Angelic Predator: Am I sane??

{Elarion, Age 10 – POV}

The night before his tenth birthday, Elarion stood alone in the training ground. The stars above were sharp and bright, like frozen knives in the sky.

He looked at his hands.

Calloused. Strong. Blood-stained.

He didn't remember what his voice sounded like when it laughed.

He didn't remember the last time he felt afraid.

The sky was dark. The stars twinkled like eyes of distant gods, watching.

Cold, silent, uncaring.

He sat alone. Legs folded, back against the ruined wall. The place reeked of rust and dried sweat, like every other inch of this cursed land.

He didn't mind. Not anymore.

Looking at the empty ground he remembered his past life:

A person will die one day,but memories?? Never

The instructors who never cared as always, kids who bullied him thinking of him as easy target.

The training ground filled with blood, his body ragged from constant training and beating.

Though, they could kill him here but didn't.

He remembered the puppy.

White. Filthy. Always wagging its tail no matter how bruised it was.

A tiny thing that had followed him for weeks after he'd saved it from drowning.

One day, he returned from training to find it dead.

Blood splattered. The limp body. The small, trusting eyes—wide open.

And behind the silence, men laughing like jackals.

"Are you crying again?" the instructor had snapped.

He remembered it clearly.

The sharpness in the voice. The ridicule in the silence that followed.

"Gonna cry, now? Pathetic. A Crimsonveil who can't even stomach death? What a waste."His voice laced with venom .

I didn't bother to answer, I didn't look, and didn't care. I kept staring at the body.

No tears came out of my eyes.

They beat him black that night. Not because he cried—but because he didn't.

That's when he learned the rule.

Never look like you care. Not even about a living thing. Not even a dying one.

And if you do—don't let them see it.

So he learned.

One year passed.

Now he could sit in the training field after everyone else had left.

Now he could rest his sword across his lap like it meant nothing.

Like the blade hadn't sliced through another boy's face this morning.

Like he hadn't looked into that boy's eyes and seen fear.

No nightmares anymore. Just memory.

Clean, ordered memory.

He glanced at the sword.

It was the first one the instructor gave him. A heavy iron blade, chipped near the base. Not balanced. Not elegant.

And yet…

He kept it.

Not because it held meaning. It didn't. Not like in stories.

This wasn't the sword that "started it all."

No. It was a tool. Like a bone you sharpen to survive.

But still—he kept it.

Because it was proof.

Proof that he learned. That he killed. That he lived.

Still, part of him wanted to throw it into the lake.

He wasn't that boy anymore—the one who needed a crooked blade and trembling fists.

Lawrence Gold said once: "When a pawn finishes its job, you throw it away."

That made sense.

But Elarion wasn't just surviving anymore.

This was his world now.

And like his world, this sword—even this—belonged to him.

The stars were still out. Still cold.

Elarion didn't look up.

They were the same as this world—beautiful from afar, merciless when near.

"Next year, they'll throw me into the Dark Valley."

He exhaled. "Good. I'll be waiting."

-------

The trial, after 3 gruesome years ended.

I don't know if number 3 is lucky or unlucky for me.

At the end of the trial,

"Only the Puppets Remain"

The long-awaited mourning began in silence. No tears. No voices. Just a cold wind and the footsteps of children who had survived the Bloodgate Trial.

Out of the hundred who entered, only a quarter remained.

The rest… became names we'd never speak again.

If they even had names to begin with.

In the duchy their is only one name for them...weak and unworthy.

We stepped into the training ground—what they called the "rest period."

But it wasn't peace. Just a pause.

A quiet before a deeper storm.

Everyone around me had suffered in their own way. Alone

No one spoke of it.

No one asked.

No one trusted.

And no one talked.

There were no friends here. No family. Just husks of children trying to breathe.

We all survived alone. That's how it's done in Crimsonveil.

Alone in blood. Alone in silence.

My eyes scanned the field.

Some stood tall, hiding the tremble in their knees.

Others kept their heads down, eyes empty.

Some wore emotionless masks.

Others fake smiles—to bait sympathy or lower guards.

Everyone had chosen their role.

I chose both. Cold and kind. Smiling while dead inside.

That's how you win here, the only way to survive and thrive.

Then after some time, we heard the instructors again.

The ones who fed us commands like machines. No warmth. No help. No faces we could call human.

Just mouths to give orders. Eyes to watch. Hands to hurt.

To them, we weren't children.

We were projects. Weapons. Tools of Crimsonveil.

In my past life, I used to wonder—did every child live like this?

Was pain a universal ritual? Was cruelty a rite of passage?

I had learned better now.

No, not all children were forged like this.

Only us.

Only Crimsonveil's children were bled dry and told to smile while doing it.

---

If the king ever knew, he'd outlaw this hell. But that's why the training was hidden. Kept underground. Buried beneath the image of power.

It wasn't training.

It was manufacturing soldiers.

War trophies.

Assassins.

Puppets.

The instructor droned on in front of us—about schedules, expectations, discipline. The usual hollow lecture.

I didn't listen. I didn't need to.

His words passed through me like wind through glass.

"Work hard." "Show loyalty." "Become strong."

All of it meant the same thing:

Obey or be replaced.

This is not a childhood. This is not a life.

This is Crimsonveil.

And I am what I was, not what it made me.

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