Velos stood in the center of the arena, performing a series of stretches and warmups. He rotated his shoulders, loosened his neck, and practiced a few quick footwork patterns to prime his reflexes. He took a deep breath, centering himself, and then signaled to Shovi that he was ready.
Shovi gave him a sharp nod. "Alright then," she shouted, her voice echoing through the chamber, "Into position!" As soon as the words left her mouth, the machine began to hum and buzz with life. Dummy-3's limbs creaked into motion, its joints rotating with mechanical precision. The two lower arms, equipped with the heavy baton-like extensions, swung into a ready position, while the upper arms, fitted with blunt claws, rose and poised to strike.
Velos gripped his twin blades tightly and darted forward. He’d spent the moments leading up to this preparing a strategy in his mind. Given that Dummy-3 was piloted by a person, he assumed its movements would be reactive, not entirely random. His plan was simple—bait the machine into making the first move and then withdraw quickly to analyze its range.
Feinting a forward dash, Velos stepped into the range of the lower arms. Just as he expected, the massive limbs rotated and lashed out in a sweeping attack aimed at his position. Velos anticipated this, backstepping just outside the attack’s path to gauge its speed and range, watching how quickly the arm reset back into its position.
Shovi, observing from the side, gave a slight nod of approval. "Good call," she said to herself. Velos had made a smart initial move, testing the machine’s response without overcommitting. It was a promising sign of tactical thinking. But the real challenge, she knew, lay in his ability to adapt in the heat of battle, where pre-planned strategies often crumble.
Velos calculated the timing of the arm's swing and its return to position. He knew when he should ideally move in to strike one of the boards, but to get that chance, he needed to bait another attack from the machine. This time, however, the pilot seemed more prepared.
He repeated his approach, this time pushing deeper into the machine’s attack range, expecting the same lower arm to come at him. But instead, he heard the whirr of machinery above his head. The upper arm swung in an arc—striking a loud crack as it hit the ground. Velos had narrowly dodged to the side, his heart pounding. The relief was short-lived however, and he was blindsided as the lower arm completed its swing and slammed into his side. The impact knocked him off his feet and sent him stumbling backward.
"Get back to the starting position!" Shovi barked, her voice diluted by the pain and ringing in Velos’ ear.
Velos gritted his teeth, frustration boiling as he staggered to his feet. Shovi’s words rang clearer slowly. "You're too careful," she called out to him. "Your moves are too coordinated, too rehearsed. Stop relying on your plan so much. Use your gut!"
Velos heard Shovi's words ringing in his ears, but he couldn't help himself. Calculating, planning—it was second nature to him, a habit he couldn't easily shake off. His mind raced with possibilities, and as he focused on Dummy-3, he noticed something: the upper arms of the machine followed a limited arc. Their movement was restricted to a downward swing, bound to their own vertical axis. They couldn't move laterally or sweep to the sides.
This observation sparked a new idea. If he targeted the boards on the extreme sides of the machine, the upper arms wouldn't be a threat. He'd only have to deal with the lower arms, which swung horizontally. It was a gamble, but if his theory was right, he could clear some of the targets without worrying about getting crushed from above.
Velos committed to the plan. He darted forward toward the leftmost board, executing the same baiting maneuver as before to draw the lower arm into a swing. This time, he rushed in during the brief interval while the arm was resetting. As he closed in on the board, the upper arm tried to strike him, but Velos anticipated its limited range. The wooden claw descended, barely grazing his hair as he ducked underneath it. With a swift lunge, he slashed twice at the board, splintering it apart. Success.
But as Velos attempted to pull back to his original position, the left lower arm, having reset much faster than he expected, came crashing into him. The impact sent him sprawling backward. Shovi's voice echoed across the arena. "Back to positions!" she shouted.
Velos understood now. The moment he was in range to destroy the boards, he couldn't retreat; he had to stay in that danger zone. The lower arms’ reach was too long, and he couldn't keep entering and exiting without being hit. He needed to stay within the machine’s blind spots and react to its attacks in real-time, not by planning his way through each step.
