The simulation chamber smelled wrong.
It wasn't just the recycled air or the faint coppery tang that always hung above the steel training floor like dried blood on old teeth. It was something beneath that—organic, thick, and sour. Like wet fur left too long in heat, mingled with something artificial. Something wrong. Cael caught it the moment they entered, his nose twitching with instinct before his mind could name it.
Wren did too.
She passed him a look—not alarmed, but alert—as the doors hissed shut behind them, sealing with a hydraulic groan that echoed far too long.
Eight Pawns stood in staggered formation. Cael. Wren. Lyndra. Pax. Ryve. And three others—each one bearing the scars of two grueling weeks of drills, muscle strain, and exhaustion stitched into bone. They had earned their bruises, their calluses, their midnight aches. And now, each gripped their chosen weapon like it was the last piece of identity they were allowed to keep.
Cael's hand tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of a double-edged sword—balanced, elegant, heavier than it looked. It fit him like memory, like something he hadn't known he'd been missing until the moment he picked it from the wall of glimmering options. The Drillmaster had let them choose, just two days ago. No explanation. No test. Just a room filled with racks and a single order:
"Select the weapon that knows you."
Some took axes—heavier, brutal. Others reached for paired daggers or blunted war hammers. Pax, shaky as always, had chosen a short spear he held too close to his body. Wren wielded a pair of curved knives that moved with her like second limbs, their blades etched in a foreign, flowing script.
But none of it mattered now.
Because today was different.
The chamber was twice the usual size. Matte gray floor. Grid lines etched every meter, faint but unmissable. In the center sprawled a mock terrain: ash-colored stone, artificial foliage curled and stiff with polymer decay, and a slope that led into a shattered bunker hull—cracked wide like something had crawled out.
Overhead, the lights pulsed once… then dimmed into a red simmer. Not alarm. But not comfort either.
There was no Drillmaster.
No Officials.
Just a voice—disembodied, clinical, echoing from somewhere deep in the walls.
"Simulation loading: Sector E3 Terrain. Team formation: Standard Spread.Trial Initiator: Class 1.Begin when ready."
"Trial initiator?" Lyndra echoed, brows narrowing.
Wren's gaze sharpened. "That's not standard protocol. We're supposed to receive a briefing first."
They didn't get one.
The floor trembled.
It started beneath their boots—subtle at first, like a breath held too long—but then deepened into a pulse, a heartbeat from something buried beneath. Then came the growl.
Low. Wet. Alive.
Pax flinched back. "What the hell was that?"
And then it stepped into view.
A wolf—but not.
Too tall. Too twisted. Its limbs were unnaturally long, joints bent slightly backward like a spider walking wrong. Paws reinforced with black armor plating. Its head gleamed with a skeletal snout of brushed steel, the jaw fused with hydraulic muscles. Amber eyes glowed in its face—flickering and flickering, like bulbs caught between life and death.
A Virewolf.
Row-E designation. One of the genetically modified canids engineered for the arena. They had only seen sketches in orientation—blurry renderings with advisory notes like Kill on sight, Never in packs, and Immune to sedation. It was designed for speed. For mauling. For relentless pursuit.
But this one… was alone.
And watching them.
Cael felt the hair at the back of his neck rise.
"Formation," he said, loud but steady. "Blades out. Front arc. Now."
No one hesitated.
They'd been waiting for this. Not the monster, but the moment. The first real test. The one no simulation could mimic. Eight Pawns moved instinctively into position—two rows, spread and ready.
Cael stepped to the front, Wren and Lyndra flanking left and right. Ryve took rear guard with a heavy twin-headed axe already spinning in his hands. Pax hovered near the back, spear trembling.
The Virewolf didn't snarl again.
It charged.
It was fast—so fast it blurred, a streak of black and chrome that crushed dirt and leaves beneath razor-thin claws.
Cael ducked instinctively, rolled, and came up sword-first. Pax wasn't as lucky. The beast clipped his shoulder with a passing swipe, and the boy spun out, crashing into a concrete ridge with a strangled cry.
Lyndra struck the flank, her axe catching armor and sparking—but not cutting. Wren pivoted low and fast, sliding beneath the creature's haunch and raking one blade behind its ear.
The Virewolf buckled, but did not fall.
It spun—metal jaw snapping with a mechanical hiss. Teeth clanged inches from Wren's face.
Cael moved before he thought.
A leap.
A scream in his throat.
His sword came down in a savage arc, striking the beast just below the shoulder. It reeled, shrieking—a horrible hybrid sound that echoed across the chamber walls like the cry of something dying and still trying to live.
Cael didn't stop.
He slammed his fist into its muzzle. Again. Again.
Something cracked. A plate dented. Sparks flew.
Then it bucked—throwing him off like a ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard, skidding against a patch of wire grass. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and hot. He spit it out, already rolling to his feet.
"Now!" he shouted. "Overwhelm it! Don't let it breathe!"
Lyndra moved without pause—her axe a hammer now, crashing down on the hind leg. Wren struck at the ribs again, slashing deep between armor plates. Ryve bellowed as he hurled his entire axe head-first into the beast's side like a cannon shot.
Even Pax, bleeding and barely standing, picked up a stone and flung it with everything he had.
It struck the Virewolf between the eyes.
Just enough.
Cael's blade found its mark—deep in the spine where two vertebrae met. He drove it down with a scream of effort, grinding past metal, tissue, bone.
The Virewolf let out one final howl—raw and ragged—
Then it fell.
Twitching.
Bleeding.
Dead.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Eight hearts thudded unevenly.
Then the glowing red door hissed open with a soft ding, absurdly gentle.
They didn't speak until they reached the barracks.
Pax was still cradling his shoulder. Lyndra peeled off her gloves with shaking hands, blood dried between the fingers. Wren sat in the corner, blade across her lap, sharpening it out of habit even though it didn't need it.
Cael leaned against the wall, his sword still warm in his grip.
No orders had come. No officials stepped in.
It hadn't been a punishment.
It had been… a challenge.
They'd survived.
But more than that—
They'd won.
The next morning, the shift was undeniable.
They were summoned to the grand chamber again, but this time, it wasn't empty.
A small crowd of Officials stood behind the glass—expressionless in their pale uniforms, masks gleaming beneath the blue-white lights. And beside them, the Major Pieces stood in full formation.
Vera. Elijah. Elara. Thorne. Rune. Sora. And the newly appointed second Rook.
Each bore their insignia proudly across the chest. Each radiated quiet, immense power—elemental force harnessed into human form.
But this time, the Pawns were not told to observe.
They were told to train.
Together.
As equals.
Cael led a charge with Wren across a grid of moving drones—slicing clean through each target with practiced precision.
Lyndra danced between stances, her spin-slash combo now fast enough to decapitate a simulated target with a single blow.
Pax, injured but focused, landed three surgical strikes to the exact spot he'd hit the Virewolf before. He'd remembered.
And across the glass, the Major Pieces watched.
Elijah stood still, arms crossed—but at the final maneuver, he nodded once, and clapped.
Not loud. But proud.
Vera tilted her head slightly, unreadable. But her lips parted—just enough to suggest something approaching approval.
Even Elara turned toward them for a second longer than she needed to.
Only Thorne scoffed—but even that felt performative. His gaze lingered.
The silence beyond the glass was thick with something that hadn't been there before.
Recognition.
Everyone was watching.
And the Pawns?
They were no longer just pieces to be sacrificed.
They were rising.