Thorne was herded toward the other recruits, his mind still spinning from everything that had just happened. The narrow path between the cage and the stands felt endless, and the weight of countless stares pressed down on him. It wasn’t just the recruits watching—it was the spectators, too, their silent judgment like a brand searing into his skin.
He felt exposed, and not just because of his lack of clothes. It was as if they could see every flaw, every crack in the mask he was trying so hard to keep in place. Each step felt like a performance, one he wished he could refuse.
He forced himself to maintain a stoic expression, his shoulders squared and his gaze steady, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting to the stands.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, maybe just some kind of answer, some sign of what was coming next. But then he froze. A face. A face he thought he recognized in the shadows of the spectators. His gut twisted, and he almost stopped in his tracks. No. It couldn’t be. His mind was too messed up right now, too raw. He forced himself to look away, but the thought nagged at him, clawing at the edges of his mind.
An older man entered the cage, dragging Eren’s lifeless body away without ceremony. The sight twisted Thorne’s stomach, a cold knot forming deep inside him. He clenched his fists, but his face remained emotionless. This was no place for grief. Weakness wouldn’t just get him killed—it would be an invitation.
Ahead of him, two figures in black leathers waited, their faces blank under their tattered hoods. Without a word, they shoved him toward the section where the other recruits sat. He lowered himself onto the hard dirt floor, staring straight ahead at the cage. Around him, the other kids shifted uncomfortably. Some were completely still, their faces blank, while others clutched their weapons tightly, their knuckles white. A few murmured to each other in low voices, but no one really seemed to know what to say.
Thorne tried to ignore them, but his ears caught snippets of conversation—half-finished sentences, shaky whispers. It was the kind of fear that sat just under the surface, bubbling up in every word, every movement. He stared at the cage, trying to drown it all out.
Soon enough, the fights started again. Two kids stumbled into the arena, both looking like they’d been through hell. Their faces were pale, and their hands shook as they gripped their weapons. The fight that followed wasn’t much of a fight at all. It was messy, clumsy, more desperation than skill. Blades clanged awkwardly, and neither of them seemed to know what they were doing. Eventually, one of them got lucky, his sword catching the other kid in the throat. Blood sprayed across the dirt, and the loser collapsed in a heap. The winner didn’t look much better—he dropped to his knees, trembling, his weapon slipping from his fingers.
And that was just the first.
The fights kept coming, a brutal rhythm that didn’t let up. Every thirty minutes or so, a new pair—or sometimes more—stumbled into the cage. Some looked ready to kill. Most looked ready to die. Thorne sat through it all, his face a mask of indifference, but his stomach churned. It was all the same—blood, fear, and bodies hitting the ground. After a while, he stopped keeping track of who won and who lost. The fights blurred together, a haze of violence that dulled his senses.
Every now and then, though, someone stood out.
One girl stepped into the cage with a bow slung over her shoulder, her face eerily blank. When the signal came, she didn’t hesitate. Her opponent barely had time to blink before an arrow buried itself between her eyes. The girl didn’t even flinch, lowering her bow with the same cold detachment as if she’d been taking target practice.
Then there was a boy around his age. At first, Thorne thought the kid didn’t stand a chance—he was small, scrawny, practically shaking. But then the boy started moving. His body twisted and turned in ways that didn’t make sense, his movements so unpredictable that his opponent didn’t know how to react. The fight was over in seconds, the boy’s blade slipping between his opponent’s ribs with precision that shouldn’t have been possible for someone like him. Even Thorne couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration.
But not all the faces were strangers.
Thorne recognized a few among the recruits, cousins he had crossed paths with during his years under his uncle’s shadow. The first time a familiar face appeared, his heart quickened. He leaned forward, ready to intervene if it meant saving someone he knew. Yet as the fight played out, he stayed rooted to his seat, forced to watch as the girl—a cousin he’d once shared a meal with—fell. Her lifeless body hit the dirt, and Thorne’s hands trembled with suppressed rage.
By the third death of someone he recognized, his reaction was muted. Numbness crept in, dulling the sharp edges of his emotions. He barely spared the cage a glance as new pairs entered, the cycle of death and survival becoming a monotonous rhythm that beat against his mind like a war drum.
His mind wandered, slipping away from the carnage in front of him. That face in the stands earlier—was it real? Could it really have been him?
The fights dragged on, a monotonous parade of violence and survival. The air grew thick with the scent of blood and sweat, and the murmurs of the spectators became a constant drone in Thorne’s ears. He felt detached, as if he were watching everything through a fog.
