Azrael's eyes lingered on the dagger for several long seconds. Then they shifted to Seyra's gaze—she was looking at him with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
Taking a steady breath, he asked, "How do I show my devotion?"
"Start by taking the dagger," she replied.
He raised an eyebrow but did as she said. The weight of the weapon was solid in his hand.
'Incredible,' his black pupils widened with awe. This wasn't some cheap blade; it was a proper weapon, one he had never had the privilege to hold until now. The blade was spotless—not a single mark on it—and it looked so sharp it could easily slice through stone like butter.
Feeling Seyra's gaze still fixed on him, he shook his head with a cough.
"Your finger," Before he could speak, Seyra interrupted, "Cut it."
His confusion faded, replaced by caution. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he tightened his grip on the dagger, a subtle gesture Seyra immediately noticed.
"Don't worry," she said, her earlier sharp smile softening to a simple grin.
"The blade isn't laced with poison, toxin, or any harmful substance. I can assure you that you won't suffer any side effects."
"That's good to know," Azrael said, staring intently at the woman before him not because he was captivated by her beauty, but because of the danger she barely concealed. "But why should I cut my finger?"
"That's the test," Seyra sighed, leaning back in her chair. "The first phase is to see if you can push your body until it breaks down and beyond. This is the most important quality of a Chosen. No matter your Inborn Trait Rank, if you don't have the will to push past your limits, sooner or later you'll become nothing more than a nuisance—dead in a Rift or a monster's maw."
'I figured that out myself,' Azrael thought, not daring to interrupt.
"The second phase is convincing me you're mentally stable enough to train. Imagine if we powered up every deranged lunatic, just because you can push through pain doesn't mean you're worthy of wielding great power."
He frowned. "So, the way I answered the question means I won't be a threat?"
Seyra nodded. "Yes. You might be spiteful, not caring much about others. But you're not delusional, you don't think you should change the world. Evil like you can be tamed and changed. After all, in the end, evil itself knows it's not truly right. The same couldn't be said about stupidity: stubborn fools think they're right, and nothing can change that."
Azrael struggled to follow her logic, but it didn't bother him for now. "What about the third phase?"
"Insanity," she said softly.
Azrael was stunned for a few moments. "…What?"
"You heard me. The third criterion is not just to survive but to thrive in the Rifts. To be above other Chosen, you must have at least a few screws loose."
He stared at her, still deep in thought. 'She's unhinged,' he concluded. Not that he could judge he'd grown up scavenging monster corpses in the slums, raised by a Skinwalker of all things. To a normal person, he probably seemed just as unhinged.
Still, even her madness was a bit much.
Seyra sighed. "Think of it this way: if you cut your finger now, I'll give you a higher score. The higher your score, the better the military school that will accept you which will benefit you in the long run."
He silently studied her striking figure, then his eyes fell on the dagger again.
'If that benefits me,' he thought, taking a deep breath and cutting the inside of his finger, drawing blood.
His eyes quickly scanned the wound's surface; it was red and numb but otherwise fine. If it was poison, it wasn't a fast-acting one.
"Nice job," Seyra praised.
Then her tone grew colder. "Now, ram it into your palm."
'Crazy,' Azrael stared into her eyes, which grew more menacing.
"Don't be scared," she waved her hand, and a small bottle appeared in it.
"This is a healing potion. It can heal people with the Blessed Rank instantly, and you're one rank below that. It's so effective it can revive you from death's door."
'Even if she's insane,' he narrowed his eyes, darkening, 'she holds great power. If playing her games helps me advance…'
With a loud thud, he slammed his palm onto the table, raising the dagger with the other.
'Then I'll endure any pain my way,'
Thanks to the blade's sharpness, it passed through his palm without issue.
Gritting his teeth, he pulled it out, revealing a hole in his palm bleeding wildly.
Seyra studied him; her smile vanished, replaced by a sparkle in her eyes, as if she had been searching for someone like him all along. 'He… might be a suitable candidate.'
Silently, she poured some of the potion onto his palm.
The wound vanished in the blink of an eye, like it was never inflicted.
After staring at his hand in disbelief for several seconds, Azrael looked up at Seyra.
"Is… that it?"
