Velos followed Shovi through a part of the Heartland building that he didn't recognize. It was a quiet area, surrounded by ancient stone structures that were green with moss, the surfaces cracked with age. Drawbridges connected the platforms and metal fixtures jutted from the walls—gears and pulleys suggesting some kind of hidden mechanisms. Velos couldn't help but feel that this area had once served a different purpose, now repurposed by the Division.
"I've never seen this part of headquarters before," Velos said, his eyes glancing one old structure to another.
"Most rookies haven’t," Shovi replied. "This area is restricted for most of them. It's where those rookies who want a promotion come to be tested. Sterling has been through this trial himself."
Velos blinked, processing her words. "So, this is where the combat trials happen?"
"That’s right," Shovi said with a smirk. "Have you ever seen ‘the gauntlet’ before?"
Velos shook his head, belying the nervousness that followed hearing anything being referred to as a ‘gauntlet’.
"Figured as much," Shovi said. "Most rookies require special access permits from their instructors just to use the gauntlet. It costs a lot to activate the primary facility."
Velos looked puzzled but didn’t press further, simply nodding as they walked on.
As they approached the entrance, Shovi reached into her coat and flashed her badge to the guards—a three-mark slayer’s insignia with the added mark of an instructor. She had always been an instructor before becoming Baraol’s deputy, and the guards seemed familiar enough with her that it didn’t take them long to step away from the door and allow her entry.
Velos and Shovi entered a narrow hallway lined with an assortment of weapons. Most were wooden duplicates—dull recreations of common weaponry for training purposes. But some weren’t so common. Velos' eyes scanned over swords almost twice his height, bows that required complex pulleys to draw, and unfamiliar, jagged weaponry.
“What is all this?” Velos asked, his gaze resting on a sword that looked like it could break into a segmented chain.
“Training gear,” Shovi answered. “Most of these weapons are here for sparring practice, but some are prototypes and experimental models.” She paused, watching his reaction. "And no, that’s not the ‘primary facility.’"
Peeking from behind the blade of a giant axe, Velos stared at his instructor in confusion. Shovi didn’t elaborate. Instead, she pointed towards the end of the hallway, where a thick wooden door stood closed.
"Your opponent is right behind that door," she said nonchalantly, waiting for Velos’ natural curiosity to take over.
Velos approached the large double-door adorned with red-painted metal, its surface aged and slightly corroded. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed the doors open. They groaned under his hand, revealing a massive arena beyond.
The arena was vast, the stone floor scuffed and worn from countless trials. Marks and scratches crisscrossed the ground like a chaotic web, some gouges so deep they seemed almost permanent. Raised platforms lined the edges of the arena, their purpose unclear—perhaps to give spectators or evaluators a better view of the battles below. A few faded training dummies were set off to one side, their stuffing spilling from gashes left by previous trainees.
But Velos' attention was immediately drawn to the center of the arena—to the primary facility.
It was a colossal wooden structure, segmented into joints and plates to mimic the anatomy of a large creature with four limbs and a head. The construct loomed over Velos, towering but not so large that it would be impossible for him to maneuver around it. He estimated he could circle it in a few seconds if he moved quickly.
The machine's limbs were its most striking feature. It had two pairs of them, each pair serving a different function. The lower set of limbs ended in enormous cylindrical batons that almost touched the floor, seemingly designed to sweep across the arena in wide arcs. The upper limbs, positioned high above its body, were adorned with blunt, makeshift claws. These arms were raised, ready to strike downward with enough force to crack stone.
Velos took a step closer, his mind working quickly. He understood the purpose of this wooden monstrosity immediately. It was a training dummy, a machine designed to test the skills and reflexes of its opponent. Once activated, it would begin its ‘gauntlet’—its lower limbs sweeping the floor with relentless swings, while the upper limbs rained down blows from above, slashing and stomping in a flurry of simulated attacks.
Velos swallowed nervously. He had been in a life-or-death situation before, but he never had to put his combat skills into question, mainly staying alive out of tactical rationale rather than hard-earned grit. This would be the first time Velos’ combat capabilities would be put to the test, and he’s halfway glad he would find the opportunity staring down a large machine than the death clamp of a Darau.
Though still, Velos pondered about the intricate mechanisms layered within that machine, assuming that machine would operate as swiftly and lethally as it would in Velos’ imagination. Before Velos could raise a question to his instructor, he turned his body to find deputy Shovi already behind him, and was startled by her presence.
