4:00 a.m. The sky was still shrouded in a heavy black, as if the night refused to surrender to the dawn. The barracks echoed with shrill whistles. Each note pierced the air with commanding authority, ripping bodies from sleep like blades torn from sheaths.
Trystan opened his eyes. No hesitation. No complaint. The emptiness within him had become a habit. But that night, a strange sensation had stirred him even before the whistle. Like a presence. Like an absence too heavy to ignore. He rose, closed his eyes for a moment, and recalled the voice of a child he had never been able to save. A laugh in an alley, a faceless figure, hands reaching out to him... then nothing. Only blood and silence.
The camp stirred under the Colonel's orders. His gaze allowed neither weakness nor excuse. Every recruit knew that today marked the beginning of true hell.
4:00 – 10:00 a.m.: Physical Training
The program was modeled after the American special forces. Brutal, methodical, inhuman.
5km run with 30kg packs. Trystan felt his knees grinding under the repetition. With every step, a thought screamed: "If you fall, you die."
Push-ups, pull-ups, squats—impossible sets. No breaks. The ground was stained with sweat, sometimes blood. Some vomited. Others wept silently. The trainer, a former close-combat champion known as "The Hammer," roared:
"YOUR BODY IS A TOMB. MAKE IT A WEAPON!"
Combat track. Paired up, no mercy. Trystan faced Leonardo. The strategist boy, like Shikamaru, anticipated everything. Trystan won—but at what cost? His brow split open, breath stolen from his lungs.
"If you want to survive, you have to learn to breathe through the pain," Leonardo whispered, without hate.
10:00 – 12:00: Simulation – Monsters, Phantoms, Demons, Avatars
A giant metallic dome, linked to a magical intelligence. It projected entities simulated from war archives. Trystan stepped into the arena. The lights went out.
A form appeared. Tall. Emaciated. Dripping. A Phantom. He had never seen one in real life. His throat tightened. His heart pounded so fast he thought he'd die. The shadow screamed without sound. It had eyes… no, mouths.
The world blurred. A memory struck him.
A little girl, alone in a burning field. He had run toward her. Too late. A creature like this had devoured her. He couldn't do anything. Just watch.
"You were supposed to protect me..." whispered the memory.
Trystan screamed—rage and pain—and snapped the Phantom's simulated neck in one swift motion. But his hands trembled. It was too late. Always too late.
12:00 – 14:00: Rest
Some slept. Others cried. Trystan sat alone, against a wall, staring into the darkness of his palms. Leira walked past him, silent. She stopped, handed him a canteen, then walked away.
"I haven't slept since that day," Trystan thought.
14:00 – 17:00: Weapons Training
Kalashnikovs, sabers, bows, spears, staffs—everything. A one-eyed instructor barked out techniques. Leira shone with precision. Émilie with fury. Leonardo with his ability to read weaknesses. Modigeur failed. Again. Trystan remained silent. Observant.
But with every contact, every movement, he whispered a formula. He was learning. Not the art of killing, but of wielding weapons as extensions of his will.
"You will become what others cannot," his father once said.
17:00
The sun began to set. The bell rang. A vibration ran through the ground. Colonel Varess stepped forward, flanked by two lieutenants. His voice was grave.
"You think you've seen hell? That was just the prelude. Twenty new recruits have arrived. Their eyes have already seen what you cannot yet imagine."
Figures emerged from the shadows. Some mutilated, others with death-staring gazes. One carried a sealed cage on their back.
Trystan stood up. He felt something shift in the air. Like a fracture in balance. As if the dice had been cast.
He understood.
The game had truly begun.