After selecting their weapons, Instructor Martin's sharp voice sliced through the air once more.
"Sort yourselves by your weapon of choice! Swords, lances, bows, daggers, maces—each to your own group!"
His boots thudded heavily against the packed dirt as he barked the order, his glare sweeping across the field.
The trainees scrambled into formation. The sword, lance, and bow groups swelled quickly—these were the favored weapons of the battlefield, tools that allowed a soldier to keep his enemies at a distance.
In contrast, only a few clustered around the less popular weapons. Daggers, maces, and war hammers barely attracted any.
Among the dagger users, there were only eight.
Valen stood among them, unfazed. Out of over a hundred trainees, his was the smallest group.
Most people would avoid daggers—they were the weapons of assassins, of killers who fought in the shadows. They required one to get close, dangerously close.
But for Valen, there was no hesitation.
Daggers were the only weapons he ever wanted to wield. They were familiar, almost an extension of his body.
It wasn't just preference—it was inheritance. The skills had been passed down through his family, a bloodline that had long since fallen into ruin. Even their family insignia bore two crossed daggers.
To Valen, fighting with anything else would feel like betrayal.
A weapon you're comfortable with will always serve you best.
Martin's commanding voice thundered again.
"You eight—step out!"
His sharp gaze locked onto them as he pointed toward the center of the field.
"You'll spar in pairs. The rest will watch and learn. You'll fight inside that circle."
He gestured as a soldier dragged the butt of his spear through the dirt, marking out a wide ring.
"Push your opponent out, you win. The losers clean up the mess later."
Martin's finger jabbed toward Valen and another trainee.
"You two—first. Step forward. Introduce yourselves."
Valen's steps were calm and deliberate as he approached the ring. His opponent, a tanned, muscular recruit, strode forward confidently.
"I am soldier-in-training, Valen Crisoff."
"I am soldier-in-training, Finn Silav."
Finn's build was impressive—broad shoulders, thick arms hardened from years of labor. He held his dagger with familiarity and strength.
Compared to Valen's pale skin and lean frame, Finn looked like the obvious favorite.
The surrounding trainees whispered:
"Who do you think will win?"
"Finn's good with daggers—his family are butchers."
"Finn will crush him."
"Yeah, but Valen's family specialized in daggers too, right?"
"Nah. Their house fell years ago. He probably barely trained."
"Who knows? Maybe he's just acting tough."
Valen ignored them. Their opinions didn't matter.
He didn't need their praise.
He only needed their fear.
Both fighters took their stances, daggers raised.
Martin's voice ground out like stone on stone.
"Begin on my mark. No killing blows—but don't hold back. This is training, not a dance."
Valen's body lowered into a smooth, ready posture, his brown eyes locked on Finn's weapon.
Tension gripped the air, thick and taut.
"Begin!"
The signal cracked like a whip.
Finn lunged first—fast, direct, and brutal. His dagger shot toward Valen's ribs with practiced precision.
Clang!
Valen twisted, parrying the strike. Sparks skittered off the clashing blades, the sharp ring of metal slicing through the morning air.
The sound of steel colliding filled the field.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Their blades flashed, clashing in rapid succession. Each impact rattled Valen's bones, but his grip held firm.
Finn snarled and drove forward, using his raw strength to push Valen toward the edge of the circle.
"You're quick," Finn growled, "but you're not strong enough!"
His heavy blows forced Valen back, inch by inch.
Valen's feet slid against the dirt, his dagger catching another blow—just barely.
But his breathing remained calm. Steady.
His lips curved into a slow smile.
Finn's next strike—a heavy downward slash.
Valen let it come.
The blade grazed his shoulder, slicing clean through the fabric, leaving a faint red line beneath.
The watching trainees gasped.
"He missed!"
"No—wait—!"
Valen's free hand moved with the practiced grace of someone well-versed in fighting.
In one fluid motion, he scooped a perfect handful of dirt and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it hurtling toward Finn's eyes in a fine, concentrated arc.
It wasn't random—it was a precise maneuver from his family's forgotten dagger techniques, a move designed to blind, disorient, and kill.
Finn recoiled, cursing loudly. "You bastard—!"
Valen didn't stop.
His footwork flowed like water—fast, fluid, and merciless.
He slashed Finn's exposed thigh, drawing a shallow but stinging cut. Blood trickled down Finn's leg.
Before Finn could even steady himself, Valen slipped behind him and swept his legs out from under him.
Finn crashed to the dirt with a dull, heavy thud.
Before Finn could sit up, the cold edge of Valen's dagger pressed firmly against his throat.
The training field fell into absolute silence.
Valen leaned in, his voice low and wicked, just enough for Finn to hear.
"You're right. I'm not strong. But I don't need to be."
His brown eyes shimmered—not with pride—but with something cold, something terrifying.
Finn's jaw clenched in bitter frustration, helpless beneath the dagger's weight.
Martin's boots approached with slow, steady steps.
"Winner: Valen Crisoff."
There was no reprimand. No comment about underhanded tactics.
Just the next order: "Next."
Valen lowered his dagger and calmly walked away.
As he passed the gathered trainees, he felt their stares linger.
Their hushed voices followed him.
"That guy fights like a psycho."
"He really threw dirt in his face? What a cheap move."
"Did you see his eyes? I thought he was going to actually stab Finn."
"He fights like a beast… like he doesn't care if you live or die."
"Shh… don't talk too loud. Don't you know? They say he even cursed his own family."
Valen settled in his spot by the sidelines, his faint smile never fading as whispers of the rumors of him rippled through the crowd.
This was exactly the reaction he wanted.
His cursed reputation would travel faster this way.
And this—This was just the beginning.