Gareth stared at the marching grounds below, wondering if he truly had no choice but to step into the Outer March.
The wind dragged across his face like a warning, carrying the weight of every name that had vanished beyond those iron gates.
His heartbeat echoed louder than the distant war drums, a quiet reminder that destiny wasn't asking — it was pulling.
And as his shadow stretched toward the path ahead, Gareth realized the March had already chosen him long before he ever questioned it.
Gareth stayed silent, eyes fixed ahead as another male collapsed in the dust — Mira Nightborne standing over him, expression cold, knuckles streaked with someone else's blood.
"It's been hours," Gareth muttered under his breath. "And not a single male has managed to beat her."
Jaless flinched as the injured boy was dragged away, fear flickering across his face. "Bro… I'll be right back," he whispered, stepping away quickly.
Gareth kept watching as one by one, every hopeful challenger was broken, Mira cutting them down with the same effortless precision.
Jaless eventually returned, breathless, handing Gareth a fish on a stick that tasted like wet ash and disappointment.
And then the voice slid back into Gareth's mind, cold and familiar: Why are you so weak?
Gareth didn't answer. He just stared forward as another male rushed in — only to be knocked out in barely ten seconds, his body hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.
Gareth slowly turned his head toward Jaless, eyes dull.
"What do you think of the future?" he asked, voice quiet but heavy.
Jaless swallowed, gaze drifting to the wounded boys scattered across the field.
"Unless they fix the corruption… the future looks bad," he murmured.
Gareth looked away again, something hollow flickering behind his eyes.
"If this is destiny," he said softly, "then I hate it."
Jaless patted Gareth on the back, firm but brief.
"The world doesn't wait for regrets," he said, voice steady, like a promise and a warning all at once.
Gareth nodded slowly, letting the words settle, his gaze returning to the carnage before him.
Another woman stepped forward, poised, eyes sharp, ready to face Mira Nightborne.
In moments, she was defeated—calmly, efficiently—bowing her head in respect.
No blood, no broken bones, just a quiet acknowledgment of power.
A male in the crowd whispered, trembling, "That's… unfair."
No one else dared voice it. The silence swallowed every thought of dissent.
Gareth leaned slightly, eyes narrowing. "Jaless… why isn't anyone here using their Veil?"
Jaless shook his head. "I… don't know."
He stepped forward anyway, moving with tense determination, until he stood across from Mira Nightborne.
From her cracked wooden chair, Thyssara Nightspire looked down at him, silver hair glinting faintly in the dim light, cascading over her shoulders like molten metal.
Behind her, the other women stood like statues of shadow and precision, black hair flowing, gloves gleaming, each radiating lethal focus.
Her voice cut through the charged air, sharp, cold, and deliberate: "Another pathetic man… thinking they'll win. But it's futile."
Gareth's eyes widened slightly, realization settling like ice.
"They… none of them have ever been taught about the Veil," he murmured to himself, voice low, thoughtful.
His gaze swept over the courtyard, the broken, beaten males, the cautious females… all of them untrained, all of them poor, all of them vulnerable.
A voice whispered in his mind, sharp and accusing:"Isn't it wrong…?"
Gareth's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he stared at the chaos before him.
"It's neither just nor unjust… it simply is," he whispered to himself, calm and resolute.
The voice lingered for a moment, probing, questioning…
Then it went quiet.
Thyssara Nightspire's voice cut through the courtyard like a blade.
"Begin," she commanded, eyes narrowing on Jaless.
In less than a heartbeat, she lunged, a strike meant to end him before he could react.
But Jaless snapped his fingers—and every attack she threw was dodged effortlessly, leaving the crowd gasping at his mastery of the Veil.
In the West Tribe, Veil users were rare.
Only one in fifty could sense it, feel it stirring around them.
Even fewer—one in a hundred—could manifest their abilities, bending the Veil to their will.
And rarer still—one in five hundred—could fully master it, reaching Stage 1.5, where the Veil became an extension of their very being.
Mira Nightborne lunged forward, every strike precise, each movement honed from years of training.
Yet Jaless dodged effortlessly, each attack slicing only empty air.
He smirked, tilting his head, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Are you weak?" he asked, voice calm, almost teasing.
"Aren't you supposed to be a strong warrior? Why does someone of your status fail to defeat me? And… you're older than me—I'm only sixteen."
Mira Nightborne's eyes widened. One Jaless stood before her—but then, impossibly, there were two. Both moved in perfect synchronization, their every motion mirrored as if time itself had split around him.
Her teeth ground together. "You bastard… at least explain your Veil abilities!" she snapped, voice sharp as steel.
Jaless smiled faintly, calm, unshaken. "I don't move faster," he said, his tone almost lazy. "I just make your perception bend. Your mind will see what it expects… and what it doesn't."
Before Mira could react, both Jalesses shifted again.