As he sat there, his mind started piecing together the reality of his situation. The fact that both Leona, Jax, and Eren had trainers just like him meant that the Cousins had been training them all along for something. This brutal test was no mere coincidence. He was almost certain he was among the Cousins now. The mysterious man, the structure of the tests, the familiar faces—they all pointed to one conclusion: this was a recruitment process, a deadly initiation into the ranks of the Cousins.
Thorne's gaze sought any more familiar faces among the spectators. They all wore the same tattered cloak, but the hidden faces were difficult to pierce through. Occasionally, he thought he caught a glimpse of recognition, but it was fleeting, and the shadows concealed too much.
As the hours passed, their group of recruits grew. More and more kids emerged from the room of illusions, some victorious, others barely standing. Thorne started getting tired, the weight of the events and the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on him. He had no sense of time in this place; it could have been a couple of hours or days since he had entered this nightmare.
Then, finally, something shifted. A woman walked in, dressed in sharp black clothing that set her apart from the cloaked spectators. Her face wasn’t hidden like the others. Her features were sharp and angular, her piercing green eyes scanning the group like she was sizing up cattle. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it made her look severe, and she moved like someone who knew exactly how much power they held.
“Follow me,” she said, her voice cutting through the low murmurs like a blade. No hesitation, no explanation. Just an order.
Everyone scrambled to their feet, some pushing and shoving to get closer to her like it might earn them some favor. Thorne hung back, watching the others. No way he was getting caught up in whatever that was.
They followed her down a long tunnel, the air cold and damp. Water dripped steadily from the walls, forming shallow puddles that their bare feet splashed through. The floor was uneven, the stone slick with slime. Thorne hated the way the cold bit into his skin, but he kept moving, one foot in front of the other, his eyes scanning for anything—markings, symbols, anything that might give him a clue about where they were.
The tunnel twisted and turned like it was trying to confuse them, and Thorne felt any sense of direction slipping away. After what felt like forever, they emerged into a massive, circular room.
The place was a maze. Dozens of tunnels branched off from the one they’d just walked through, crisscrossed by bridges high above them. The sheer scale of it made Thorne’s stomach twist, like he’d just walked into the center of a spider’s web.
People moved around in small groups, most of them wearing the same dark clothes as the spectators from before. But some stood out, dressed in regular clothes like they’d just come off the streets or out of the fish market. They walked with purpose, their faces set with a focus that made Thorne uneasy.
The torches lining the walls flickered with an unnatural green light, bathing the room in an eerie glow that made shadows dance unpredictably. The murmur of voices, occasional laughter, and distant shouts created a background noise that buzzed in Thorne's ears like an ever-present reminder that he was surrounded by people he couldn’t trust.
Thorne’s eyes scanned the recruits around him. Some of the older kids had grim, focused expressions, their eyes shadowed by things they’d seen—or done. Others, disturbingly, seemed relaxed, even casual, as though they had already made peace with the horrors of this place.
The newer recruits, who had been blank-eyed and numb after their fights, were starting to stir, curiosity flickering across their faces as they took in their surroundings. Thorne resisted the urge to look too interested. Instead, he tried to build a mental map of the twisting paths they had taken to get here. It was futile. The sharp turns, branching tunnels, and the sheer scale of the place left him completely disoriented. The base was a labyrinth, and he couldn’t shake the sense of being trapped in a web, surrounded by unseen predators.
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At last, the woman led them down a side tunnel and towards a large wooden door, its surface scarred and weathered with age. She pushed it open with a creak, revealing a spacious room with a high vaulted ceiling. The air was stale, carrying the faint smell of dust and mildew. Thorne could tell it had once been a storage area, but now it had been repurposed into a dormitory of sorts.
Three rows of simple wooden beds lined the walls. They were mismatched and uneven, with thin, lumpy mattresses and coarse, threadbare blankets. Dust hung in the air, illuminated by the torches mounted high up on the wall. Thorne’s first thought was how little the Cousins cared about comfort. His second was how easy it would be to get sick here.
The woman gestured for the group to file into the room. They formed a loose circle around her, their exhaustion palpable. She stood tall, her sharp gaze sweeping over them as she began to speak.
“These are the rules,” she said, her voice cold and commanding, amplified by the acoustics of the room. “You are free to roam the base, but do so at your own risk. Some of the Cousins enjoy playing with the new recruits.” Her lips curved into a cruel smile that sent a shiver down Thorne’s spine.
