Ashen woke to the scent of herbs and sweat.
Rays of desert sunlight filtered through the canvas overhead. Around him, the infirmary tent buzzed with quiet murmurs and rustling cloth. Medics moved from cot to cot, treating the wounded with practiced hands. The scent of blood, bandages, and a strange antiseptic lingered in the dry air.
Ashen blinked slowly. His body still hurt. His hands were bandaged, his chest wrapped in white linen, and his shoulder had been stitched from the centipede's final strike. But none of it bothered him as much as the heaviness in his chest—a tight, quiet pressure, like something forgotten had stirred.
He sat up.
"Morning, hero."
Kerr grinned from the next cot over, a chunk of bread in his hand. "You snore like an ox."
Ashen gave a weak smile. "You were drooling in your sleep."
Lin snorted nearby. "He always does."
They were all there. Bandaged, bruised, but alive.
Even Reynor.
The noble sat at the far end of the tent, his posture upright despite his injuries, polishing his gauntlet with silent intensity. He hadn't looked at Ashen since they returned.
Elira entered a moment later, followed by Sera. They were dressed in fresh uniforms—standard gray fatigues with the Blood Kingdom's sigil stitched into the shoulders.
"Good. You're awake." Elira tossed Ashen a canteen. "Drink. We're being summoned."
"Already?" Lin groaned. "We just got out of the hell trial."
Sera gave a soft smile. "It's not another test. It's an evaluation. The officers want to see us."
Ashen drank deeply, the water cooling his throat. "For what?"
"To decide where we're placed next," Elira said. "We're no longer recruits. After the drill, we're soldiers."
The word echoed in Ashen's ears: soldiers.
He had no home. No family. No answers.
Now, he had a title.
They left the infirmary together, walking slowly through the military camp. It was larger than Ashen remembered, filled with rows of tents, training grounds, and watchtowers built from scavenged steel and bone. The red banner of the Blood Kingdom flapped in the wind, crimson against the pale sky.
The soldiers saluted as they passed.
Unit 9—the survivors of the trial.
They were led to a large pavilion at the center of the camp. Inside, several officers stood behind a long table, maps and reports laid out before them. At the center stood Lieutenant Grey.
Ashen's eyes narrowed.
The same man who had recruited him.
Grey's uniform was clean, his face unreadable. Scars marked his neck and jawline—old wounds that hadn't healed cleanly.
He looked at each of them in turn.
"You've survived what kills most," Grey said. "You've crossed the mirage field, slain a centipede-class beast, and completed the gate test. That makes you valuable."
The officers murmured, taking notes.
"You'll be placed in active regiments soon," Grey continued. "But before that, we evaluate your combat roles."
He pointed to Ashen.
"You, boy. What class did you choose?"
Ashen hesitated. "I haven't."
Grey raised a brow. "Most choose before the trial."
"I didn't know how."
One of the officers leaned forward. "He's the one who ranked second last, isn't he?"
Another flipped through a report. "Yes, but he pulled off a remarkable save. Speed far above normal. Possible enhancement? Hidden ability?"
Ashen stayed silent.
Reynor spoke up. "He's hiding his real weapon. That rusted thing he carries? It's not ordinary."
The officers exchanged looks. Grey stepped forward.
"Ashen. Show us your weapon."
Ashen drew the rusted blade.
The officers frowned. "It's… nothing special."
Grey's eyes narrowed. "You killed a centipede with this?"
Ashen met his gaze. "I got lucky."
A long pause. Grey didn't believe it—but he said nothing.
"You'll be assigned to Shadow Recon for now," Grey finally said. "Low profile missions. Observation units. Let's see what you're hiding."
Ashen nodded.
Reynor was assigned to the Vanguard Corps—frontline elite.
Elira went to Strategy Command.
Sera to Field Medics.
Kerr and Lin to Logistics and Scouting.
Unit 9 was splitting up.
—
That night, Ashen stood outside the barracks, staring at the sky. Stars blinked weakly above the sandstorms. The world felt quieter now—but not safer.
Footsteps approached.
Reynor.
He stopped beside Ashen, arms crossed.
"I don't like you," Reynor said plainly.
Ashen said nothing.
"You pretend to be weak. Then you move like a ghost. You carry a rusted sword, but it hums with energy. Who are you really?"
"I don't know," Ashen replied.
Reynor studied him. "That's the problem, isn't it? You don't know, but you're dangerous anyway."
He stepped back. "I don't trust you. But I'm watching."
Ashen let him leave.
In truth, he didn't trust himself either.
Because something was changing inside him.
—
That night, in his bunk, Ashen dreamt.
Not of the centipede. Not of the desert.
But of a great temple, long abandoned. Walls covered in glyphs, carved with the names of thousands—names he couldn't read but somehow understood.
In the center stood a mirror.
Ashen walked toward it.
His reflection flickered.
Not him—but a figure cloaked in memory, eyes burning with forgotten light, wielding a blade not of rust but of silver and smoke.
The mirror whispered.
"Remember."
He reached for it—
And woke up gasping.
Sweat drenched his shirt. His hand gripped the hilt of the rusted blade beside his bed. It was warm to the touch.
The dream hadn't been a dream.
Something was returning.
And soon, he would have to face it.