The public training grounds of Keliemos were never quiet.

  Steel rang on steel, bootsteps dug into sand, and a constant thrum of shouted commands bled into the air like background music. It was a place meant to shape bodies into weapons—whether those bodies belonged to noble-born trainees or men who had crawled up from the gutter with nothing but stubbornness.

  Karen brought Garn through the gates without hesitation.

  The Onyx Knights were already gathered.

  Thirty in total—trainees, squires, and a handful who could already be called knights if titles meant anything in a yard like this. Most blurred together to Garn: similar stances, similar drills, similar fear tucked behind practiced confidence.

  But two figures didn’t blur.

  They stood out.

  One was a man built like a fortress, swinging a greatsword like it was an oath he’d sworn to never break. His technique was familiar—not because it was flawless, but because it was imitated.

  The second was a beastwoman with pale hair—white, like winter fur—moving alone at the far edge of the yard. She wielded no sword. No shield.

  Only a glove and a weapon that gleamed with a long, curved edge.

  A glaive.

  Garn watched her for three breaths, then looked back to Karen.

  “Who’s the man with your style?”

  Karen followed his gaze. “Finnian,” she said. “Second student of our Knight Commander.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “Second student… and he moves like a copy.”

  Karen didn’t deny it. “He isn’t the greatest with greatswords,” she admitted.

  That was enough.

  Garn stepped away from her side and crossed the sand like he owned it.

  Finnian was mid-swing when Garn stopped in front of him. The man’s blade hissed through the air—controlled, heavy, and practiced—but there was strain in the shoulders, a stiffness in the hips. Like an ox trying to dance.

  Finnian noticed the interruption and halted, breathing hard.

  “Who are you?” Finnian asked.

  Garn didn’t answer the question. He stared at the greatsword.

  “Why are you using that?”

  Finnian blinked, then frowned as if insulted by the audacity. “This is the path I chose.”

  Garn’s mouth curled slightly.

  “Not anymore,” he said, calm and absolute. “Starting today, you’ll use a longsword and shield.”

  Finnian’s expression sharpened. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got a frame meant to hold a line.” Garn tapped two fingers against Finnian’s chest—light, but deliberate. “You could carry a tower shield. Even a kite shield. You will become the wall of this order.”

  Finnian’s grip tightened around the hilt of his greatsword. “No. I’ll continue the greatsword.”

  Garn’s eyes stayed flat. “We’ll see.”

  He turned without waiting for permission and walked back to Karen as if the conversation had already been settled.

  Karen looked unsettled. “Why did you suggest that to my fellow disciple?”

  Garn watched Finnian return to his drills. Watched him force his body into movements that didn’t belong to it.

  “Your master was good at picking people,” Garn said. “Not teaching them.”

  Karen’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Garn didn’t look away from Finnian. “He’s close to awakening Vyze. Same as you. But he’s restrained by a technique that doesn’t fit his body.”

  Karen’s lips parted. “Restrained…?”

  Garn finally turned to her. His stare was sharp enough to cut.

  “You should already know.”

  Karen stiffened.

  “The technique your master uses fits you,” Garn continued. “Flexible movement. A greatsword used like a ribbon—flowing, turning, shifting. You can’t use Vyze yet, so you mimic him perfectly. Your body is built for it.”

  Karen’s eyes flickered.

  “And him?” Garn nodded toward Finnian. “He’s the opposite. Bulky. Heavy. Built to defend, not dance. So forcing your master’s style into his muscles will poison him.”

  Karen’s mouth opened, then closed.

  She had never thought of it that way.

  Garn let her sit with the realization, then his attention drifted—back to the other figure in the yard.

  The beastwoman.

  She moved with discipline that didn’t match the way people avoided her. Her footwork was clean. Her shoulders were trained. Her strikes came in slashing arcs instead of thrusts—like she was carving a path through enemies rather than trying to pierce armor.

  But something about her was missing.

  Or rather—the sense of it.

  Garn’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment, then he asked, “Where did she come from?”

  Karen followed his eyes. Her expression softened.

  “She used to be a slave,” Karen said quietly. “I saw slavers beating her in the street. I bought her freedom.”

  Garn’s face didn’t change. “And?”

  Karen’s voice dropped further. “Her family was murdered. After that… she followed me. For days. Weeks. Like she didn’t know what else to do.”

  Garn watched the beastwoman’s hands tighten on her weapon.

  “She asked to join the order,” Karen continued. “I didn’t expect much, but she had a unique spear technique. She slashes instead of stabs. So I commissioned a glaive, and she… excelled.”

  Garn watched her again. “Name.”

