Steel.
That was the feeling in my hand. Not just the cold grip of the blade they gave me—
—but the weight of decision.
I stood in front of the rack again. Sword. Spear. Bow. Claws.
I'd touched each during Gord's trial rounds. Felt the balance. Felt the aura. But only one whispered to me.
The sword.
Not because it was elegant. Not because it looked like a hero's weapon.
But because it was final.
A single stroke. A clean end.
No reloads. No distance. No distractions.
Just edge and decision.
I grabbed the Eatir-forged blade from the rack. Its surface shimmered a dull red like dried blood under skin. The hilt was wrapped in black leather—rough, calloused, like it had survived more than just hands.
I tightened my grip.
Gord's voice broke the air behind me. "You sure about that?"
I didn't answer immediately. I wanted to. I wanted to say something dramatic. Something cold and sharp like the steel I now held.
But words don't always come to broken people.
I turned to face him. "Yeah. Sword."
He walked toward me, slow. Deliberate. His boots echoed across the metal floor like the ticking of a countdown.
"I've trained over two hundred Slayers," he said, stopping just a few steps away. "Know how many chose the sword first?"
I raised an eyebrow. "How many?"
"Two."
I tilted my head. "And?"
"One died in his first deployment. Thought he could block a Demon-Class Neigher's claws." Gord made a slicing motion across his abdomen. "It cut him in half before he could swing."
"And the second?"
"He's in a wheelchair. Can't speak. Sometimes pisses himself when lightning flashes."
I held his stare. "Still choosing it."
He didn't blink. "Why?"
"Because it's not about the weapon." I raised the blade and looked at its edge, catching the dull hum of aura that trembled through the air around it. "It's about who holds it. And I don't want to reach. I want to end it. Quick. Clean. Certain."
Silence stretched between us.
Then—just a twitch—Gord nodded.
"…Fair enough. Just don't get romantic about it. This isn't a story. It's a blood factory."
He turned and walked toward the far door. "Come on. You've got one more wall to slam into before they let you hold that for real."
I followed, sword still clutched in my hand. It felt heavier with every step.
---
The corridor outside the weapons hall was different from where I'd been before. Wider. Brighter. This wing of the facility looked... expensive. White floors polished like mirrors. Silver trim on the edges of the walls. Thin lines of red light pulsing near the baseboards, leading us like veins beneath skin.
A few officials passed us. Suits, clipboards, stone faces. They didn't look at me. Just nodded to Gord and kept walking.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"The G.C.V.C.," Gord said without turning. "Grade/Class Valuation Centre. Every Slayer—new or old—gets ranked here. Determines which deployments you're allowed to take. Who commands you. Who you're allowed to disobey."
"And if I get a low grade?"
"You die sooner," he said flatly.
We passed under a black steel arch etched with sharp symbols I couldn't read. Gord pressed his hand against a panel. A hiss followed, and the doors slid open.
What lay beyond wasn't a room. It was a cathedral.
---
Hundreds of people packed into the chamber—some seated, others standing. Massive screens lined the upper walls, cycling through stats, rankings, announcements. The scent of sweat, blood, and fear clung to the air like fog.
A voice buzzed over the intercom:
"Round four, report to Valuation Gates. Repeat: Round four, report to Valuation Gates."
Everyone moved in waves. Not chaos—but heavy, unspoken order.
There were too many of us.
Some looked barely older than sixteen. Others had scars too deep to count. A few had weapons slung across their backs, clearly not their first time.
"How many?" I asked.
Gord didn't look back. "Over two hundred new entries this week. You're round seven. Eight rounds total."
My boots clicked against the stone floor as I followed him deeper into the room.
"Only twenty-five go through per round," he added. "Valuation Gates can't handle more. So the rest sit. And wait. And wonder if it's the last time they'll see sunlight."
I glanced around. Seats were arranged in large semi-circles facing a central column that stretched from floor to ceiling. At the top, a massive mechanical device pulsed with crimson light.
"That the gate?"
He nodded. "Aether siphon. It reads your aura. Measures reaction time. Battle instinct. Then it puts you in a room with one of them."
I paused. "One of what?"
Gord looked at me, eyes hollow.
"A Neigher. Class locked. Contained. Usually a Matured or aggressive Hunter. Your job is to last five minutes."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"Not kill. Not even hurt. Just survive. The longer you survive without losing control—or pissing yourself—the better your rank."
"And if you lose control?"
"They put you down. No questions."
I exhaled slowly. My hands felt cold. The sword at my side suddenly felt like dead weight again.
We reached a seating row labeled "Round Seven." A man in black armor handed me a token with a red seven etched into it.
"Your round begins in thirty minutes," he said without emotion. "Prepare."
I sat. The bench was cold. Too cold.
Around me, others from Round Seven gathered. A girl with short silver hair and a scar across her cheek. A boy biting his nails so fast he was bleeding. Another kid—young, maybe thirteen—rocking back and forth, muttering to himself.
This wasn't an army.
This was a slaughterhouse.
---
Time slowed. Screens flashed. Rounds passed.
Round four. Then five. Then six.
I watched as names disappeared from the active board—some marked "Passed." Others simply blinked out, no notation.
Every few minutes, a door hissed open and a new face walked in—sweating, pale, sometimes trembling.
Occasionally, someone didn't come back.
And no one asked why.
---
Thirty minutes passed.
"Round seven, report to Valuation Gates. Repeat: Round seven, prepare for combat entry."
My heart didn't pound. My hands didn't shake.
That's the strange thing about losing your joy—you don't panic. You don't thrill. You just walk.
I stood with the others. Twenty-five of us.
The hallway to the gates was lined with Slayers in full gear. Eyes scanning. Recording.
No comfort. No encouragement.
Just observation.
At the end of the hallway, we split into individual elevator shafts. One person per room. One gate per soul.
Mine hissed open. Inside, a small metal room. No weapons. No sounds.
Just a circle on the floor.
"Stand in the ring," the intercom buzzed.
I obeyed.
Lights flickered. The ceiling above me slid open, revealing the siphon. A red beam struck the center of my chest and hummed violently.
Searing pain. Not external—internal.
Like it was peeling my mind apart. Scraping through memory, impulse, rage.
I saw Lira.
I saw the chain.
I saw my blood boiling.
Then darkness.
Then—
Click.
The floor opened.
I dropped into the pit.