Her eyes flicked across the room, lingering on some of the recruits who looked the most nervous. "You are not to leave the base for the next three months. If you do, you will be killed for failing the training. For anything you need—clothes, weapons, food, armor—you can steal, kill, or extort. But if you’re stupid enough to try it from an older cousin and get caught, you will be killed.”
Her words hung heavy in the air, and Thorne could feel the unease ripple through the group. A few of his fellow recruits shuffled uncomfortably, their fear beginning to show.
"Every day, there will be training. If you don't meet the standards of your trainers, you will be..." The boy next to Thorne, the one with the unpredictable fighting style, chuckled mirthlessly. "...you will be killed."
The woman’s eyes snapped to him, but her expression didn’t change. She just gave a faint, chilling smile before pressing on. “On occasion, you’ll be sent on missions. If you fail…” She didn’t bother finishing the thought. The implication was clear.
Finally, her gaze swept across the group one last time. “Welcome to the family,” she said, her tone mocking.
She turned to leave but paused at the door, raising one finger as if remembering something trivial. Her eyes sparkled with feigned playfulness as she scanned the recruits.
“Oh, one more thing,” she said lightly. “We don’t have enough beds for all of you, so some of you will be sleeping on the ground.” A small chuckle escaped her lips. “Careful of the rats.”
With that, she stepped out, the door creaking shut behind her.
As soon as the door slammed shut, chaos erupted. The room transformed into a battlefield in an instant. Kids surged forward in a frenzy, shoving and clawing at one another in a desperate bid to claim one of the coveted beds. The air filled with shouts, curses, and the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh.
Thorne didn’t move. Instead, he hung back, his sharp eyes scanning the room, counting. Forty-seven kids, twenty beds. He could already see where this was going, and it made his stomach churn.
His gaze locked on a towering boy who had muscled his way to a bed, shoving a smaller kid aside with brutal force. The smaller boy, clutching a knife, didn’t hesitate. He lunged, driving the blade into the larger boy’s back once, twice, three times. The big kid collapsed to the ground with a wet gasp, blood pooling beneath him. The smaller boy stood over the body, his chest heaving, his wide, crazed eyes daring anyone to challenge him.
Thorne’s gut twisted at the sight. Death wasn’t new to him, but this wasn’t a street fight or a battle against an enemy. This was cold, senseless slaughter over something as trivial as a place to sleep. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain still.
The room spiraled further into madness. The first kill broke whatever fragile barrier of restraint had existed, and the others followed suit. Fights erupted across the room, wild and vicious. Thorne spotted a girl shrieking as she clawed at another kid’s face, her nails leaving bloody gouges. A boy stumbled backward, his nose gushing blood, before someone clubbed him over the head with a piece of wood.
Near the edge of the chaos, Thorne noticed a kid even smaller than the knife-wielding killer. The boy crouched low, clutching a jagged rock he must’ve found on the floor. He waited for an opening, then darted forward like a viper, smashing the rock into the temple of a wounded boy who had already been fighting. The injured kid crumpled instantly, and the smaller boy calmly took his place by the bed.
The sheer savagery of it all sickened Thorne, but he kept his expression neutral. He knew what this was. Another test. Another way for the Cousins to weed out the weak. The trainers didn’t have to lift a finger. The recruits were doing their job for them.
“They’re idiots,” came a low mutter. Thorne turned his head slightly to see the short, wiry boy from earlier standing nearby, watching the chaos with cold, calculating eyes. “They’re playing right into their hands.”
Thorne studied him for a moment. The boy wasn’t moving to fight, wasn’t rushing for a bed. His sharp gaze flicked from fight to fight, assessing the scene with a predator’s focus. Thorne didn’t respond, but something about the boy struck a chord with him. He wasn’t like the others. He was thinking.
The boy caught Thorne’s look and gave a faint, humorless smile. “We’ll see who’s still standing,” he murmured, his tone more amused than afraid.
Thorne nodded subtly, filing the boy away in his mind as someone to watch—maybe even someone to keep close, if alliances could be trusted in a place like this.
As the fights dragged on, the chaos began to burn itself out. Blood stained the wooden floor, pooling around the lifeless bodies of those who had lost. The sharp metallic tang of it mixed with the acrid stench of sweat, fear, and desperation, filling the air until it was almost suffocating.
The victors—some bloodied, some eerily calm—claimed their prizes, sprawling on the beds with the territorial pride of wild animals. The others, too beaten or too terrified to have even tried, settled on the floor, their eyes darting nervously at the ones who had fought.