  “Zamora,” Karen said. “She’s from one of the rarer beastmen clans. The White Mane Tribe.”

  Garn observed her movements more closely.

  Her body was trained. Toughened. Scarred.

  But it was like watching a person fight with one eye closed.

  No awareness. No instinctive flow.

  He glanced at Karen. “Why?”

  Karen’s jaw tightened. “Discrimination. Beastmen aren’t trained in our kingdom. No one trains with her but me.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed.

  “How strong is she?”

  Karen hesitated. “Because she can’t sense mana… she’s considered the lowest ranking member.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Garn’s gaze didn’t soften.

  Karen added, “During the raid—when you found me—she was in the rear. Hiding.”

  Garn’s voice cut in. “Then why is she here?”

  Karen’s hands clenched. “Because she asked to join. She didn’t want to be weak anymore. But even when she found that confidence… she’s still afraid of battles. Let alone sparring other trainees.”

  Garn stared at Zamora.

  Then he exhaled slowly, like a man making a decision.

  “I have an idea,” Garn said.

  Karen looked up. “What?”

  Garn’s mouth curved, and something sharp flashed behind his eyes—a demonic edge that made Karen’s stomach tighten.

  “I found a way to make Finnian switch weapons.”

  Karen’s gaze flicked to his face, and the concern in her eyes deepened as that smile lingered.

  Garn inhaled, then raised his voice so the yard could hear.

  “Finnian. Zamora.”

  Finnian’s head snapped up.

  Zamora paused mid-motion. Her glaive faltered for half a heartbeat, like the sound of her name had struck her.

  Garn pointed at them both. “Practice duel.”

  Finnian scoffed. “That would be a waste of time. Zamora is the weakest in our order.”

  Zamora stood stiffly, eyes wide. Her voice came out thin. “I… I don’t think I can challenge someone of Finnian’s rank.”

  Karen’s expression softened with pity, like she wanted to step in and protect her—

  But Garn stepped forward first.

  His face twisted—not with anger, but disgust.

  “Then why?” Garn asked, voice low.

  Zamora flinched. “W-why…?”

  “Why are you here?” Garn repeated.

  Zamora’s hands tightened around her glaive. “I wanted to help people. In any way I can.”

  Garn’s eyes bored into her. “There are many ways to help people. Why this one?”

  Zamora’s throat bobbed. “Because Karen is here.”

  Garn glanced at Karen, then looked back at Zamora with cold contempt.

  “What use is a soldier who can’t fight,” Garn said, “and fears certain defeat?”

  Zamora’s lips trembled.

  Garn’s voice sharpened. “We don’t need you.”

  Karen stepped forward instantly. “Garn—that’s enough.”

  Garn didn’t even turn his head.

  He pointed toward the gate.

  “Leave.”

  Zamora’s breath hitched. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “You have no place here.”

  Karen’s voice rose, harder now. “That is enough!”

  Garn finally turned his eyes toward her.

  “Annoying,” he said simply.

  Karen blinked. “What…?”

  And then—

  Flames erupted.

  A ring of fire surrounded Garn and Zamora, a wall high enough to block the yard from view. Heat slammed outward. The air warped. Sand beneath their feet blackened.

  Karen stumbled back, coughing, eyes burning.

  Inside the flames, Zamora froze.

  She looked into Garn’s eyes and saw death.

  Garn stepped toward her—slow, unhurried.

  Zamora’s legs buckled when he was three steps away. She fell to her knees and bowed her head, trembling.

  “Please,” she rasped. “Please let me stay.”

  Garn’s voice was calm. “Then prove yourself.”

  Outside the flames, Karen screamed his name, but the fire swallowed her words.

  Finnian’s voice cut through the yard. “How can he use magic? I never heard of a barbarian using magic.”

  Karen couldn’t answer. Her lungs burned. Her mind spun.

  Inside the flames, Zamora pressed her forehead to the sand.

  “I’ll do anything,” she whispered. “Please.”

  The flame wall dissipated like a curtain drawn away.

  Karen rushed to Zamora instantly. “Zamora—are you okay?”

  Zamora shoved her hand away, eyes glassy, voice shaking. “I… I have to prove myself.”

  She crawled toward her glaive, fingers digging into the sand. She gripped the shaft like it was the only thing keeping her alive, then used it to drag herself upright.

  Garn’s voice rang out.

  “The duel starts now.”

  Finnian’s eyes widened. “No way. She can barely stand.”

  Garn didn’t blink. “Then the terms are simple. If she lands one hit, she wins.”

  Karen stepped forward, desperate. “That’s too much for her!”

  Garn’s eyes slid toward Karen like a blade. “She is no longer yours to care for.”

