The dormitory block of Castle Loom Assassin Campus buzzed with a strange energy as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in hues of fading orange and deep violet. But inside the vast concrete structure, the halls were silent. Not a word. Not a whisper. Just the sound of uneven footsteps, bandaged breathing, and the soft hum of electric lights.
Room 17F held twelve young recruits, each with their own bunk, their own corner, their own battle to recover from the day's brutality. No one said anything. No one needed to. Pain was their common language now.
Xero sat at the edge of his bed, a dull ache pulsing through his arm where a blade had grazed him. His head had been bandaged earlier, a shallow fracture from a flying dagger that had clipped him too hard. The medics had told him to rest. He didn't care.
He stared blankly at the wall ahead, his mind replaying everything. The metallic scent of blood, the shrieks, the cold hum of the testing chamber—all of it echoed through his thoughts.
"Five tests," he muttered to himself, recalling the words of the Grande Commander.
"You are here to become assassins. There will be five tests. These trials are not designed to train you. They are designed to remove the weak. If you pass, you continue. If you fail, you will not return."
This had been only the second test.
A simple objective, they'd been told: Survive.
Survive the onslaught. Survive the chaos. Survive the knives.
The chamber had been enormous—wide enough to fit all 1000 recruits in a single space. The walls were dark, smooth, and held no doors or windows. Overhead, hundreds of lights cast a sterile, pale glow across the floor. Nothing to hide behind. No cover. No protection.
The Grande Commander had spoken from high above, unseen.
"Test Two: The Blade Storm. The rules are simple. You are not to attack. You are not to escape. You are only to survive. The blades will find you. Defend, endure, or fall."
And then it began.
The first wave of knives had come fast. Silent. Sharp. Fired from all directions—walls, ceiling, floor. Some glowed with faint magical symbols. Others were jagged, spinning, tipped with poison.
Xero could still hear the screams.
Some recruits had reacted instantly, creating barriers of flame or lightning, others manipulating shadows or even bending the knives' paths with strange abilities.
A girl with silver eyes had twisted into mist, dodging everything. Her pure talent was impressive and Xero couldn't help but admire. Another boy had conjured spectral arms to swat the knives from the air.
Xero had none of that.
He had instinct. Reflexes. Grit.
The first knife had sliced across his upper arm, shallow but stinging. The second he barely dodged by diving to the ground. He rolled, slipped, grabbed a fallen trainee's broken staff, and deflected another. His movements were messy. Desperate. But they kept him alive.
All around him, chaos erupted.
Blades tore through flesh. Blood splattered the walls. Cries of pain rose, then fell silent. Some tried to flee the chamber only to be struck down instantly by the system—punished for breaking the rules.
The floor ran red with failure.
Xero had no time to think. No time to fear. His body simply moved—dodging, blocking, ducking, crawling, leaping—until he couldn't even feel the pain anymore.
He survived the first wave. Then the second. Then the third.
When the siren finally rang and the doors hissed open, barely half the room remained standing.
Xero had collapsed to one knee, panting, his shirt torn, body bleeding from at least a shallow cut. But he was alive.
That was all that mattered.
Back in Room 17F, Xero finally exhaled deeply and leaned back onto the cold frame of the bed.
The pain in his arm throbbed with every heartbeat, but his mind wasn't on that. His thoughts kept circling something else—something that had happened during the final seconds of the test.
Just before the last wave of blades had descended, when a cluster of glowing daggers had come at him from every direction, something had stirred inside him. A coldness. A silence. A second heartbeat.
His eyes had flashed gold for a brief second—he remembered that. He had felt the world slow around him, just for a breath. The knives had seemed to hesitate, as if time itself had skipped.
Then it was gone.
He didn't know what it was. No one else had noticed. But deep down, Xero knew—it wasn't normal. It wasn't human.
And it wasn't the first time.
Across the room, another recruit groaned and shifted in their bunk. A whisper floated through the air.
"Can't believe… I almost died."
Xero didn't respond. The boy in the upper bunk, Jeral, had screamed louder than anyone when the first blade tore into his leg. He was still trembling.
Others murmured in their sleep. Some cried quietly.
This was only the second test.
Three more remained.
And tomorrow, another would begin.
Outside the dormitory, the campus grounds were eerily quiet. The once majestic halls, full of carved symbols and ancient statues, felt haunted. The air held the weight of the fallen—those who had entered the chamber but would not return.
Far above, in a glass tower overlooking the central dome, the Grande Commander stood with his hands behind his back. His face was expressionless as he reviewed the footage from the Blade Storm test.
Screens hovered in the air before him, each showing different perspectives, different recruits.
His eyes narrowed as he paused one screen.
A boy with golden eyes. Blue hair. Bleeding, broken—but still standing.
"Subject 817," the Commander said calmly.
"Xero."
He pressed a button. The screen zoomed in on the exact moment the boy's eyes had flickered—when time had seemed to hesitate.
The Commander's lips twitched into the faintest frown.
"Activate deeper scans. Begin monitoring. He seemstobea good heading for the tournament."
A soft beep echoed in the room.
Below, Xero finally closed his eyes.
And dreamed of blades.