Chapter 12. Training Camp

Their group—halved after selection, just as she'd expected—was being led to their new home. The massive building unfolded before them like a stone womb: four floors of gray stone arranged in a hollow rectangle. Small rooms lined the perimeter, each sealed with heavy metal bars instead of doors. The building's center gaped open, circulating stale air thick with the sweaty smell.

"Like a prison," Sumarel thought, surveying the barracks. Not that she'd expected better conditions for recruits. People didn't become dogs out of choice, and the crowd reflected that—desperate, bitter, ready to do anything to survive.

"9333," her number rang out, dry and impersonal. "Room 20."

A man in a black armband approached immediately, silently pointing the way. Sumarel swept her gaze over the group she'd arrived with, mentally evaluating each one. Which of these teenagers could make useful teammates? She had no intention of babysitting—hopefully, she wouldn't have to linger at this stage of selection for long.

Her suspicions were confirmed: the recruits were being methodically separated, assigned to different rooms. An old trick—mix them up and strip away any unity that might have formed among the newcomers. Sumarel made a point of memorizing each face, preliminarily assessing their abilities through their gaze, gait, and subtle gestures. Only a handful caught her attention.

Those who'd passed initiation weren't weaklings, but the differences between them were stark. Walking in silence to her cell, she caught curious glances. Once, long ago, she'd dreamed of being the center of attention—not a bright star, but someone both invisible and visible at the same time. Unnoticed until needed, when every eye would find her naturally.

But in a place like this, those stares brought no joy. The shapeless gray clothing hid her developing figure, but Sumarel had no illusions—that wouldn't be enough. The best way to deflect unwanted attention was to possess enough strength to inspire fear.

"What a pretty kitty," came a voice from a cell she was passing.

"Shut your mouth!"

A black object clanged dully against the metal bars. Silence filled the space again. Sumarel wasn't surprised—they wouldn't tolerate vigilante justice among recruits here. It would contradict the spirit of their training: loyalty not to individuals, but to the system and organization. Her mind was already racing with ways to use this.

"Go in," said her escort, opening the cage.

She'd expected at least a semblance of a room, but they were treating them like prisoners to the last bit. Another way to break and rebuild a person. More efficient than lengthy indoctrination, especially when they didn't need elite mages—just units that could follow orders to the letter.

Inside were two others—a guy and a girl. The girl looked about twenty: thin, with sharp features and restless brown eyes that constantly darted around, as if assessing escape routes. Dirty blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. The guy looked younger, maybe eighteen: stocky, with a square jaw and stubbornly compressed lips. Dark hair cut short, fresh bruise on his left cheekbone.

"Hi," the girl said, not taking her eyes off the newcomer.

The guy just nodded and turned to face the wall. The cramped room, only a few square meters, held two bunk beds, a small barred window, and a primitive toilet in the corner. Better than solitary—at least it wasn't cold, despite the stale air saturated with the smell of sweat and fear.

Sumarel approached the free bunk, glancing at the guy who'd pointedly turned away from her.

"We already took the bottom bunks, but I can switch if you want," the girl offered.

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Sumarel didn't answer, just shifted her gaze to assess the speaker. She was familiar with this sort—quick to break the ice, but anxiety, not courage, fueled their chatter. She'd talk and overshare, especially when met with a wall of incomprehension from someone she viewed with suspicion.

"Trying to talk me to death," flashed through her mind.

She sat across from the girl, next to the guy, and stared at her silently.

"You're probably the strongest of us," the girl said, shrinking slightly.

"Why?" Sumarel asked curtly.

"They maintain a kind of balance in the rooms, mixing strong with weak," she gestured at the guy. "He and I aren't very high in the hierarchy, so..."

"There's still one free spot," Sumarel interrupted, nodding at the bunk above the girl.

"Usually there's no fourth. That's just overflow for special cases," the girl said quickly, her shoulders visibly relaxing now that she'd gotten a conversation going.

Drawing out information with silence and short phrases, Sumarel learned a lot. The routine was simple and brutal: group training from morning to evening with only a lunch break. Training ranged from brainwashing to hand-to-hand combat. Intense workouts alternated with static and dynamic exercises plus stretching—engaging the whole body while allowing nearly continuous training.

But there were more important things for survival—the groups.

Alliances already existed inside, with recruitment happening today in the cafeteria. You could remain a loner, but Sumarel understood the consequences of that choice. Groups divided into strong and weak, and protection didn't come free. She caught this from the girl's eye movements, which had flickered over her body while talking.

Her cellmate's youth showed in how her thoughts leaked through her gaze, each one telegraphing the next. There was something else—Friday evening audiences, like today, when recruits received nicknames. Numbers were hard to remember, so everyone got a handle.

She remembered Dim Boy. For a moment, a smile touched her lips, and her companion, attentive to others' expressions, immediately latched onto this detail.

"If you need help—just ask, I'd be happy to assist," the girl said, smiling.

"Trying to buddy up?" Sumarel narrowed her eyes.

"No, sorry, I just..."

It wasn't that Sumarel was mean. She knew it was better to keep control by undermining the girl's sense of security than to settle for hollow friendship. She also learned that both her cellmates belonged to weaker groups. The girl's nickname was Chatterbox; she didn't mention the guy's.

A bell rang.

They headed to the cafeteria through a wide enclosed suspended corridor connecting the buildings. The corridor walls were the same gray stone, but here narrow windows let in the dim light of sunset. Polished stone floor underfoot.

There was an unspoken order by which some let others pass. Their group, apparently, was meant to go last.

The building had four floors: barracks on the first three, while the fourth, separated by a partition, concealed something else.

She kept catching stares. No surprise—she was attractive enough for this place. The cafeteria revealed three large groups. The one in the center, facing the wide entrance, clearly dominating.

"Amusing," Sumarel thought.

Young people were easy to read—grotesquely imitating adult behavior, they flaunted their importance, revealing in countless details who was who. In the center, surrounded by a crowd, stood familiar faces—their recently arrived group.

She didn't stand out, understanding everything at first glance, and positioned herself at the back to the side—less noticeable. Still, many glanced her way. No surprise—there weren't many girls. Other girls looked especially intently, displaying a kaleidoscope of emotions on their faces. Sumarel could only smile inwardly, preparing for the worst. Unfortunately, she hadn't found any tool along the way that could neutralize an opponent if needed.

For such a huge group of youth, there was remarkable silence—a symbol of the order that had chaotically established itself here.

"Maggots, choose who you'll fight," said the guy in the center.

The central group's leader was abnormally tall—over 6'3". Broad shoulders and a massive chest spoke of natural strength, not fat. Square jaw, bull neck, hands like hammers. Confidence in his eyes.

As she understood, each group's center held a leader, and the central group as the strongest had the voice in this ritual initiation. The hall filled with rhythmic clapping, announcing the start of the fights.

"I choose you."

The clapping stopped. The hall froze, shocked by the declaration and the finger pointed at the leader speaking at the moment.