Shovi gestured toward the hulking wooden machine, its segmented body faintly creaking as it settled into place. "We used to run obstacle courses and set up simpler machinery here in the Gauntlet," she explained, reminiscing about far simpler times. "But ever since we figured out how to incorporate this kind of technology, 'Dummy-3' has been a mainstay."
"Dummy-3?" Velos repeated.
Shovi nodded. "It's the third iteration of our training machines, and it's the most advanced one yet. We built it using modern engineering techniques and components, but the real magic is in the integration of proto-civilization technology."
"Proto-civilization? Like the ones in ancient records?" Velos asked.
"That's right," Shovi said, folding her arms. "There were artifacts scavenged during the founding of this very building old enough to predate many of our historical records—likely from 1,000 to 2,000 years ago or more. I'd theorize semantics on which culture it could belong to, but I'm no historian. Occasionally these old civilizations leave behind technology far too sophisticated for their time."
Velos looked back at Dummy-3, now with a sense of wonder. "And you’ve figured out how to reverse-engineer that technology?"
Shovi smiled. "Our engineers did. Inside Dummy-3 are mechanisms and circuits the Division wouldn't have invented otherwise. We keep constant monitoring for fine-tuning and repairs. One of the more expensive parts is the fuel—it's made from exotic alchemical mixtures, something that takes time and resources to synthesize."
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Velos took in the sight of it all. His attention was drawn towards the machine’s inner parts, as he inspected its joints and analyzed where these mechanisms would be placed.
"Is someone piloting this thing?" he asked.
"Of course," Shovi replied. "Just one person. He operates the machine from a control chamber underground, directly beneath this arena."
Velos’s eyes lit up. "Am I going to meet them?"
Shovi let out a mocking laugh, shaking her head. "No," she said, as if the idea of meeting the man behind the machine was more absurd than anything she’d heard from mission reports all week.
Shovi motioned toward the storage units lining the wall, her gaze fixed on Velos. "Arm yourself," she said, leaving no room for hesitation. "Pick a weapon you're proficient with, something real. None of those mock wooden replicas—they won’t do you any good here."
Velos nodded, scanning the racks of weaponry as he stepped forward. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes still on the massive machine at the center of the arena. "Am I supposed to destroy that thing?" he asked, half-joking.
Shovi let out a short, dry chuckle. "At your rank? Not a chance. That’s not the goal here. You don’t even have any strength enhancements to help you with that," she said, shaking her head. "You’ll be aiming for smaller targets, but the real test is your ability to dodge and keep up under pressure. This trial is designed to push your limits, see how you handle yourself when you're outmatched."
She turned her attention to the boards she was setting up, signalling that the trial would begin the moment she finished preparing. "As soon as you’re ready, and these boards are in place, it begins," she said. "So make sure you choose wisely."
—
Velos scanned the armory, his eyes gliding over the racks of weapons arranged by type and size. He'd been trained with a standard sword before—familiar enough to use one-handed or with a two-handed grip. If he chose to wield a sword, he could also equip a shield for added protection, a sensible option for keeping himself safe.
But then he remembered the sheer size of that machine in the chamber. It was massive, dwarfing even the Alpha Darau he had faced during his last mission. When he brought a shield to that fight, he was expecting a battle against the regular Darau, creatures roughly his size. He hadn’t anticipated the surprise intervention of the alpha. Against a creature of that magnitude or larger, he knew a shield wouldn't stop him from being thrown aside like a rag doll. Unless he was built like Sterling—able to take a hit and remain unshaken—dodging seemed like the better strategy.
His thoughts drifted back to Menod, where he'd trained with the local militia. There, he’d shown some promise wielding two blades simultaneously. For a lightweight like him, dual weapons suited his nimble style. Against human foes, he’d have relied on rapiers or parrying daggers, but this was different. He’d be facing beasts, not men, and the stakes were far higher. He needed something lethal, a foundation that he could build on as he grew stronger in this profession.
"To hell with caution," he muttered to himself. His ambitions were greater than just surviving—they were buried, but they were burning still.
Velos reached out and gripped the handles of a pair of blades. The weapons felt light in his hands, swift and ready.
Velos stepped out of the weapons storage, twin blades in hand, and met Shovi's gaze. She raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by his choice. For a moment, she gave off a soft smirk and slowly nodded in approval.