His pulse quickened, his mind still fighting to maintain control. He could feel the nervousness clawing at him, the unease at the idea of letting go of his careful analysis. To Velos, not thinking through every action was like jumping off a cliff without looking at what's below—a leap of pure faith in his instincts, anathemic to his nature.
His grip on the twin blades tightened as he cursed himself inwardly, the familiar grip of fear and doubt wrapping around his thoughts. Why did he always let himself drown in it, let it control him?
Velos closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow, deep breath. He focused on the sensations around him—the warm breeze of steam brushing against his skin, the mechanical hum of Dummy-3 whirring to life, the smell of burnt charcoal in the air. He tried to empty his mind, pushing his thoughts aside, and instead tuned in to the raw sensory inputs surrounding him.
Instinct.
Velos charged in, catching a lucky break as the pilot hesitated, mistaking his straightforward rush for another bait. The lower arm faltered just long enough for Velos to slip into the inner circle, and he slashed through two boards in one clean motion. Three down.
Before he could catch his breath, the upper arms swung down to swipe at him. Velos stumbled backward, his movements frantic and uncoordinated as he narrowly avoided the relentless barrage of attacks from both the upper and lower limbs. He was reacting to the sound of gears turning, the rush of air displaced by the machine's swings—but his lack of training in footwork was painfully clear. Though he managed to dodge the attacks, he did so with the grace of a crab missing a limb, each step more of a flail than a maneuver, leaving him no chance to counter-attack.
Shovi watched him carefully, noting that while Velos was starting to tap into his instincts, his body wasn't keeping up. His footwork wasn’t instinctual yet, not ingrained in muscle memory. Still, even in his clumsy attempts to dodge and move, there was improvement. He was learning to trust his gut, however shaky that trust was.
In a sudden twist of luck, one of Velos' arms flailed wildly and connected with another board, cracking it open. But before he could even think to celebrate, the upper arm of the machine came down hard, smacking him to the ground. The force of the blow was controlled, enough to knock him down but not enough to cause any serious harm.
As Velos lay on the floor, catching his breath and feeling the sting of his bruises, the machine reset its limbs. Shovi's voice cut through the noise. "That's enough!" She signaled the end of the trial as the ten-minute mark hit.
Velos lay on the ground, panting heavily as the machine's whirring slowly quieted down. His chest heaved with each breath and his muscles trembled under the strain. Shovi approached him, looking down.
Still catching his breath, Velos managed to speak up, "Out of plain curiosity," he said between breaths, "How did Sterling do on this trial?"
Shovi raised an eyebrow, more amused than anything. "Sterling?" she repeated. "Three months ago, we commissioned a pair of new arms for Dummy-3. The upper arms you saw today—that was because of him."
Velos blinked, lying there on the ground, confused. The implications hadn’t sunk in for him yet.
"Sterling took the trial three months ago," Shovi confirmed flatly.
Velos wasn't shocked. Whether or not Sterling would have aced this trial, that could have gone either way, but he felt little surprise hearing Sterling managed to damage the machine beyond what was necessary whereas Velos had only been able to inflict the equivalent of chicken scratches. Any thought he had of comparing himself to Sterling seemed like a far-off dream. He had already known that Sterling was different, but now, the gulf between them seemed mountains apart.
Shovi extended a hand, helping Velos to his feet. "Come on, get up," she said. "The results of this trial will be reported to Promotional, along with testimony from the pilot. You'll have to wait for their verdict."
Velos dusted himself off and hesitated for a moment before asking, "Is there a decent chance of me making the cut?"
Stolen novel; please report.
Shovi hesitated to show pity, just a little. "I don't know," she said bluntly. "It's not just about combat proficiency. Your whole skillset is in question."
Velos paused, then took a deep breath. "Where could I have done better?" he asked, looking for even a small hint of direction.
"Your footwork," Shovi said bemused. "It's sloppy. Incredibly sloppy. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought to revise your scroll and remove 'Basic Sword Training' from your list of proficiencies. But I can see you know how to swing a blade—when you're not under pressure, that is."
Velos nodded, swallowing his frustration. "It's difficult. It felt like my concentration was split in half." he said.
Shovi's eyes softened just a fraction. "Ask me personally," she said. "There are some rudimentary practices I can teach you when it comes to twin blades, but that'll have to be outside my work hours."
