The alarm never had a chance.
I was already awake.
Sleep was shallow. Dreams didn't come often. When they did, they weren't welcome.
I sat up in silence, dressed in under a minute, and slipped out before the rest of the dorm stirred.
The corridors were dark and empty, humming faintly with mana pulses. I didn't need light to find my way. I'd memorized the path.
Down two levels. Through the south wing. Past the maintenance wing and locked weapons racks.
Destination: Training Arena 3.
The doors opened at 06:10.
Steel. Cold. Silent. Perfect.
I dropped my jacket, stretched, and started running. Long laps around the central arena, steady as breath, sharp as habit.
This wasn't warm-up.
This was routine.
This was survival.
Around 06:20, footsteps started filtering in.
Other cadets.
Still sleepy. Still stretching. Still wondering where to stand.
As I passed them while running, I felt the eyes.
A few lingered. Mostly women. Some whispered, some stared a second too long. I ignored it. I wasn't here for them. I was here to kill.
No smiles. No nods. Just weight behind their glances.
They didn't know what they were looking at.
But they felt it.
Then the northern doors opened—not slammed, just opened. Quiet, controlled.
Two instructors stepped in together, their boots echoing against the steel.
One was tall and lean, eyes sharp like broken glass. The other was heavier, broader, with a crooked grin that looked permanent.
They stopped just inside the arena.
The broad one let out a chuckle.
"Well look at this. We've got ourselves an eager one."
His voice carried just enough to be heard across the space. I didn't break pace.
"Running on his own, eh? I give it ten minutes before he pukes on the floor."
The leaner instructor crossed his arms.
"Five credits say he lasts longer than half the squad."
"Ha! You're on."
They didn't interfere. Just stood back, watching.
Like I was a bet.
Like I was prey they hadn't figured out how to classify yet.
At exactly 06:30, the heavier one—clearly in charge—called out.
"Line up."
That was it.
No name. No welcome. No delay.
We moved fast.
Everyone stood in a line along the edge of the floor. Over fifty cadets. Some nervous. Some overconfident. All about to be introduced to pain.
The instructor walked down the line slowly, evaluating. His eyes passed over gear, posture, scars, confidence—or lack of it.
He stopped directly in front of me.
Stared for half a second.
Nodded once.
"Run until I tell you to stop."
He stepped back and blew a sharp whistle.
And we ran.
I didn't flinch. Didn't slow.
I moved like a machine—precise, relentless.
To me, this wasn't pain. It wasn't even strain.
This felt like drinking water.
I've done this every night since I was thirteen. Every time a nightmare clawed its way into my skull, I dropped to the floor and trained until my muscles forgot what fear tasted like.
While others screamed in their sleep, I counted push-ups.
While they begged for rest, I burned out sets until dawn.
I didn't do it to impress.
I did it because that was the only thing that kept the darkness quiet.
By the time the instructor blew the whistle again, several cadets had collapsed.
Some leaned against the wall, gasping for air. Others bent over, dripping sweat, eyes hollow. The lucky ones were still upright.
"Push-ups. Now. One hundred."
The command dropped like a hammer.