Thorne let out a slow breath, his thoughts racing. If this was how they acted over beds, what would happen when food became scarce? Or water? He scanned the room again, cataloging faces, marking who looked weak, who looked dangerous, and who might be worth allying with. His gaze landed on the wiry boy again, standing next to him, watching everything with that same cold calculation.
The frenzy had subsided, leaving behind a room filled with the heavy sounds of labored breathing, muffled sobs, and the occasional whimper of pain. Thorne leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his mind churning.
The short boy who had lingered near Thorne during the chaos jutted his chin toward the huddled mass of kids who had been too weak or scared to fight for a bed. “You coming?” he asked, his tone casual but watchful.
Thorne didn’t respond immediately. His eyes roved over the room, assessing. He noted the kids who had fought with ferocity and the ones who’d merely gotten lucky, clutching their hard-won beds with white-knuckled desperation. Others had claimed their spaces through sheer brutality, their faces set in grim masks that dared anyone to challenge them.
Finally, Thorne turned back to the short boy and shook his head. “Nah,” he said, his voice steady. “I prefer to sleep in a bed.”
Without waiting for a reply, Thorne stepped forward. His movements were deliberate, his posture relaxed but purposeful. The room seemed to shift as eyes turned toward him, whispers rippling among the kids. He could feel the weight of their stares, a mix of curiosity, unease, and outright fear.
Thorne hadn’t just been sitting idle while the chaos unfolded. He’d been watching, studying. The fights had told him everything he needed to know—who was strong, who was weak, and who was barely holding on. He knew that in a place like this, survival wasn’t just about staying alive. It was about sending a message. If he wanted to avoid constant challenges, he needed to make a statement—and to do that, he had to take down the strongest.
One boy in particular had caught his attention. He wasn’t just strong; he was cruel. Thorne had watched as he toyed with another recruit before finishing him off, his strikes precise but unnecessarily brutal. The boy now lounged arrogantly on his bed, his muscular frame relaxed, his dark red hair slick with sweat and blood. A twisted grin spread across his face as he caught Thorne’s approach.
Thorne stopped a few paces away, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Stand up.”
The boy chuckled, his grin widening. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?” he sneered, rising slowly to his feet. His voice was low, mocking, filled with a confidence born of too many easy victories.
“Maybe,” Thorne replied coolly, his gaze unflinching. He didn’t rush, didn’t fidget. His calm unnerved the other kids, and even the boy he’d chosen seemed momentarily taken aback.
The boy’s grin faltered for a split second before he lunged, a knife flashing in his hand. But Thorne was ready. He sidestepped with effortless precision, his hand snapping out to seize the boy’s wrist. With a quick twist, the knife clattered to the floor. Before the boy could react, Thorne drove his knee into his stomach, doubling him over, then followed with a sharp elbow to the back of the head. The boy crumpled, gasping, to the ground.
The room went utterly silent. Even the short boy, who had been watching with sharp eyes, seemed momentarily stunned. Thorne didn’t pause to relish the moment. He stepped forward and hauled the boy to his feet, his grip unyielding. With a brutal right hook, he sent the boy crashing into a nearby bed.
The boy struggled to rise, blood streaming from his nose, but Thorne didn’t let up. He yanked him up again by his hair and slammed him back down with enough force to rattle the bedframe.
Each strike Thorne delivered was cold, calculated. He wasn’t just fighting; he was making a point. The boy’s defiance began to crumble, his movements slower, his gaze filled with a growing panic. Thorne could see it—the moment the boy realized he’d lost.
He could see the pain and fear in the boy’s eyes, but he didn’t stop.He wanted the other kids to see his power and leave him alone. And, in part, he enjoyed seeing the pain in the other boy’s face after what he had done to the other recruit.
He drew out the fight, his blows deliberate, measured to inflict pain without permanent damage. His strikes landed with surgical precision, each one breaking the boy’s spirit a little more. Thorne’s face remained emotionless, but inside, a cold satisfaction simmered. This wasn’t just about survival. It was about showing the others that challenging him was a mistake.
A notification blinked at the edge of his vision.
Skill Level Up: Unarmed Combat!
“Enough!” someone shouted, but Thorne ignored it, delivering one last punch that left the boy unconscious on the floor.
Thorne straightened, breathing heavily but still in control. He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the other kids. None of them dared to challenge him now. He had made his point. He was not to be trifled with.
He walked over to the bed the boy had claimed and sat down, his gaze still sweeping the room. The short boy who had stayed by his side earlier gave him a small nod of approval from where he sat on the floor. Thorne returned the nod, then lay back on the bed, finally allowing himself to relax.