be present but separate.

Moments later, a boy around his age approached, still huffing from a recent match, his training sword dangling from one hand. He dropped onto the bench beside Benedict with a sigh.

"Hey, man. You haven't been around much lately," the boy said between breaths.

Benedict turned his head slightly.

"Do you miss me that much?" he replied, voice quiet, laced with amusement.

"N-nothing like that," the boy said quickly, waving a hand. "Just noticed you've been… well, awfully attached to the new Blood Knight."

Benedict didn't answer at first. He just stared. A slow, unreadable smile curved his lips.

"Keeping an eye on me now, are you, Caleb?"

The other boy—Caleb—visibly tensed at the name. His casual air faltered.

"No, no, nothing like that, man. You know I'm on your side… right?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "We're both here for a reason."

Benedict tilted his head. His voice dropped.

"And what side would that be?"

Caleb hesitated. Swallowed.

"You know I can't say it outright," he whispered. "But you know the mission. We both came here with a purpose."

"It's not my side you're on, mutt," Benedict said, his voice turning cold. He leaned in, his red eyes sharp as drawn blades. "It's his."

Caleb blinked, taken aback.

"You know I only came here to support you," he tried again, chuckling nervously. "Come on, man. Don't go cold on me."

Benedict sat back, tone smoothing out like velvet.

"I heard you wanted to challenge the new boy."

Caleb relaxed, just slightly, grateful for the shift.

"Just curious. I mean, he's beating even awakened trainees with pure technique. Feels like a ghost of last year, doesn't it? Another shadow rising, breaking the order like you did."

The words slipped out too fast.

The moment he said them, he regretted it.

Benedict's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Then why not have a go at the real deal?" he said quietly, standing up.

Caleb's heart jumped. Red flags screamed in his mind.

"I didn't mean you, Benedict."

Benedict's hand rested lightly on the hilt at his hip. "I haven't had a proper fight in some time."

"You know I wasn't challenging you," Caleb said quickly, eyes darting, panic seeping in. "Not like that."

But it was already too late.

Benedict turned and walked toward the nearest dueling platform. Two trainees were sparring on it, but when they saw him coming, they immediately backed off without a word.

The courtyard began to quiet.

Others stopped mid-drill or paused their conversations. Whispers rippled.

"Yo, who's dead today?" someone bellowed from the side, mockery and anticipation in their voice.

"Wait—is that Caleb?" another echoed, laughter following.

But Caleb wasn't laughing.

He followed Benedict reluctantly, stepping up onto the stone platform like a man walking to his own grave. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, pressed down into his stance, and looked across the space at the boy standing so casually across from him—like none of this mattered at all.

Like he was already beaten.