Each punch she threw seemed to linger in the air, caught in an instant loop, then struck slightly after she expected—or sometimes, barely at all.
Her eyes darted between the two figures, but neither moved unnaturally; her mind was being tricked.
"You see," Jaless continued, tilting his head, "a single strike from you might feel instantaneous… or it might feel like it never landed. It's not speed I control—it's what your senses believe."
Mira staggered back, disoriented, claws twitching. Every flicker, every movement of Jaless seemed both real and impossible.
She lunged, but her punch found nothing but empty air… and then two shadows vanished, leaving her alone with the faint echo of laughter.
Gareth let out a long, weary sigh, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"How can one person be so naive… just revealing his ability like that?" he muttered, disbelief heavy in his voice. "He'll definitely get defeated."
Before anyone could react, Mira Nightborne's eyes snapped shut for a fraction of a second.
In that instant, she moved—blurring across the ground—and grabbed Jaless with impossible speed.
But Jaless wasn't defenseless. Even in that blink, he slashed, the edge of his blade catching the corner of her face, drawing a thin line of blood.
The clash sent them tumbling across the training grounds.
Mira's strength was overwhelming, but Jaless' precision and timing kept him alive. In the end, he was thrown off balance, tumbling backward—but Gareth's quick reflexes had anticipated it.
He reached out and caught Jaless before he could hit the ground.
Jaless landed safely in Gareth's arms, dust and sweat coating his calm expression.
His faint smile betrayed nothing, but the faint crimson on Mira's face told the story of that split-second encounter.
Thyssara Nightspire's jaw clenched tightly, his eyes narrowing into sharp slits. He cast Mira Nightborne a look filled with pure disgust, a silent reprimand that cut deeper than any words.
Mira faltered under his gaze. For the first time, fear flickered in her silver eyes, subtle but undeniable.
Her confidence wavered, and the faintest tremor ran through her hands as she met his piercing stare.
Thyssara Nightspire's hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white as iron. His jaw twitched, lips pressing into a thin line. The taste of bitter rage lingered in his mouth.
He cast a sharp, burning glance at Mira Nightborne, whose silver eyes still shimmered with fear. His voice was low, strained with disdain. "You… wait," he muttered, each word like a knife. "And you—" he turned to Jaless, voice tight with controlled revulsion, "—are the winner."
A pause, heavy with unspoken loathing.
Thyssara's gaze lingered on Jaless, a man who had bested one of his women, and a flicker of disbelief crossed his face.
She clenched his jaw so hard it ached. "Follow one of my guards… and do not cause trouble you disgusting vile man. Understand?"
Jaless inclined his head slightly, calm as ever, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Thyssara's chest rose and fell rapidly, a storm of disgust and reluctant respect warring within him.
She hated men—hated them—and yet, this one had proven himself, tearing through his pride and expectations in the blink of an eye.
Every fiber of his being recoiled, but he forced himself to obey reason over rage.
Mira averted her gaze, trembling. Even she felt the weight of Thyssara's loathing, and the cold, commanding authority behind the words.
The air between them was thick, almost suffocating, as Thyssara forced down his revulsion and watched Jaless carefully, every nerve taut.
Jaless turned his gaze toward Gareth, eyes calm but curious. "Why aren't you moving forward?" he asked.
Gareth shrugged slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I… I'm shy," he muttered, voice low. "I don't want everyone staring at me."
A heavy silence fell over the training grounds. Even the wind seemed to pause, carrying only the distant echo of the defeated clash.
Thyssara Nightspire's voice cut through the stillness, cold and commanding.
"I ask once again… who would like to step forward?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, sharp and unyielding, pressing on everyone present.
Jaless studied Gareth for a moment, his calm eyes piercing through the younger man's hesitation. "You'll win," he said quietly, a hint of certainty in his voice.
Without waiting for a response, Jaless moved forward with measured steps, falling in line behind one of Thyssara Nightspire's guards.
Each movement was precise, controlled—like a shadow gliding effortlessly across the ground.
The air seemed to tighten around them, the crowd's murmurs fading into the background as all attention focused on Jaless' quiet confidence.
Thyssara Nightspire's voice cut through the silence, sharp and final: "The selection is over—no one dares to step forward."
A faint murmur rose from the crowd, a ripple of whispers as all eyes turned to Gareth, sitting with his head bowed, expression unreadable.
"I ask you," Gareth said slowly, voice carrying across the barren grounds, "who decides what destiny has to offer me, if not I myself?"
He lifted his gaze, silver eyes locking onto hers with cold clarity, the weight of challenge unmistakable: "You need a strong opponent if you hope to defeat me—nothing less will suffice."
A shiver ran through the spectators, whispered guesses and gasps barely audible, lost beneath the tension that pressed like iron in the air.
Gareth's tone softened not a fraction, but every word dripped with menace and certainty, echoing faintly in the hush:
"Step aside if you fear, but know—I will not bow to fate dictated by anyone else."