  Karen’s face went pale.

  “She will be under me,” Garn said, “from now on.”

  Karen’s voice trembled. “I’m your captain.”

  Garn’s smile came back—thin, mocking.

  “I don’t follow people weaker than me.”

  Karen went silent.

  Garn turned to Finnian. “Are you ready?”

  Finnian’s jaw worked. “Say the terms.”

  Garn pointed at Zamora. “If she lands one hit on you, you give up the greatsword and learn sword and shield.”

  Finnian laughed once—sharp, contemptuous. “Fine.”

  Garn looked at Zamora. “Are you ready?”

  Zamora’s lips moved like they were remembering how to form sound. “I… must prove myself.”

  Garn nodded. “Good.”

  Finnian stepped forward.

  The moment he entered range, Zamora thrust the glaive toward him—more desperation than technique.

  Finnian caught the shaft with one hand.

  A loud crack split the air.

  He snapped the glaive in front of her like breaking a branch.

  Zamora’s eyes widened as the weapon split—her expression breaking with it.

  Finnian kicked her backward.

  She hit the sand hard, rolled, and tried to rise—vision swimming.

  Her gaze lifted to Garn like a drowning person looking for air.

  “I have to…” she whispered. “I have to prove myself…”

  She grabbed the broken blade-end of the glaive, clutching it like a knife.

  Finnian’s voice was cold. “Useless.”

  Zamora surged forward anyway.

  She slashed with her right hand.

  Finnian dodged easily and swung his greatsword in a horizontal arc.

  Steel bit into flesh.

  Zamora’s stomach split with a brutal slice. Blood poured. She stumbled, fell to one knee, gasping—

  Then forced herself up again.

  Barely conscious, she staggered toward Finnian.

  Finnian sighed like the outcome bored him. He sheathed his greatsword.

  “This fight was decided before it started.”

  Zamora tried to speak. “Not ye—”

  Finnian punched her in the face.

  She crashed down.

  He stepped on her chest.

  “It’s ov—”

  Zamora’s voice crawled out of her mouth, broken and bloody. “No…t y…yet…”

  Finnian kicked her across the face.

  Her head snapped sideways.

  “I… I’m still able to… fight…”

  Karen stepped forward, choking on horror. “Stop—!”

  Garn moved like a shadow.

  He drove a fist into Karen’s stomach.

  Karen folded instantly, coughing, spit and air spilling out as pain flared through her body.

  Garn’s voice was quiet beside her ear.

  “Be quiet.”

  Finnian mounted Zamora and began to punch her—again and again and again.

  Zamora tried to lift her arm.

  Finnian slapped it aside.

  His fists didn’t stop.

  “Why won’t you give up?” Finnian snarled.

  Zamora’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Blood covered one eye. Her face was swelling, bruising, splitting.

  She turned her head slightly—toward Garn.

  “D…d…does…” she rasped, “this… count…?”

  Finnian froze mid-strike. “Does what count?”

  Garn’s smile widened.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Finnian jerked back like struck. “WHAT?”

  Garn tilted his head. “Look at the top of your right hand.”

  Finnian stared down.

  A small scratch.

  So small it would’ve been ignored in any real battle.

  Finnian’s breath caught. Then he started laughing—hard, disbelieving.

  “That’s how,” he said, laugh shaking. “When I smacked her arm away…”

  His laughter suddenly stopped.

  His face changed.

  Rage burned through it—hot, ugly, embarrassed.

  He raised his fist to smash Zamora’s skull into the ground.

  Zamora watched the fist coming.

  In her mind, a simple thought surfaced, calm and strange:

  So this is how I die.

  She closed her eyes.

  A heartbeat passed.

  Then another.

  No impact.

  Zamora opened her eyes.

  Finnian was gone.

  She turned her head slowly and saw him embedded in the training hall’s stone wall—his body folded into a crater like a broken doll.

  Dust drifted.

  Silence spread through the yard like a held breath.

  Garn stood between them, arm lowered.

  He looked down at Zamora.

  “You proved yourself,” Garn said.

  Zamora’s face crumpled. Tears mixed with blood. Her body shook.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, sir.”

  Garn’s gaze remained cold, but there was something else in it now—something possessive.

  “You seem worthy enough,” he said, “to follow in my footsteps.”

  Zamora sobbed harder, nodding like a starving animal offered meat.

  From that moment, Zamora didn’t just gain guidance.

  Something else took root inside her—an insatiable hunger.

  The need for power.

  And that hunger wrapped itself around Garn like a chain.

  Their fates intertwined—not as comrades, not as knight and trainee—

  But as a savage beast being led by a monster