Chapter 11. Initiation

"Serpent stance, third form!" the sharp voice cut through the air.

Sumarel instantly shifted her weight to her left leg, the right sliding back in an arc. Knees bent at precise angles, spine straight, chin parallel to the ground. The wooden sword in her hands froze in diagonal defense.

The whistle of sliced air was the only warning. A weighted whip passed within a millimeter of her right shoulder.

"Elbow down by two fingers," the teacher hissed, disappointment coloring his voice at the missed opportunity to strike.

The old man circled her like a vulture. The black blindfold didn't hinder him from seeing every imperfection in her stance. Gray hair gathered in a high ponytail swayed with each step. The wrinkles on his face formed a mask of perpetual contempt.

"Transition to fifth! Now!"

Pivot on the heel, weight transfer, sword sweeping up from below. Sumarel executed the movement flawlessly, but the teacher was already searching for a new fault.

After several days in this place, she'd grasped the essential truth—the initial training phase separated wheat from chaff. No group sessions, no fellow students. Just you, the teacher, and his whip. Not everyone survived.

"Seventh defensive form!"

Jump back, torso rotation, sword switching to reverse grip. Perfect? Almost. Her left heel landed half a centimeter off the mark.

The whip struck the outside of her thigh. The skin beneath her training clothes instantly flared with pain.

"The tiniest imprecision leads to death in battle," the teacher intoned monotonously, as if reciting a memorized mantra. "Again. From the very beginning."

"Seven stances, twelve transitions, thirty-six variations," Sumarel mentally counted, returning to the starting position. Over these days she'd learned not just the movements, but the rhythm of the old man's breathing, the micro-movements of his shoulder before a strike, the pauses between commands.

"Attack!"

The grating voice sliced through the air like a rusty blade.

Sumarel burst into motion. First strike—downward slash, classic opening. The teacher deflected it with a casual wrist movement, not even shifting from his spot.

She transitioned into a series of quick thrusts—chest, throat, right side. The wooden swords collided with dry cracks. The old man moved economically, spending minimal energy on each block.

"You telegraph with your right shoulder," he commented while launching a counter.

Sumarel barely managed to dodge. The blunt tip of the practice sword slid along her ribs, leaving a burning, dull ache.

She changed tactics—began using feints, false swings. The teacher read them all, but at least now he wasn't commenting on every mistake.

A sudden uppercut caught her off guard. Only an instinctive torso twist saved her from a blow to the solar plexus. Instead, the teacher's sword grazed her forearm.

"All attack, no brain. Stupid."

Another series of strikes. Sumarel parried, retreated, searched for a breach in his defense.

"But every wall has cracks," she thought, noticing how he slightly dropped his right shoulder after a three-strike sequence. A tiny detail, a momentary vulnerability.

She waited for the right moment and delivered a cutting strike precisely to that point. The teacher blocked but had to take half a step back.

Something like approval flickered in his smirk.

"Enough. Stance changes, one hundred repetitions."

Sumarel lowered her sword, breathing heavily. Sweat stung her eyes, muscles burned from exertion. But this wasn't the most unpleasant part of training.

The old man turned away, pulling a small flask from his pocket. The smell of cheap rice wine reached her nostrils.

"Everyone has their weaknesses," she noted, beginning the monotonous stance repetitions. Sometimes he allowed himself a drink, which should have been rare for a dog. But of course, she didn't delve into how he permitted himself such liberties.

Nevertheless, over these days she'd studied him no less than he'd studied her. He preferred female students to male—the latter received more strikes for the same mistakes. Valued silent obedience over enthusiasm. Got irritated when someone tried to ingratiate themselves. The perfect formula: listen attentively, execute precisely, don't resist but don't pander. A pinch of illusory power—let him think he completely controlled the process. Meanwhile, occasionally demonstrate glimmers of talent—not too bright to arouse suspicion, but sufficient for good recommendations.

"Transition from seventh to third!" he barked, noticing her movements had become mechanical.

Sumarel instantly sharpened her concentration. Turn on the left heel, center of gravity shift, sword describing a descending spiral. Every muscle worked in perfect coordination.

"One must play on many levels," she reflected, continuing the exercises.

She could have surprised the old man—knew several tricks from Lower City street fights that adapted perfectly to sword work. Could have demonstrated the natural flexibility that allowed stances at impossible angles. Could have...

