Forged In Blood

The first day of training was nothing short of misery.

Dinner the night before had been a pitiful scrap of stale bread and lukewarm broth, offering little more than a reminder of the harsh reality I now faced. Our accommodations were worse. We were cramped into a stone barracks with twenty other boys, the air thick with the stench of sweat and fear. The mattresses, stained and crawling with unseen filth, offered no comfort. Sleep was impossible amidst the snoring and muffled sobs.

Morning brought no reprieve. Breakfast was the same bland gruel, eaten in silence under the watchful eyes of our captors, no, our instructors.

We were herded into groups of fifty, like cattle to slaughter. My group, 47, was marched to a dim chamber for theoretical lessons.

The instructor, a gaunt man with dead eyes, wasted no time. "Strength rules this world," he spat. "The weak serve the strong or die."

His words cut through the air, heavy with a detached cruelty, as he described the power dynamics of this world. Races enslaved. Cities razed. Children turned into weapons.

Our purpose was clear: warriors can absorb strength from their fallen foes, growing stronger through bloodshed. But this power came at a cost. Battles are merciless, and survival is the exception, not the rule.

Our practical lesson was no kinder. Weapons were thrust into our hands, some too heavy, others too unwieldy. "Find what suits you," the instructor barked, his tone brooking no argument.

I settled on a sword and shield. Practical. Basic. But as I swung the blade, I couldn't ignore the weight of my choice. This wasn't a weapon for heroes. It was a tool for survival.

And survival, in this cruel world, is all that matters.

The week of training was not just a test of physical endurance but a crucible of despair. The instructors, clad in dark armor, screamed at us from dawn until dusk. Every command was a lash, every mistake a wound. It didn't take long for the weak to falter. Those too soft or fragile to endure were dragged away, their screams muffled by the ever-present drums of training. They were discarded like broken tools, funneled to the dying frontlines to serve as cannon fodder. None of us doubted their fate: a meaningless death in a slaughter they couldn't hope to survive.

My body had become unrecognizable. The callouses on my hands, once minor marks from the gym, were now grotesque, cracked patches of hardened flesh, crusted with dried blood. Every muscle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Sleep, when it came, was a brief and broken mercy, filled with dreams of torment that bled seamlessly into the waking nightmare.

I stared at my battered hands during the rare moments of respite. These were no longer the hands of a person. They were tools, carved and reforged to wield destruction. My mind wandered to darker places. Was this all there was? To be stripped of humanity and molded into a weapon for a war I had no stake in? My past felt distant now, the life I knew fading into the background like a forgotten dream.

Yet the training worked. By the end of the week, the clumsiness of our movements was gone. Our weapons, once foreign in our grip, now felt like extensions of our bodies. Those who remained, barely a tenth of the original group, were no longer the same. We weren't people anymore. We were tools. Killers.

The final test was as cruel as the week that preceded it. They called it a "placement match," but the name masked the horror of what it truly was. Each of us was assigned to a team of four and thrown into a massive pit with five other teams. The rules were simple: fight until only one team remained. A team lost when all its members either surrendered or were rendered incapable of continuing. Survival meant a better posting. Failure meant the frontlines, the meat grinder of humanity's endless war.

I wasn't in the first round, which meant I had to watch. The pit was chaos, a blood-soaked arena where desperation ruled. There was no hesitation, no mercy. Fists pounded against flesh until faces were unrecognizable, bones snapped like brittle twigs, and screams were swallowed by the jeers of the instructors watching from above.

One boy straddled another, his fists hammering down even as tears streamed down his blood-smeared face. He wasn't killing out of anger or hatred. He was killing because he had no other choice. By the time the first round ended, two bodies were dragged away, limp and lifeless. Their teammates stood trembling, broken in spirit and flesh, waiting to be sent to the frontlines.

The second and third rounds were no different. Each team entered the pit whole and left it shattered. Blood seeped into the dirt, turning the ground into a sickening mire. The cries of the defeated mingled with the roars of the instructors, who reveled in our suffering. This wasn't just a test. It was a spectacle, a sick game designed to strip us of the last remnants of humanity.

By the time my team was called, my thoughts felt distant, my emotions dulled. A week of brutal training had already broken me down, reshaping me into something unrecognizable. Pain was constant. Fear was constant. But it didn't matter anymore. The boy who entered this hell was gone, replaced by something harder. Colder.

We descended into the pit, and I scanned the faces of the opposing teams. That's when I saw him.

Alex.

For a moment, my chest tightened. Alex had been my best friend, my brother in all but blood. We'd grown up together, shared dreams, and promised to always have each other's backs. He wasn't just a teammate from another time. He was a piece of the person I used to be.

But now, he was just another obstacle.

Our eyes met across the pit. He didn't look at me with hatred, just grim determination. I could see the same realization in his expression that was solidifying in my own mind. There was no room for hesitation. No room for sentiment. If either of us clung to the past, we'd die.

The instructor's voice roared, signaling the start of the match.

As the chaos began to unfold, I clenched my fists, feeling the sting of dried blood cracking against my knuckles. A week ago, I would've balked at the thought of hurting anyone. But this wasn't a week ago. This wasn't home. This was survival.

A thought crept into my mind, insidious and sharp: Alex wasn't just an enemy. He was a test. If I could kill him, I could kill anyone. If I could destroy the last tether to my humanity, I would ascend beyond weakness. Humanity had no place here. Sentiment was a chain that would drag me to my grave.

To survive this world, I couldn't just let go of my humanity. I had to kill it.

And Alex… he was the last piece of it left.