Velos's eyes widened. "You use twin blades too?" he asked.
"Gods, you're like a child,” Shovi replied. “And you ask an awful lot of questions, you know that?”
“But yes,” She smirked and tapped the two blades sheathed at her hips. “Like I said, the right hands.”
—
Baraol walked through the echoing corridors of the Heartland building, the distant chatter of voices could already be heard from the meeting room of the Promotional Council. Today, only four of the seven members were present, as the rest were busy attending their respective duties, given that being part of the council was a secondary earn. He was surprised that the four of them even bothered to show up on such short notice. Even still, Baraol knew this was not going to go easy. He knew the points he wanted to iterate regarding Velos Rendhal, but he also knew that they would not so easily fly with Promotional once they’ve heard the full case.
He stepped into the room, the eyes of the council members turning to him. The first to greet him was Councilman Arkvoss, dressed in his characteristic crimson robes. "Commander." Arkvoss said with a polite nod, his expression hidden behind the traditional Vesalius mask that obscured the lower half of his face. Baraol gave a minimal nod in return, not in the mood for pleasantries.
"So, who's the lucky one today?" asked Councilman Tharn, a stout man in well-tailored clothes representing the Silverclaw Merchant's Guild. Though only a representative, Tharn worked full-time within the Division's upper echelons, overseeing trade and logistics. He leaned forward, awaiting Baraol's answer.
"Velos Rendhal," Baraol stated, placing several identification scrolls on the table before them.
SLAYER IDENTIFICATION SCROLL
Issued by the Covenant’s Slayers Division
----------------------------------------
Personal Information
* * Name: Velos Rendhal
* Date of Induction: 20th day of Laor, 1st Year of Emperor Harlos III
* Place of Birth: Menod, North Valfield
* Status: Active
* Current Residence: Communal Barracks Wing 3, South Sector
Rank and Division
* * Current Rank: ☐ (Markless)
* Assigned Unit: N/A
* Years of Service: N/A
* Recorded Infractions: 0 Recorded Infractions
Combat Information
* * Total Missions Completed: 1
* Total High-Threat Monsters Defeated: 1
* Weapon Proficiencies: N/A
* Additional Skills: Basic Sword Training, Intermediate Medical Training
----------------------------------------
Approved by Deputy Commander Shovi Aradne
Property of the Covenant, Slayers Division
"He’s a promising rookie who has just completed his combat trial, as well as participating in the Promotional Assignment for the rookie Sterling."
"The miscreant?" Councilwoman Yara said, her tone dismissive. Yara, a regally dressed woman in fine clothes, arched her brow in skepticism. Yara was a diplomat of the Covenant which technically supersedes the Division directly, and made it in her interest to ensure their reputation is preserved.
"What happened in the Promotional Assignment?" asked Tharn.
"They killed an alpha Darau," Baraol replied.
This statement garnered a few nods and surprised glances from the council. Their eyes shifted back to the scrolls, some struggling to make sense of the details they read.
Councilman Tharn, detached from any goings-on in the field, was the first to ask. "What exactly is an alpha Darau, again? I can hardly keep track of these names."
The only one who seemed to process it all with ease was Arkvoss. Representative of the Vesalius family, he was always a perceptive one, though he always made sure one could hardly tell given how obscured his expression was.
"Permit me, councilman. The alpha Darau is a one-mark threat," Arkvoss mused. "Yet these two slayers managed to slay one before they even gained a single mark. Impressive indeed, though I suspect Sterling's prowess played a larger role." He paused, his gaze flicking back to the scroll. "I see Intermediate Medical Training listed here as one of Velos's proficiencies. Tell me, Commander, is this skill inherited, perhaps, from his lineage?"
Baraol’s jaw clenched slightly. "Yes," he said, "Velos is the son of Remlus Rendhal."
That name stirred the room, murmurs rippling among the council members. Baraol could feel the discussion drifting towards what he dreaded most. The bullshit begins.
Yara was the first to seize upon the information. "His connection to Remlus Rendhal could add significant value to our organization," she said, the wheels already turning in her mind.