But that would be winning the battle and losing the war. With limited opportunities, one had to choose the battlefield. Stand out or blend in? For anyone with brains, it wasn't even a question.

"Finish!" the teacher commanded after the hundredth repetition.

Sumarel lowered the sword, maintaining perfect posture despite exhaustion. No breathlessness in her voice, no tremor in her hands—only what he expected to see.

"Water procedures in an hour," the old man tossed over his shoulder as he left. "Don't drift."

She bowed to his back. Exactly as deep as etiquette required. No more, no less.

The teacher disappeared around the corner, and Sumarel allowed herself to relax. Shoulders dropped, breathing deepened. Bruises and abrasions immediately reminded her of their presence with throbbing pain.

"Water procedures," she mentally smirked. What an elegant name for torture.

Though the old man sometimes let things slip. Small details, fragments of phrases—from them emerged a general picture. The cursed water reacts to emotions. Fear amplifies pain. Calmness is the only defense.

Valuable information, delivered as an accidental slip from an odd instructor. Sumarel connected all the tiny dots.

The hour passed quickly. Sumarel headed under escort to the training hall—a place everyone wished to avoid.

Long corridor. Stone walls without decoration. The only light source—rare torches in iron holders. The air grew colder with each step.

She stopped before a massive door. Behind it—another trial that many didn't survive. But first...

"Sit," came a voice from a side room.

Sumarel obeyed. Small room, table, chair, stack of parchments. And the overseer—a middle-aged woman with a black blindfold and mechanical movements.

"Copy. All fifty verses. Calligraphy must be flawless."

On the table lay the Legion's commandments. Sumarel took the pen, dipped it in ink, and began forming the first lines:

"I believe with my soul in the Legion's wisdom, for it is light in the darkness of ignorance."

Every letter had to be perfect. Every stroke—evidence of devotion. The slightest smudge meant starting over.

"I suffer in heart for brothers and sisters, for their pain is my pain, their joy—my joy."

Her hand moved mechanically. Sumarel had long understood the exercise's true purpose. Not calligraphy mattered, but the process. Monotonous repetition. Concentration on words. Gradual penetration of meaning into the subconscious.

"I torment the body for the Legion's glory, for flesh is weak, but spirit tempered by suffering is unbreakable."

An adult might have resisted. But young people? Day after day copying these lines, pondering each word, they inevitably began to believe. First they'd pretend, just for show. Then it became a habit. And eventually...

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Blessed is the Legion, shackling the Abyss's chaos in the bonds of order."

...eventually, they forgot they'd ever thought differently.

"Freedom is illusion. True liberation is through service."

Sumarel formed the words with demonstrative diligence. The overseer circled behind her back, checking every line. Sometimes she took a written sheet, held it to the light, and studied it from different angles.

"Doubt is poison. Faith is the antidote."

The trick lay in balance. Too careless—punishment. Too zealous—suspicion. A golden mean was needed: a diligent student who tries, but not a fanatic.

"Individuality is weakness. Unity is strength."

Besides, the reward system was transparently clear. Good calligraphy—extra food portion. Quick text memorization—a cell without insects and cockroaches. Demonstrated zeal—opportunity to wash with warm water.

"Pain purifies. Suffering elevates. Death liberates."

All open, all clear. Yet nowhere spoken aloud. Young people drew their own conclusions, strived for rewards themselves. A perfect training system.

"There is no truth except the Legion's truth. No path except the path of obedience."

The final words complete, Sumarel set down the pen, her face carefully blank. Behind that impassive mask, her mind dissected every phrase, probing for weak points, cataloguing the contradictions.

The overseer took the parchments, studied them at length. Finally, nodded.

"Proceed. Room seven."

Sumarel rose, bowed, and left. The corridor greeted her with cold and darkness. She counted doors. Fourth... fifth... sixth...

The seventh was identical to the rest. Massive, iron-bound, with symbols that unpleasantly cut the eye.

Pushing the door, she found herself in a small room. Almost complete darkness, only in the center—a cylindrical reservoir of water emitting a pale blue glow.

"Quickly!" a sharp male voice cut from somewhere in the shadows.

Two silhouettes in black blindfolds watched her. Sumarel began undressing, folding clothes in a neat pile. No haste, no embarrassment—only mechanical compliance with requirements.

