The training grounds were filled with the sounds of footsteps, the harsh breaths of trainees, and the sharp cries of the Captains.

The Pup Arena was a yearly tradition, a test of the hunting instinct in the newest hounds of the pack.

Children, none older than ten—

yet all of them had been raised on blood… and loyalty.

In one of the rear lines stood Severin Duke Kairam,

the only boy with brown eyes among the sea of crimson gazes.

The mocking glances never stopped,

but the sharpest of them all came from three boys led by one with thick black hair and a cutting stare.

That was Rav Di Kairam,

Hyunkel’s nephew,

one of the most promising trainees from the Kangal Hound branch.

He leaned toward one of his companions and whispered:

> “They say he survived the river… heh. Must’ve been dry when he crossed.”

The others laughed.

Severin stayed silent,

wrapping a leather strap tightly around his small wrist.

The bouts began.

One after another—

some fell, others shone.

Then came the call:

> “Next match: Severin Duke Kairam versus Rav Di Kairam.”

A sudden hush fell over the yard.

This was not just a match between two children—

it was between the nephew of the current head, and the son of one of his brothers.

And more than that…

Severin was the one no one was supposed to touch.

Rav strode forward as if he’d been born to fight,

a smug smile on his face,

a heavy wooden weapon in hand.

> “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t ruin your face any more than it already is.”

Severin didn’t reply.

Just a cold look… and a silent stance.

The order to begin was given.

Rav struck first—

a side swing, then another aimed at the shoulder.

But Severin moved with an uncanny fluidity.

He dropped low beneath the strike, slid to Rav’s flank,

and drove a sharp blow into his stomach with precise force.

Rav winced but didn’t fall.

He came again, shouting:

> “You won’t trick me twice, nobody!”

But he was tricked—

a second time,

a third…

And on the fourth,

he fell.

High above, from a shadowed alcove in the stone structure,

Hyunkel Fang Kayram watched quietly.

Beside him stood the head steward, Louis,

silent, trying to read the scene.

At last, Louis spoke:

> “Rav… wasn’t holding back. And yet he lost. This child… shows something I’ve never seen before.

But in the end, he’s still of the middle bloodline.”

Hyunkel chuckled—

not in mockery, but in genuine interest.

> “Louis…

I am not like the family heads before me.

Blood and rank mean nothing to me.

Those who never bare their fangs… have no place here.

But those who can sink them in—

are welcome, whoever they may be.”

He turned his gaze back to the arena,

his eyes gleaming with the hunger of a predator.

> “Let’s see what you’ve got… little pup who hasn’t bared his fangs yet ~”