Chapter 251: v3 - 12: training grounds I

Chapter 251: v3 Chapter 12: training grounds I

The following morning, the guards came for them.

Cassian was already awake.

He had slept poorly.

His body still carried the punishment of the previous day’s course, but the worst of the pain had begun to fade. His ribs ached beneath the fresh bandages, and his leg remained stiff whenever he moved.

A guard opened the door.

"Up."

Robert translated.

Cassian rose from his bed.

Around him, the other five survivors slowly did the same.

No one spoke.

The guards waited until all six were standing.

Then they led them out.

They did not turn toward the Arena.

Instead, they took them through a corridor they had never seen before.

The passage stretched deeper into the compound.

There were no crowds here.

No cheering.

No painted portraits.

Only stone walls, iron doors, and guards stationed at the junctions.

Cassian watched everything.

He had spent every moment since waking after the ravine looking for a way out.

Even now, he couldn’t stop himself.

A door.

Another corridor.

A stairway.

Two guards at the junction.

A locked gate.

He memorized what he could.

Then the corridor opened.

Cassian stopped.

Beyond the iron gate was a large training yard.

It was nothing like the Arena.

There were no spectators.

No bloodstained platforms.

No elaborate traps.

Instead, the grounds were filled with equipment.

Wooden practice dummies stood in rows.

Weapons rested on racks.

Swords.

Spears.

Axes.

Shields.

There was a section for wrestling, another for footwork, and a long open space where several men were already sparring.

Cassian watched them.

They moved with familiarity.

Not like the men who had entered the elimination games.

These fighters knew exactly what they were doing.

Some had scars covering their arms and shoulders.

One was missing part of an ear.

Another had a long white scar running across his abdomen.

They weren’t newcomers.

They had been here for some time.

The six survivors were brought to the center of the yard.

A man approached.

He was broad-shouldered, perhaps in his forties, with gray beginning at his temples.

He looked over the six of them.

Not with pity.

Not with admiration.

He was assessing them.

The man spoke.

Cassian understood nothing.

Robert listened.

After a moment, he turned toward Cassian.

"He’s the head instructor."

Cassian glanced at him.

"What does he want?"

Robert listened again.

"Our names."

The instructor pointed toward the first man.

He answered.

Then the next.

One by one, the six gave their names.

Finally, the instructor’s eyes settled on Cassian.

He said something.

Cassian already knew what he would say.

"Carlo."

Robert translated.

The instructor repeated the name.

"Carlo."

Then he moved on.

Nothing more.

No questions.

No suspicion.

Just another name.

Another fighter.

That was exactly what Cassian wanted.

The instructor turned toward the training yard.

He began speaking again.

Robert listened.

"He says we survived the elimination games."

Cassian said nothing.

Robert continued.

"That means the Arena considers us worth keeping."

Cassian’s eyes moved toward the weapons.

The instructor gestured toward the men training.

Robert translated.

"We’re going to be trained."

Cassian looked at him.

"For how long?"

Robert listened.

"Three months."

Cassian waited.

Robert continued.

"Three months before they let us enter the Arena for our first duel."

Cassian’s eyes shifted toward the distant walls.

"A duel?"

Robert nodded.

"That’s what he said."

Cassian was silent for a moment.

So it was different now.

They were no longer being thrown into elimination games designed to see who would survive.

They had survived.

Now the Arena intended to turn them into fighters.

Men who would enter deliberately.

Men who would be trained.

Men who would fight one opponent at a time.

And whatever happened after that, their training would continue.

The three months were simply the beginning.

Cassian looked toward the men sparring across the yard.

This was no longer about merely staying alive.

This was the next stage.

The instructor continued.

Robert listened carefully.

"We’ll train every day."

A pause.

"Strength."

Another.

"Endurance."

Another.

"Weapons."

Cassian glanced toward the weapon racks.

"Sparring."

Robert paused.

"And Arena combat."

Cassian looked at him.

"What does that mean?"

Robert shrugged.

"I suppose we’ll learn."

The instructor’s voice hardened.

Robert listened.

"He says surviving the elimination games doesn’t make us fighters."

Cassian’s gaze shifted toward the men sparring nearby.

The instructor pointed toward one of the older fighters.

The man was sparring with another.

Their movements were fast.

Controlled.

Neither wasted energy.

Cassian watched closely.

He recognized the principles immediately.

Distance.

Timing.

Balance.

Footwork.

The swordsmanship was simply different.

The grip was altered.

The stance was more compact.

The movements were shorter.

More economical.

Designed for confined spaces and prolonged exchanges rather than the open field.

It wasn’t wrong.

It was simply not Imperial.

The instructor walked toward the weapons rack and took down a wooden sword.

He handed it to Cassian.

Cassian took it naturally.

The weight was familiar.

The balance was slightly different from the swords he had used in the Empire, but not enough to trouble him.

His hand settled around the grip almost without thought.

The instructor’s eyes narrowed.

He said something.

Robert looked at Cassian.

"He says your stance is wrong."

Cassian glanced down.

His feet were positioned according to the stance he had learned years ago.

He looked at the instructor.

The man demonstrated.

Cassian watched.

The difference was subtle.

The local style kept the blade closer to the body.

Less reach.

Less wasted movement.

Better suited to the narrow confines of the Arena.

Cassian understood immediately.

He could have explained why his own stance was different.

He didn’t.

He simply adjusted his feet.

The instructor nodded.

"Better," Robert said.

Cassian gave a slight nod.

There was no reason to show them everything he knew.

He had survived this long by being Carlo.

He had no intention of becoming interesting enough for anyone to wonder who Carlo really was.

The first exercise began.

Cassian moved.

His technique was competent.

Better than some of the others.

But he deliberately allowed himself to be corrected.

His grip.

His footwork.

His positioning.

His use of distance.

The instructors had no reason to know that none of these things were entirely new to him.

They were simply teaching him their way of fighting.

And Cassian was learning quickly.

Not how to fight.

How to fight here.

--

Tbc