She knew this was part of the procedure. Humiliation designed to break the will. Make one feel defenseless, vulnerable. First they cracked you with shame. Then they filled the breaks with submission.

Completely naked, she climbed onto the narrow platform above the reservoir. The water below glowed with unnatural light, emanating a smell of ozone and something metallic.

Seconds stretched like minutes. Five... ten... twenty...

"Of course," Sumarel thought, "the waiting is part of the torture."

Never knowing when it would begin. Tension builds, heart accelerates, muscles stiffen from the static position.

Thirty seconds...

The platform beneath her feet suddenly split apart. Sumarel plunged into the icy water.

Pain came instantly. Not just cold—something more. As if hundreds of needles pierced the skin, penetrating deeper, reaching the bones. The cursed water sought fear, fed on it, amplified any weakness.

Sumarel forced herself to relax. Not fight the pain, but accept it. Let it flow through her, without lingering.

"The most pleasant part, perhaps," flashed an ironic thought.

Her body remained motionless, eyes closed, breathing even. But inside... Inside she methodically summoned memories that amplified fear. Dark alleys of the Lower City. Hungry rats. Drunks. Each image added intensity to the torture.

"Funny," she thought, feeling how the water reacted to emotions. "You're training my body to endure pain."

The platform overhead split again. A rough hand grabbed her hair, yanking her from the water. A throw—and she flew from a meter and a half height onto the stone floor.

Instincts kicked in automatically. Roll over the shoulder, momentum absorption. She finished the movement in a low stance, ready for the next attack.

"That's all for today," the controller said, and in his voice was... surprise? Disappointment?

She imagined that usually the subjects crawled from the reservoir sobbing. Or lost consciousness still in the water. Or begged for it to stop.

Sumarel silently rose and began dressing. The wet fabric clung to her body, but she ignored the discomfort. More important was not showing the trembling caused not by fear, but hypothermia.

The man in the blindfold gestured toward the exit. She followed him through winding corridors, leaving wet footprints on the stones.

They stopped at a familiar door. Low, reinforced with iron strips. Behind it—solitary.

A shove in the back, and Sumarel found herself in a tiny cell. Two steps long, one and a half wide. A hole in the corner for a latrine. No furniture, only bare stone.

The door slammed shut, leaving her in pitch darkness.

"No bugs today," she noted with satisfaction, settling in the center without leaning against the cold wall.

Good. She'd performed exactly as calculated—well enough to earn small mercies, not so well as to raise eyebrows.

Two weeks of culling. How many had already been culled? Half? More?

They didn't need weaklings. Only those ready to endure. To endure a lot. Show signs of weakness—they create conditions for your death. Not directly, of course. Just the food gets worse, water in the reservoir colder, sessions longer. Cells with additional amenities, so to speak. Sooner or later the body gives out.

Pass successfully—get improvements. Like her solitary without insects. An insignificant detail, but in this place any small thing mattered.

"They're not testing health," Sumarel reflected, listening to distant sounds, "but will. Persistence. Who would do whatever it took."

If you waver and suffer—you’re no fit. You become expendable material.

If you waver a little—which is natural for most—they push you in the right direction. With carrot and stick, pain and reward.

But if you don't waver at all...

A smile touched her lips in the darkness.

They either kill you as too dangerous. Or elevate you up the hierarchy ladder. It all depends on how convincingly you play your role.

"Obedient but not servile. Strong but not threatening. Smart but not arrogant."

The perfect balance she honed day by day.

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Sunlight struck her eyes when the massive gates swung open. Sumarel squinted, letting her vision adapt after two weeks of twilight.

Before her opened a circular square surrounded by an amphitheater. Stone steps rose in tiers, and on them... Young men and women. Hundreds in identical gray clothes.

The rumble of voices rolled in waves. Whistles, shouts, stomping feet. The crowd thirsted for spectacle, and Sumarel understood perfectly which kind.

She stepped onto the arena sand, maintaining composure. Coarse sand crunched underfoot, mixed with something dark. Perhaps dried blood, she thought. From how many previous fights?

Opposite, from the other gates, a second figure appeared.

"That one," Sumarel instantly recognized.

The girl from the train. The one who rode with her to selection. Two weeks ago she'd looked simply thin and frightened. Now...

