I finally enter my room at the dormitory, having scooped up a few of the last slices of pizza before the remainder went in the fridge, a likely catalyst for the recruits to try and out-do each other in getting up early enough to secure their slice of the pie tomorrow. I sigh, as I close the door and slip my shoes off, and then my socks. I pull up my shirt to look at my gut wound, pulling off the cloth napkin to find that it wasn’t really bleeding new blood anymore, but that my stomach-not to mention my shirt-were bloodstained.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

A shower solved my immediate problems with cleaning up, but it did little to actually soothe my mind against the absolute shock it had received tonight. Simply put, I think that was probably the most terrifying and visceral fight that I’d ever been in-except, perhaps, the one with the Bull.

As I found myself on my bed later that night, I couldn’t help but think; Sigmund must’ve known that the Haracrein had few friends. Did he send me out as his figurehead knowing I’d be taking an attack head-on, like a pawn? Am I just another disposable grunt to him?

The question gnawed at me for a good while that night.