"That’s all well and good," Tharn interjected, "but can we rely on this connection? There's no clear indication that Velos maintains any meaningful relationship with his father. From what we know, Remlus Rendhal's been absent and silent about his son's career in the Division. It's odd, don't you think?"
Arkvoss raised a gloved hand, diffusing the escalating chatter. "Whether the relationship between Velos and his father is stable," he said in his smooth, calculating tone, "promoting Velos could be advantageous in currying favor with Remlus Rendhal at a later date. Even a turbulent family connection can be mended, especially when they both have more to gain."
He then chuckled lightly, the sound almost sinister under his mask. "Perhaps I should reach out to Remlus Rendhal personally," he said, half in jest.
"Good luck," said Yara, rolling her eyes slightly. "The man's as elusive as a storm, always on the move from region to region."
Baraol's frustration boiled beneath the surface. He knew that despite Velos’s lack of combat readiness, these council members were more interested in exploiting Velos’s family ties. Fighting the urge to lash out, he took a deep breath and interrupted the bickering. "I suggest we give Velos the time to refine his combat skills before considering a promotion," he said firmly. "We need slayers who can hold their own on the battlefield."
A voice spoke up from the back of the room. It was Councilman Finn, a hatted man in worn armor, lazily puffing on a pipe. He had been silent until now, watching closely. Finn was the only one among them who had actual experience as a slayer. "Commander," Finn said, his voice hoarse, "I don't believe you're allowing the results to speak for themselves." He took another draw from his pipe and let the smoke curl up. "An alpha Darau lies dead. That’s some field repertoire right there. And with his medical training, he’s invaluable on the field as support. He keeps our slayers alive."
Baraol wanted to counter Finn’s argument, to say that there was more to becoming a slayer than mere numbers or battlefield statistics. But he hesitated, knowing that Finn’s experience and insight carried more weight than his own reservations, especially in a room filled with these sharks.
Arkvoss pressed further. "Commander Baraol," he said, emphasizing the title, "perhaps Velos is one of those individuals who truly shines under pressure, where instinct takes precedence over training. Like Councilman Finn said, let the results guide us."
Baraol flinched inwardly. He knew this was not just about Velos; it was about control, leverage, and Arkvoss’s ever-watchful eyes on his every move. Baraol bit his tongue and nodded. If he openly resisted, it would only be seen as obstructing the council’s decision-making.
"I understand," he said quietly, swallowing his pride.
Arkvoss turned to the other council members, raising his hand in a gesture of finality. "All in favor of promoting Velos Rendhal, show of hands."
Slowly, one by one, the hands went up, until all four members had voted in favor.
"Gentlemen," Arkvoss said with a satisfied smile, "I do believe this is among the quickest consensus we've ever reached. And here I thought we'd be arguing for hours.”
The councilman joined his hands together. “Good meeting, everyone."
The council members began to fall into idle chatter, returning to small talk as though the decision they’d just made was nothing more than a trivial matter. Baraol turned on his heel and left the room without a word. His fists clenched tightly as he made his way down the hall. He knew that these people—these opulent suits—would never understand the occupation. To them, it was all about lining their own pockets with whatever favor the Covenant could provide.
Chain of command, he thought.
----------------------------------------
Slayer's Notes
Property of Velos Rendhal
Dummy-3
Dummy-3 is a piece of craftsmanship, no doubt—a marvel of engineering for training slayers. But as impressive as it is, I keep seeing ways it could be better. Its biggest flaw is that it's stationary. If a slayer wants to practice against a moving target, they’d have to find a live monster to duel. And then there are its joints—they only move in a limited arc, leaving some obvious blind spots. I get that building a more sophisticated model would cost a fortune and need a leap in technology, but I believe it's possible. That is if they're willing to take input.
It wasn’t just another piece of training equipment—it was frustratingly perfect in its mechanical ruthlessness, which only made me more desperate to know who was behind it. I kept asking around the Division, trying to find out if I could meet the person who piloted or even constructed Dummy-3, just to get some feedback on my performance. But no matter who I approached, I always got vague answers. Some would shrug me off, others would change the subject, and a few even seemed uneasy at the question, like I was asking about something forbidden. Weird.