The next day at Dominion Base, Davor, in charge of training and supervising all Dominors, didn't waste a second.
As soon as Darain set foot on the grounds, he was shoved straight into training.
And he hated every second of it.
"Why do I have to do all this basic stuff? I'm too good for this," Darain grumbled, arms crossed, clearly annoyed.
Davor didn't even blink. His eyes remained locked on the infamous Verault son.
"Yet your posture is terrible," he said flatly.
The intensity in Davor's gaze left no room for rebellion. Darain quickly realized this wasn't going to be the fun, chaotic playground he was hoping for. No one here was impressed by his last name. And Davor? Davor looked like he could see straight through him.
Darain narrowed his eyes, clearly unamused.
Davor noticed. Without a word, he casually smacked Darain on the backside with the training stick in his hand.
WHACK!
Darain yelped, jumping slightly and rubbing his butt. "Ouch! Seriously?! My mom never hit me—and now you think you can just—?"
WHACK!
Another hit landed before he could finish.
"Talk again, and I'll have you working out until the next sunset," Davor said, voice calm but deadly serious.
Darain's jaw dropped. He opened his mouth, probably to argue—but one look at Davor's expression was enough to snap it shut again.
Muttering under his breath, he obediently began his training.
After watching Darain struggle through his basic exercises, Davor finally turned and walked away.
Darain immediately stopped, dropping to the ground and sitting cross-legged on the field, completely exhausted. Sweat dripped from his brow—he wasn't used to this kind of effort. Not at all. Around him, the other Dominors continued their drills, unfazed, their bodies moving with discipline and focus.
Darain just watched, frowning.
How are they still standing? he thought, chest heaving.
Then, Davor stepped up onto the raised stage at the front of the training grounds. He approached the microphone calmly, his presence commanding the attention of every trainee. The buzz of movement slowed as all eyes turned toward him.
Darain, curious, stayed on the ground, wiping his face with his sleeve.
"Ten minutes left," Davor announced into the mic, his voice echoing across the field. "Then we begin the obstacle course."
Darain blinked, dread creeping into his bones.
"And you—right there."
Davor's piercing gaze locked directly on him.
Darain froze, his whole body going stiff. Then, like he'd been struck by lightning, he jumped to his feet and started doing jumping jacks on the spot.
The entire field chuckled quietly under their breath, used to Davor's sharp eye and stricter-than-steel rules.
"I swear," Davor continued, voice cool but loud, "if I see you slacking off again, you'll be banned from the canteen for a full week. And every single one of those shiny, glimmering relics you've got stocked up in your room? I'll confiscate all of them."
Gasps and stifled laughs echoed across the field.
Darain turned pale. "He wouldn't... would he?"
Davor didn't break eye contact.
He would.
Ten minutes passed quickly—for everyone except Darain.
For him, it felt like a lifetime in hell.
As Davor finally called for a short break, most of the Dominors exhaled deeply, grabbing water bottles or sitting down to stretch. Meanwhile, Darain was hunched over, gasping for air like a dying fish, his hands on his knees and his legs trembling as if they were about to give out.
He stared up at the sky with a defeated expression.
This is insane, he thought. I didn't sign up for a military boot camp. I'm a Verault. I have relics. I don't need this crap—
"Now!" Davor's voice boomed across the field. "To the obstacle ground!"
Darain's eyes widened in horror. "Bruh. It's not even five minutes. I need more time," he muttered under his breath, barely audible and meant only for himself.
But Davor—who had already started walking past the trainees—suddenly stopped. His footsteps halted with unnerving precision. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked directly at Darain.
Darain froze. Instantly straightening up, his spine stiff as a board, eyes wide.
Davor stared at him for a moment. Not saying a word.
Then he turned back around and continued walking toward the obstacle ground.
The Dominors silently followed him, their footsteps steady, disciplined. Darain shuffled in line behind them, dragging his feet slightly.
This is torture, he thought bitterly. This is illegal.
He glanced at the others ahead.
Why do they look so calm?
Is this some secret cult? Am I in a cult??
But no one answered his mental breakdown.
They had arrived.
And the obstacle course loomed ahead like a nightmare made of ropes, walls, mud, and things Darain had only ever seen in military films—films he never finished watching.
Climbing walls. Rope ascents.
Tire runs and ladder drills.
Crawling under barbed wire.