"Twin blades, huh?" Shovi said. "A good choice if you're ready to commit your mind and body to them. There’s a number of hidden strengths in those blades despite their relatively small damage and lack of raw impact." She gave Velos a pointed look. "In the right hands, they can be deadly."
Shovi then gestured toward the arena, where six square boards were set up evenly across the lower sections of Dummy-3. The boards looked thin and fragile, almost laughably so.
"See those boards?" she continued. "They're as flimsy as they look, and that's intentional. Your trial will go like this: your goal is to break all six of them while dodging Dummy-3's attacks. If you get hit even once, you have to reset—step back outside its range, and start over from scratch. Any boards you've already broken will carry over, but you still need to move as quickly as possible."
Shovi's eyes moved back to Velos. "Your performance will be judged on two things: the speed with which you break all six boards, and your ability to dodge Dummy-3’s attacks. And keep in mind, you’ll be under a time limit."
She paused, calculating operational costs. "Realistically, the trial should take no more than ten minutes. That's how long the machine can be operated continuously before the risk of mechanical wear and overheating becomes too high. Once that time limit is reached, or if you break all six boards, the trial ends. The results will then be reported directly to Commander Baraol and the Promotional Council."
Velos took a deep breath, feeling the cool weight of the twin blades in his hands. He adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders to loosen any lingering tension. He was ready, not just to pass the trial, but to push beyond what he thought he was capable of, now that the circumstances were no longer life-or-death.
—
"And as we can see, the dwindling numbers in the subterranean burrower population directly correlate with the overhunting quotas established in 21st…” The old, stout instructor droned on and on, clearly lost in his own data. His voice resounded across the stone walls of the lecture hall, governing interest in a scant few rookies more eager to step out of the room and into the field.
Sterling sat in the lecture hall, half-listening to the droning voice and nearly falling asleep suppressing his yawn. He had attended this lecture before, with the very same old man present repeating the very same topic.
His thoughts drifted from the monotonous words to that meek archivist—Velos Rendhal. What could Velos be doing at this very moment? Sterling silently focused into his own paranoia. Velos knew the truth about him, knew what Sterling truly was under the facade. If Velos decided to expose him, it would mean prying eyes, prying hands, or worse, the cold bite of blades seeking to cut him down. Freak. And yet, Velos had done nothing. He’d been cordial, almost too polite. It didn’t make sense.
Sterling had always thought of Velos as the type to run from danger the moment things got rough. But maybe those stories of him fleeing his first hunting party were twisted, exaggerated.
Misunderstood.
He shook his head, trying to shake off the thought, but his eyes drifted to an empty seat in the hall. He couldn’t help but imagine Velos sitting there, scribbling down notes with a near-obsessive fixation, probably sketching a little caricature of the lecturer for good measure.
Perhaps that was what he should be doing, Sterling thought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small notebook he’d received upon his induction. Opening it out of boredom, he once again scribbled his name with a smug grin. The previous pages were filled with loops and crude repetitions of the alphabet, and the name "Sterling" written in shaky letters.
"Try that, archivist," he muttered under his breath with a slight chuckle.
It was entertaining, really—the thought that someone as keen as Velos had never noticed that he couldn’t write. The only thing Sterling knew how to write confidently was his name, and it was only because it was repeated enough times in official documentation that he could replicate it well.
His grin faded, and his focus snapped back to the lecture as the droning voice filled the hall once more. Heaven forbid he actually remembers any of its contents, but perhaps this information would be stored at the deepest abscesses of his memory, and it will miraculously return at critical times. He had faith in his mind that way, and only that way. To Sterling, there is only instinct.
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Slayer's Notes
Property of Velos Rendhal
Ancient Civilizations
I’ve read bits and pieces about ancient civilizations, mostly through accounts from the northern Urnusans and their deep-rooted beliefs in the remnants they find scattered across their mountainous lands. But what intrigues me more are the lost civilizations, like reports of strange spires hidden in subterranean cavern systems all the way in Eldor, or the race of humanoids that inhabited the island of Drakar before the Drakari made it their home. The ones that left behind so little—nothing but echoes. No written records, just artifacts, ruins, and myths handed down like whispered secrets. It makes me wonder why history chose to forget them. That is, if their disappearance wasn’t the end result of a grand calamity of some sort. I'm not even going to bother thinking about that possibility right now. I have too much on my mind already.