"Yes," she said. "Since you're not part of any major clan, it's impossible for you to enter the Elite military school. But one of the lesser ones will suffice, right?"
Azrael cursed bitterly. 'Of course. Since I don't have strong ties to the great ones, my rise won't be easy. It seems I'll have to rely on my Divine Inborn Trait to close the gap over time.'
"Though…" Seyra interrupted his thoughts. "There is one military school, on par with those reserved for the great clans. They don't care about bloodlines; all they need is proof that someone is worthy."
Azrael's eyes widened. "How does… one enter such a place?"
"By recommendation," she explained. "Those with influence can recommend someone instantly… someone like me."
'Ah,' a light bulb went off in his head, 'she wants something.'
"…How can I earn your recommendation?" he asked her, preparing for some kind of ridiculous reply.
"Your eye," she said casually, pointing to one of her own. "If you pierce it halfway with the dagger, I will judge you insane enough for recommendation. The question is, are you willing to go that far?"
Azrael stared at her in silent disbelief, as if his ears weren't hearing right.
"I refuse. I am not mad enough to pierce my own eye," he said coldly, placing the bloodied blade on the table.
"Truly a shame," she said. "You sounded so confident with your words, but in the end, they were just words. When it comes down to it, you'll choose to run, you'll choose weakness."
Azrael's hands clenched, an anger rising deep inside him. "What did you just say?" he spat, forgetting that he was speaking to a high military official.
"You heard me," Seyra remained unfazed. "You spoke so high and mighty about not running from pain, and now you're doing just that. It seems the values this 'Guardian' of yours taught you have been too shallow."
His teeth clenched harder. "You—"
"Am I wrong?" she challenged. "I'm giving you a chance at the top, a ticket to the elite, but there's a price for everything. Did you think being chosen by the system meant you were special in some way? That you could claim power without paying the price first?"
His fists tightened so much his knuckles turned white. He was angry not at her, but at himself. She was right. She was basically giving him a ticket to the top, and he was about to refuse it because of some pain and fear.
Hand trembling, he took the dagger and pointed it toward his left eyeball. Seeing the blade's edge so close made his insides shake and scream in panic.
'It's just pain. Prove you have what it takes to be at the top. You're not just going to rely on your Inborn Trait. Show your devotion,' he repeated in his mind as the dagger moved closer.
"Do you know why this is the hardest thing a human can do?" Seyra spoke up, seeing his inner struggles.
"Because you can't look away, like you can when cutting your finger or ramming a blade into your palm. Here, you have to look. Be careful. Deep enough to reach halfway across the eyeball, but shallow enough not to pierce the brain."
Fueled by both determination and frustration, he guided the blade, stopping just before his eye.
'Why?' His hand tensed as if pressing with all his might, yet the dagger refused to move forward.
'Don't tell me I'm scared? Am I going to run away from pain? Screw that!'
The vein on his forehead throbbed, as did the one on his hand, but the blade resisted the last dangerous inch.
"Enough," Seyra sharply ordered.
With a pale expression, Azrael dropped the dagger onto the table.
"I… failed?" The thought burned deep inside him. After all that talk, he hadn't been able to follow through. He had run from the pain like a coward.
Seyra studied his expression for a few seconds, then sighed.
"Why don't you try stabbing your palm again?"
His mind still full of doubt, he brought the dagger down with all the strength he could muster only for it to hover over his hand, a centimeter before touching.
"How…" Azrael muttered, shocked.
"My Inborn Trait. Don't expect me to explain how it works just know it's called Infinity," Seyra said with a menacing smile, her crimson eyes shining with dangerous intensity.
"You mean…"
"What?" she scoffed. "You thought I was going to let you stab your own eye for real? Of course not, I stopped you before you could really hurt yourself."
He grimaced, voice raw with rage.
"You… to make me ram a dagger into my eye… you're insane."
"I don't deny that," she spoke softly, standing up and stopping before him.
"But for you to listen to me and actually do it…" Her hand lifted his chin, her crimson eyes locking onto his. "I'd say you're more insane than me."
Azrael stared at her face for several seconds before finally saying what was on his mind.
"So… do I pass?"
"You do," Seyra said, moving her hand from his chin to his white hair, ruffling it even more.
"Congratulations, my new pupil."