The morning light crept silently through the slatted blinds of the Vale Guild infirmary, brushing soft gold across the polished stone walls and the muted blue sheets of the bed inside.

Outside the room, Kovan sat hunched on a stiff wooden chair. His leg bounced nervously, knuckles raw and cracked, dried blood staining his skin. He hadn't slept. Couldn't sleep. The image of Bren—broken, beaten, tossed like a corpse—it looped relentlessly in his mind.

I should've stopped it, he thought bitterly, teeth grinding. I knew it was wrong the second they dragged him away. I saw it in the Sergeant's eyes… he wasn't training him. He was testing how long it'd take him to die.

His fists clenched again, the torn scabs stinging against his skin.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Kovan looked up.

Myla rounded the corner, her cloak trailing leaves and dust from the woods. Her long crimson hair glistened in the light, her face pale and unreadable—except for the way her jaw was clenched too tight. She looked like she hadn't slept either.

"You talked to your father?" Kovan asked, rising from his chair.

Myla nodded stiffly. "We fought. He claimed it was standard protocol for testing newbies. Said Sergeant McEvoy used his discretion."

"And you called that crap out?"

"I asked him if he was testing Bren or trying to bury him," she muttered. "He didn't like that."

Kovan swallowed hard. "He's… alive. Barely. I waited for you before going in."

She nodded again, more softly this time. Her gaze shifted to her hand as she gently adjusted her cloak. Together, they stepped into the room.

The air was still. Quiet except for the faint chime of enchanted runes gently pulsing over the arched ceiling.

Bren lay motionless beneath the sheets, a soft violet hue illuminating his chest. A healing glyph hovered mid-air, flickering in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Myla's breath caught. She had seen injuries before—open wounds, cracked bones, and worse—but something about this felt… wrong. Like something sacred had been torn and stitched back together out of desperation.

Before she could step forward, the runes flared.

Bren's eyes snapped open.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then, his lips parted. "Where… am I?"

The voice was quiet. Rough. But there was something else… a depth that hadn't been there before. Gravel beneath the silk.

Both Myla and Kovan stiffened.

Has his voice… gone deeper? Kovan thought, eyes fixed on him.

Bren's gaze drifted, slow, unfocused… until it landed on them.

"I'm still here…" he whispered. "Tch. Thought it was over."

Myla took a careful step forward. "Bren? It's me. You're safe. You're back."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't pity me!" he snapped, sharper than before.

Then, as if the effort winded him, he sagged back into the pillow. But Myla caught it—the tremor in his voice. Not weakness. Resentment.

Kovan tried to break the tension. "You look like shit, man," he joked half-heartedly. "Glad to see you awake, though."

Bren gave a small, bitter smirk. "You should see the other guy…"

But the smile didn't reach his eyes. His tone hung in the air like smoke—too calm, too deep, too not-Bren.

That voice… Myla thought, a chill running down her spine. He sounds older. Like something was burned into him.

She moved closer, frowning. Her gaze caught on something just behind his right ear.

"…Your hair," she said quietly.

"What about it?" Bren asked without turning.

"There's a black streak. Like a patch. Wasn't there before."

Kovan stepped around the bed. "No way you dyed it. You've been unconscious."

Bren reached up absently, fingertips brushing the strand. Then his hand drifted lower—down to his wrist.

His eyes widened slightly. The faint sigil from his rank evaluation still glowed… but something else shimmered beneath the collar of his infirmary robe.

He pulled the fabric aside slowly.

A new sigil, larger and far more intricate, spiraled across his chest. Its pattern gleamed faintly, etched in complex loops and jagged edges, as if carved by agony itself.

"What the hell is that?" Kovan asked, voice low.

"That's not the one from before," Myla said, stepping forward. "It's different. Stronger."

Bren didn't answer.

Instead, a whisper slithered through his mind. Nythor's voice… dark silk wrapped in steel.

Power is forged in pain… and claimed in blood.

Bren blinked. For a moment, it was as if he stood in both places at once—in the infirmary and somewhere far colder. Somewhere dark.

His body still trembled from the trial, but the voice was clear. Tempting.

He clenched the sheets, the sigil flaring faintly in response. A soft pulse ran up his arm like a heartbeat under his skin.

Is this what I am now? Some cursed hybrid? he thought. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to survive.

"Are you okay?" Myla asked.

"I said I'm fine," he muttered, too quickly. Sharper than before.

They exchanged a glance. Myla opened her mouth to call for a healer, but Kovan shook his head.

Bren could hear the worry in their silence. He hated it. He didn't want to be looked at like a victim. Not by them.

Then, the door creaked.

Sergeant Dax McEvoy stepped inside, posture rigid, eyes unreadable. His boots echoed on the tile as he approached the bed.

Myla's fists clenched. Kovan took a step forward.

But McEvoy held up a hand.

"I didn't come to fight," he said curtly. "I didn't think he'd survive. Many others have survived, but others never have."

Bren's eyes narrowed at the sound of his voice. He remembered the trial. Every second of it. The pain. The taunting.

McEvoy reached into his coat and pulled something out—a silver badge etched with the Vale Guild crest, trimmed in black metal. He tossed it onto the side table beside Bren.

"Silas wants to see you when you can walk. Says he's got questions."

He paused.

"So do I."

He turned to leave, then hesitated at the door.

"You're not normal, kid. That much is clear."

Then he walked out.

Silence returned like a blanket.

Myla moved toward the badge, lifting it carefully. "It's a temporary advancement badge," she murmured. "Pending full evaluation."

Kovan stared at Bren. "They're watching you now. You know that, right?"

Bren gave no reply. But inside, his thoughts churned like a storm.

They can watch. Let them. I didn't survive that trial just to be caged again.

Later that evening…

The hallway outside the infirmary stretched in cold shadows. Myla and Kovan walked side by side, steps slow, voices hushed.

"He's not the same," Kovan said finally.

"No," Myla whispered. "He's not just recovering… he's evolving."

Kovan ran a hand through his hair. "Whatever happened in that trial…" He glanced back. "He didn't come back alone."

Inside the room, Bren lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The sigil on his chest pulsed gently beneath the sheets.

A soft voice returned.

Soon, Nythor whispered, you'll crave the strength you deny.

Bren didn't flinch. He stared at the ceiling, unmoving, but inside—something was shifting. A faint shimmer flickered in the corner of his vision.

[System Notice:]

Sigil Integration – Tenebris Sigil: Stage I Complete
Passive Effect Unlocked: Pain Tolerance Increased
Soul Fusion Progress: 8%
Warning: Further sigil activations may destabilize host.

Bren's eyes narrowed. He exhaled slowly—his voice still raspy from the trial, but sharp and dark.

"…Still not enough."

The sigil glowed once.

And in the silence that followed, the black patch in his blonde hair stretched half an inch longer.