During the first three days of that long-awaited break, Seyfe didn't move much.
He just lay flat on the mattress, arms sprawled like a man crucified by exhaustion, the only thing keeping him company being the rhythmic hum of the old electric fan stationed at the foot of the bed. Its lazy oscillation clicked softly with each turn, stirring the humid air of the dorm like it was trying its best to simulate a breeze from a world that didn't hate him.
The ceiling above him—stained slightly yellow with time, maybe grief—became his whole world. Blank. Silent. Void of reason. A still, cracked canvas that perfectly mirrored the numb emptiness pressing against his chest.
No alarms. No screaming instructors. No weights crushing his muscles. No cellik chirping orders. Just stillness... and an overwhelming sense of not knowing what to do with it.
Every time his body twitched, as if it remembered the pain of drills and sparring, his brain short-circuited between relief and dread. It was like waking up in someone else's life—one where suffering wasn't scheduled into every hour.
There were no rebellious plans these three days. No mental speeches. No plots or passion. Just a boy whose bones still echoed with pain, trying to remember what it felt like to simply exist without fighting for it.
The fan clicked again.
Seyfe blinked slowly, not from thought, but just to keep his eyes from drying out.
Seyfe waddled toward the door, each step more of a reluctant shuffle than any confident stride. His clothes clung to him in their usual disheveled fashion—an oversized shirt riddled with tiny holes and a pair of track pants with a waistband that had long given up its purpose. His hair stuck out in odd angles, and his eyes looked like they hadn't seen real sleep since time decided to betray him.
The hallway outside his dorm was quieter than usual, a rare occurrence in this Veil-forsaken compound. The air was a little cooler than he expected, kissed by a breeze that carried the faint scent of metal, dried earth, and some overly sterilized detergent. Nothing about it screamed "peace," but it wasn't hell either—and for Seyfe, that was enough.
"Maybe a walk won't hurt much," he mumbled to himself, dragging his feet like they were made of rusted iron.
There wasn't a destination in mind—just movement, just something that didn't involve sweat and bruises and broken ribs. He didn't care if it led to the training grounds, the mess hall, or some random alley between dorm wings. Anything was better than being pinned to a mattress by the weight of stillness.
As he passed a window, the dying sunlight filtered through, casting soft gold hues across the floor tiles. He paused for a second, squinting at it like it was a forgotten memory trying to reach him.
It didn't. So he kept walking.
As Seyfe trudged down the corridor, his shoulders slouched and feet barely lifting from the floor, the murmur of life gradually surrounded him. Cadets were scattered about in small clusters—some laughing, some gossiping, others exchanging stories of exaggerated valor like they'd already fought and won a war. Their eyes sparkled with a kind of ease that Seyfe couldn't quite relate to. It was as if they'd found a way to tuck away the horrors of the last few weeks like forgotten nightmares, sealed behind brave faces and empty chuckles.
Seyfe, meanwhile, felt like a ghost gliding past the living.
"What should I do?" he muttered under his breath, his voice swallowed by the buzz of conversation and the whirring fans echoing off the corridor walls. He didn't expect an answer. The question was more a complaint, a protest of existing with no real purpose beyond survival.
His feet led him on autopilot, guided more by habit than intent—until he looked up and froze.
The training grounds.
The scarred earth greeted him with its all-too-familiar sight: the craters still fresh from that giant mechanical bastard's stomps, the grooves in the dirt where cadets were thrown, dragged, or knocked out cold. And at the center, beneath the faint glow of the Veil lanterns, stood the same weapon racks they were once forced to choose from when pitted against those relentless machine dolls.
Rows of swords, guns, staves, hybrid-tech weapons—all powered by runes, all humming faintly with dormant energy.
It was strange. No instructors, no drills, no orders. Just silence and the lingering echo of screams still imprinted in the dirt. The weapons sat still, like relics waiting for another round of suffering to begin.
Seyfe stepped closer, almost hypnotically, his fingers twitching as he neared the rack.
What the hell was he supposed to choose again?
And more importantly—what did he want to become, now that the pain had become his second skin?
Seyfe stood before the weapon rack like a man staring down the ghosts of his past. The metallic smell of sweat and gunpowder still clung to the air—faint, but undeniable. That day, when they were all shoved into the ring like lambs to the slaughter, still echoed in the marrow of his bones.
He hadn't even touched a weapon then.
He remembered clearly—how the handler barked at them to pick fast, how the weight of uncertainty settled on their backs even before the machine beast crashed into view. While others scrambled to arm themselves, eyes wild with adrenaline, Seyfe was still processing the why of it all. Why he was there. Why he let them drag him into this Veiler nightmare.
Then came the thunderous roar.
Then came the chaos.
Then came the ragdolling.
One moment he was trying to decide between a curved saber and a gunstaff, the next he was airborne—spun like a toy in the wind, slamming into another cadet before they were both flattened beneath the mechanical footfall of that monstrosity. It was a blur of limbs, screams, metal, and pain. By the time his body stopped rolling, any choice had already been made for him: survival, without a weapon.
Now, staring at the rack again, no machine in sight and no screaming handler in his ear, Seyfe took a slow breath. His fingers hovered over the hilts, barrels, and arcane grips—each one buzzing faintly, waiting for someone to sync with them. There was a sense of reverence in this moment, like choosing a companion for war, or maybe even a part of himself he hadn't acknowledged yet.
He whispered to no one, "Let's see what fits now… after everything."
His hand reached forward. Not rushed. Not forced. Just searching—for something that wouldn't betray him the moment hell returned.
Seyfe sighed as he strapped the final weapon to his back, his figure now half-hidden beneath a mix of blades, rifles, and hybrid constructs slung across his frame like a confused war merchant. A short-bladed weaver-sabre hung from his waist, a compact rune-fused scattergun rested on his thigh, while a collapsible glaive jutted diagonally from his back. A few of the other cadets passed by, giving him glances that teetered between amusement and concern.
"Trying to start your own armory?" a passing insturctor muttered, chuckling.
"Trying to find something that won't get me suplexed into the next realm," Seyfe replied without looking up, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
Despite the dry sarcasm, his expression stayed unreadable, eyes scanning the familiar training ground. This time it was different. No giant machine breathing down their necks. No orders shouted with the weight of punishment behind them. Just the quiet hum of the weapons reacting to the faint pulses of magic and tech coursing through the area.
Seyfe made his way into the field, dragging a training drone from storage. The bot whirred to life with a flick of its core, its form shifting between combat stances to simulate various styles. He activated the Cellik interface on his wrist—an eerie blue light illuminating his face in the shadow of the mid-afternoon sun.
Then he began.
Not with grace. Not with elegance.
But with persistence.
Each weapon, each swing, each shot—awkward, unrefined, like a man punching shadows in the dark. He fumbled the reload on the scattergun. The glaive spun out of his hands and nearly cracked a crate open. The saber? Decent grip, terrible footwork. Still, he kept going, pushing past his own hesitation, past the soreness still lingering from weeks of beatdowns.
"This one's too light… that one's got no reach… this one's just—nope," he muttered after every set.
It wasn't about finding perfection—it was about eliminating what he wasn't. Eventually, something might click. Something might feel right.
Or maybe he'd just make something of his own.
But until then?
Trial by sweat. Trial by steel.