Balancing on beams, swinging across monkey bars, jumping over high walls.
Sandbags. Mud pits.
All of it. In one day.
The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, and the sky now wore a curtain of dark blue and stars. The field lights buzzed faintly in the background.
And in the middle of it all—flat on his back in the mud, chest heaving, limbs spread out like a broken starfish—was Darain Verault.
He was no longer a proud son of a powerful family.
He was a corpse.
"I'm gonna die," he whispered hoarsely to the sky. "This is it. My end. My suffering. My funeral will be muddy. Mom... tell the chef I never got to eat dinner."
He didn't care about the mud soaking into his clothes or the cold wind brushing past his wet hair. He couldn't move even if he wanted to.
The other Dominors were already on their way to the cafeteria, walking like tired soldiers—aching, sore, but trained. Unlike him, they had adapted. Survived this before.
Darain?
He just lay there. Unmoving. Unbothered by the silence. His eyes slowly shut.
"Maybe if I die here... Davor will feel guilty and let me sleep in tomorrow," he murmured with the last strength in his lungs.
The obstacle field was now quiet. Empty.
Except for one ruined, muddy, dramatically suffering relic prince, arms and legs stretched wide like he had just reenacted a war scene.
"Someone just died," one of the Dominors mumbled, barely glancing at Darain's lifeless-looking form sprawled dramatically in the mud.
He didn't bother checking if the boy was breathing or alive. He just walked past him, like stepping around an inconvenient puddle. His only destination: the cafeteria.
A second figure followed behind him, quiet and steady.
The two entered the mess hall, where the usual chatter dimmed for a moment. As always, the Dominors instinctively avoided the table they gravitated toward. No one sat with them. No one even made eye contact.
Lucen grabbed a tray, mechanically scooped food onto it, and slid into the empty bench. The boy he followed—Cael—was already there, seated in silence, picking at his food without much interest.
Lucen, meanwhile, ate without a word.
He had no sweat on him. No dirt. No sign he was ever out on the training field. That's because he wasn't. He never was. He wasn't there to train.
He was there to watch.
Cael.
As he ate in silence, Lucen's thoughts drifted—unusual for him.
Why am I following this kid again?
It had been weeks. Orders from Elior. That was all he knew. That was all he accepted at the time. But now, for the first time, it struck him—he never actually asked why.
Why this boy?
Lucen glanced up. Across the table, Cael acted like he didn't exist. Had been, for days now. Maybe weeks. Not a word. Not a glance.
Lucen didn't care.
Talking was a waste of energy. Relationships? Distractions. All he had to do was watch. Follow. Observe. Report.
That's it.
That's all.
Suddenly, a sharp crackle broke through the cafeteria's low hum.
The speakers—mounted on the walls, embedded in corners, scattered across every building and training ground—came alive with a faint static, followed by three deliberate taps on a microphone.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then a voice, smooth and energetic, echoed through every corner of the facility.
"Hi, everyone! Dominors?" The tone was almost cheerful. "This is Seren Aurel speaking—once again."
The entire cafeteria paused. Forks hovered mid-air. Conversations stopped cold. Every Dominor, whether seated or still getting their food, turned toward the nearest speaker.
Seren's voice had that effect.
"It's been almost a month since you all arrived," he continued, voice calm but layered with something deeper. "And first of all—congratulations. You survived your first month."
Murmurs rippled through the room. A few tired smiles. Others just stared.
"You've trained your bodies. All those exercises, the obstacle courses, the endless drills—they were the foundation. The wall that will support you in the weeks to come."
A pause.
Then, Seren's voice shifted—just a little. A faint excitement hidden in the calm.
"Because tomorrow... I want you all to meet me in the dome. Sharp. Seven A.M. No exceptions."
A final beat of silence.
"That's all. Ciao~!"
The line cut out.
The room was dead silent for two full seconds.
Then, like the breath returning to a held lung, whispers began flooding the space. Some Dominors exchanged glances—confused, curious, tense.
"The dome?"
"Is this the real training starting now?"
"What's inside?"
"Why Seren?"
"Is it combat? A test?"
Even Lucen glanced up.
Across the table, Cael continued eating like nothing happened. Not a flicker of reaction.
Lucen narrowed his eyes slightly.
He knew, something was coming.
And it wouldn't be basic drills anymore.