Lucas stared at the door for a few long seconds after it closed.
Her voice still echoed in his head:
"You can stay here… but if you're not joining the cohort, you find your own food."
His jaw tightened.
'Right. So either starve, or play soldier. What a deal.'
He stood up abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping against the stone floor. Without hesitation, he stormed out of the room.
The guard outside barely had time to react before Lucas was already moving, heading down the corridor with heavy steps and zero patience.
'Screw this. I'm not surviving on scraps just to prove some point.'
He turned corner after corner, ignoring the stares from servants and guards alike, until he reached the grand hallway leading to the heart of the Stronghold.
Two armored men stepped in front of him, lowering their spears in a practiced block.
"Stop," one said sternly.
Lucas didn't even slow down.
"LYSS!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the still air like a blade.
"LYSS, YOU CAN'T JUST WALK OFF AFTER THAT!"
More guards turned at the sound, hands on weapons. He was already drawing attention—again. Just what he wanted.
The heavy doors at the end of the hall creaked open.
Lyss stepped out with sharp, deliberate steps, her cloak trailing behind her. Her face was stone.
"…What is it now?"
Lucas met her eyes.
"I accept."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, her lips curved—just slightly.
"That was fast."
"No point pretending," he muttered. "If I'm gonna do this, might as well start now."
Lyss nodded once.
"Good. Be ready at dawn."
She turned without waiting for a response and disappeared back inside the building.
Lucas exhaled slowly as the guards lowered their weapons.
'Well. That's it, then.'
Dawn came fast.
Too fast.
Lucas cracked one eye open at the sound of distant bells ringing across the Stronghold. A low, resonant chime that echoed through the stone corridors like a slow heartbeat.
He sat up with a groan, rubbing the stiffness out of his neck.
The room hadn't changed. Still cold. Still quiet. Still smelling faintly of horses and dust.
But this time, something was different.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
There was a purpose now—even if he didn't fully believe in it yet.
He stood, stretched his arms above his head, and rolled his shoulders. His clothes were still travel-worn, but passable. No one had given him anything new. No one had told him what to bring.
'Figures. Trial by fire and no fucking fireproof gear.'
He checked his Soul Level on instinct.
[Soul Level: 1 – 16/1000]
Still pathetic.
Still him.
He summoned his scythe—his only real asset—and watched the black obsidian weapon materialize with a cold shimmer of energy.
It was heavy, beautiful, and terrifying.
He let it rest against his shoulder, then dispelled it with a flick of thought. The weapon vanished into nothing.
'No point bringing it to a meet-and-greet.'
A knock came at the door.
He opened it to find a different guard this time. Younger. Less annoyed.
"She's waiting in the training yard," the man said. "Don't be late."
Lucas grabbed his coat and stepped outside.
The sky above the Stronghold was pale, tinged with the blue of early morning. Soldiers were already moving through the courtyards, training or changing shifts. Magical wards pulsed faintly in the corners of his vision.
He followed the path in silence, his boots echoing off polished stone.
And just ahead, past the open archway, he saw Lyss standing at the edge of a wide courtyard…
With several others waiting behind her.
The training yard was empty.
Wide and open, bordered by high stone walls and silent walkways above. The morning air was crisp, cool against Lucas's skin as he stepped into the clearing. The sun hadn't fully risen yet—just enough light to cast pale golden streaks across the dark stone floor.
Lyss stood alone in the center, her arms behind her back, posture as rigid as the courtyard walls. She was dressed in a fitted tunic and trousers, no armor today—just focus.
Lucas slowed as he approached.
He had expected… more.
A group, maybe. Recruits. Someone else to deflect the attention.
Instead, it was just her.
"Morning," she said simply.
Lucas gave a half nod. "So where's the team?"
"There isn't one."
He blinked. "Wait… what?"
Lyss looked at him flatly.
"You're the first."
Lucas let out a sharp, confused breath. "You said you were building a cohort."
"I am," she replied. "But you're the first person I'm willing to bet on."
Lucas frowned, uncertain if that was a compliment or a warning.
'Great. I'm the lab rat.'
"Why?" he asked. "You've got an entire Stronghold full of options."
Lyss took a few steps closer, her boots silent against the stone.
"Most people here were handed everything. Power. Position. Potential. But you… you crawled your way in."
She stopped in front of him.
"I want people who survive because they choose to. Not because someone cleared the path for them."
Lucas stared at her for a moment.
"…And if I disappoint you?"
Her expression didn't change.
"Then you'll be the last."
Lyss stepped back, drawing a line in the dust of the training yard with her boot.
"No more talking. Let's see what you've got."
Lucas exhaled through his nose and cracked his neck.
'Here we go.'
With a thought, he summoned the scythe.
It appeared in his hand with a burst of violet light, the obsidian blade longer than he was tall, its edge singing softly as it materialized. The weight settled into his grip like it belonged there, like it had been waiting.
Lyss's eyes widened—only for a heartbeat.
Then her lips curved into the slightest of smiles.
'Just as I thought.'
She raised one hand and, with practiced ease, summoned her own weapon—an elegant silver longsword, gleaming with faint golden runes. It pulsed faintly, an extension of her will, her heritage, her training.
Lucas shifted into a stance.
"So what's the rule? First hit? Or first broken rib?"
"Try not to die," she replied—and moved.
She was fast.
Too fast.
Her blade clashed against the handle of his scythe before he could even react properly, the impact rattling up his arms. He grunted, staggering back as she pressed forward.
Strike. Parry. Twist.
Lyss danced around him like a phantom, every motion fluid and precise, her sword moving with surgical intent.
Lucas tried to keep up—swinging, blocking, sweeping the scythe in wide arcs—but he was slower, sloppier. Every opening he tried to make, she closed it faster. Every breath he took, she cut it shorter.
Within moments, she disarmed him.
A sweeping kick knocked his legs out from under him, and he hit the stone floor hard, the breath escaping his lungs in a grunt.
The scythe clattered away and vanished in a blink.
He lay there, arms sprawled, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face.
Lyss stepped over him, crouched beside his head, and tilted hers ever so slightly.
"You're not completely useless," she said.
He glared at her.
She smiled wide, almost laughing.
"We'll work on that. See you tomorrow."
And just like that, she turned and walked away, leaving Lucas on the ground, staring up at the sky.
Later that night, in her chamber, Lyss sat before a tall mirror, slowly brushing through her long silver-blond hair. Her room was quiet, lit only by a soft glowstone at the corner.
She paused, set the brush down, and looked at herself.
A small, confident smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Two of seven."
She blew out the light.