A year had passed.
I was seventeen now.
The days blurred together—weeks of drills, sparring, lectures, and assessments.
But for me, it was never just about the scheduled training.
It was about what came after.
I woke before sunrise, drenched in cold sweat.
My breath caught in my throat, chest tight, fingers clenched so hard my palms ached.
Another nightmare.
My mother's scream.
My father's last breath.
The monster's eyes—crimson and unblinking.
The images never faded.
They just shifted.
Mutated.
Grew sharper with time.
I sat up slowly, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and stared at the ceiling of my small room.
Sleep had become a luxury I couldn't afford.
So I replaced it with something else.
Pain.
Discipline.
Training.
While others slept peacefully in their beds, I moved like a shadow through the academy halls.
I memorized the guard patrols, found the security blind spots, and slipped into the training arena night after night.
Sprints.
Weights.
Weapon forms.
Combat dummies.
I drove myself to the brink of collapse every night—muscles screaming, vision swimming.
I didn't care.
I needed to feel something—and pain was a familiar companion.
I didn't want rest.
I wanted war.
Unbeknownst to me, someone had been watching.
From the observation deck of the arena, a man in a long coat often observed in silence.
A member of the administrative board.
I never heard him speak to me, but I overheard him once, talking to another instructor.
"He's got raw potential. That kind of resolve is rare. It's a shame no one wants to train with him.
Berserker or not, he's a weapon waiting to be forged."
They thought I'd never hear them.
They were wrong.
They thought I was a tool.
They weren't wrong.
They just didn't know what I'd been sharpened for.
By now, my body had changed beyond recognition.
I'd grown taller—almost towering compared to the others—and wide across the shoulders, my back and arms thick with muscle from relentless repetition.
I was no longer just that quiet boy with dead eyes.
I was a fortress of flesh and iron will.
Built not by nature—but by necessity.
I didn't speak more than before.
I didn't seek friends or approval.
But they started noticing.
Some looked away out of discomfort.
Others watched with quiet awe.
I heard them once, whispering outside the weight room.
"He trains like he's fighting for his life."
"Maybe he is."
I didn't care.
I didn't need them.
Because I knew what was coming.
After a year of preparation, the announcement finally came.
"Starting this week, all second-year cadets will begin live training exercises in simulation-grade Dungeons.
Real monsters. Real risk. Team-based survival objectives."
The room buzzed with nervous excitement.
Whispered hopes and fears bounced off the walls.
Some students smiled like tourists headed for an adventure.
Others masked their fear behind loud bravado and empty boasts.
A few exchanged worried glances, already calculating who they could rely on.
Me?
I felt only one thing.
Hunger.
Not just for vengeance.
But for control.
For strength.
For something no one could ever take again.
For something worth bleeding for.
It was finally time to step into the place where it all began.
Into the depths.