Having lost much hair, with bald patches in places. Shoulders slumped, arms hanging limply at her sides. Gaze extinguished, directed at the ground.

Sumarel knew—that one didn't fit and was simply being sacrificed to nurture a promising seed... Like fertilizer. That one had averted her eyes and was completely unprepared, trembling and anxious. They hadn't been given weapons—but that was the requirement, to deal with bare hands, investing all of oneself with one's body. Tools were magical devices—they helped separate oneself from the process, like a divider allowing detachment from self and touching something greater, but now this was unnecessary.

"She survived to the end," Sumarel thought, taking position in the center of the grounds.

The opponent slowly approached. Now, in daylight, the bruises on her arms were visible, whip marks on her neck, general exhaustion. She barely stayed on her feet.

"Let the combat begin!" a harsh, demanding voice sounded from somewhere above.

Neither of them moved.

Sumarel studied her opponent. Slumped shoulders—but tense. Limp arms—but fingers slightly curved, ready to clench into fists. Extinguished gaze—but pupils tracking every movement.

"Pretending," she realized, "smarter than she looks."

The crowd began to murmur. They needed blood, action, and cruelty. Two motionless silhouettes didn't satisfy them.

Sumarel took steps forward, approaching closer. Slow, measured. A smile touched her lips—friendly, almost sympathetic.

The girl reacted instantly.

Torso rotation, momentum buildup, precise fist thrust to the chin. The movement practiced, confident. As if no traces of weakness or exhaustion.

Sumarel leaned back just enough for the fist to miss. Air from the strike touched her cheek. Strong blow. For her, possibly even lethal if it hit the target.

"Not a bad plan," she noted, intercepting the opponent's arm.

She redirected the girl's momentum, pulling her forward while sweeping her leg. Her opponent stumbled, trying to convert the fall into a roll.

Didn't work. Sumarel anticipated the maneuver, changed the grip, directing the fall at the needed angle. The opponent crashed face-first into the sand.

In a split second Sumarel was on top. Right arm wrapped around the neck, left fixed the head. Classic chokehold—with proper application, a person loses consciousness in seconds.

The girl fought. Fiercely, desperately. Elbows struck backward, legs tried to hook onto something, the whole body writhed, trying to throw off the opponent.

"Lessons from the Lower City," Sumarel thought, strengthening the hold.

She knew this fighting technique. When there are no rules, when you fight for a piece of bread or a warm corner. Pretend weak, deliver one crushing blow, finish the downed.

Only Sumarel had grown up in the same conditions—and thanks to the time loop, had more experience crammed into her young body.

The struggle continued. The girl scratched, bit, tried to reach the eyes. The crowd roared with delight.

Sumarel momentarily loosened her grip. Predictable reaction—the opponent greedily inhaled, relaxing neck muscles for a second.

The hold closed with doubled force. The carotid artery compressed, blood not reaching the brain. A couple more seconds of struggle, a convulsive breath...

The body went limp.

Sumarel held the grip for several more seconds, ensuring the opponent was truly unconscious. Then carefully lowered the girl's head to the sand and rose.

The crowd didn't let up. The chanting grew louder, more demanding. They wanted death.

"Finish it!" The controller's voice cut through the noise like a knife.

Sumarel looked at the unconscious girl. She looked even more pitiful than at the fight's start. Scrawny body, protruding ribs with scratches and bruises.

"We're somewhat alike," the thought flashed.

Just as exhausted. Just as desperate. Just as ready to do anything to survive.

But sympathy was a luxury Sumarel couldn't afford.

She bent down, removed a small brooch from the girl's hair. The only ornament, the only glimpse of individuality in a sea of gray uniform. A green stone in a simple copper setting, warm from the sun.

Then took the limp hand, found the lifeline on the wrist. One precise puncture with the brooch's point—not deep, but enough to draw blood.

Drops fell on the sand. Dark, almost black against the old stains.

Sumarel straightened and stepped aside. No victor's bow, no gesture of mercy. Just the work complete.

The controllers exchanged glances. Technically the requirement was fulfilled—blood was spilled. That the victim remained temporarily alive didn't formally contradict the order.

"Your name?" the voice sounded.

"Sumarel," she answered.

"From now on—9333. Remember. Your former name no longer exists."

She nodded. Just numbers.