Warrior Training System

Cassian hung limply from a tree by one arm, his body a mess of wounds. Blood dripped steadily from the stump of his severed arm and a long, raw gash that stretched from thigh to stomach, pooling into a large bowl beneath him. His breathing was ragged, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and horror.

One of the underlings stood nearby, watching the blood collect with a strange reverence."You know," he said almost dreamily, "Circle Warriors have the best-tasting blood. The stronger they are, the richer the flavor. Acolyte Sar once gifted me meat from a Fourth-Rank Circle Warrior… tasted like heaven, and it even helped awaken a bit of dark aura in me."

Cassian no longer pretending to be in pain as the cultists barely even noticed—too focused on the bowl filling beneath him. Voice weak, he managed to ask, "…What's dark aura?"

"That's a secret," the cultist said with a smug grin. "Only those within the cult can learn to harness it. It's impossible for outsiders to manifest, no matter how hard they try."

He dipped three cups into the bowl of Cassian's blood, now nearly full, and casually walked over to hand them to the other two, who were busy preparing the fire and arranging whatever grotesque ingredients they planned to use for tonight's feast—Cassian being the main course.

Cassian, despite the agony, couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement. They were actually drinking it—his poisoned blood. He'd forced venom directly into his bloodstream earlier, knowing just eating toxic things wouldn't spread it fast enough. It was a reckless, borderline suicidal move, but his healing ability had somehow managed to neutralize enough of the poison to keep him alive—barely. The side effect was that his wounds weren't healing as quickly, which worked in his favor too.

Ironically, the same three cultists who had tortured him had also made him drink a healing potion—not out of kindness, but to make sure he wouldn't die too soon and ruin their fun.

Though Cassian wished they'd just start eating him already—so the poison could kick in faster—he didn't entirely mind the delay. They were giving away valuable information.

It was commonly believed that the cult only recruited twisted individuals who already had a taste for torture and cannibalism. But listening to their casual chatter, Cassian started to think otherwise. From what he was piecing together, it wasn't just the people—it was something else. Something influencing them.

That "dark aura" they kept mentioning... it wasn't just power. It seemed to twist their minds, feeding into their hunger and madness. Cassian could practically see how corrupted they were becoming. The younger or newer cultists were barely in control, slobbering over blood and flesh like wild animals. But the one they called Sar—he was different. Older, stronger, and still disturbing—but there was a cold, calculated control in him. Like he'd learned to manage the hunger… or hide it better.

He couldn't tell their exact stage, but Cassian was fairly sure all three were at the Second Circle—especially the leader, who carried himself like someone with a lot more experience at that level.

As they finished prepping the "main course"—which unfortunately was still him—they strolled over, drunk on the taste of his blood. Their faces were flushed, eyes glazed with a mix of hunger and something close to euphoria. The leader stepped up, savoring another sip straight from the bowl, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting fine wine.

"For fuck's sake," he muttered with a pleased sigh, "how the hell are you this delicious when you're just a First Circle warrior?"

Cassian let out another pained groan, doing his best to keep up the act. Though in truth, the blood loss was starting to get to him—his head was spinning, his limbs felt heavy—but the healing potion they'd forced down his throat earlier was keeping him barely conscious.

As one of the underlings drank more blood straight from the bowl, he licked his lips and said, "Sir, why don't we keep him alive? Just drain him a little every day—he doesn't seem eager to die. If it were me, I'd have bitten off my tongue by now."

"I'd love to," Sar muttered, squatting beside Cassian and casually slicing a strip of flesh from his already mangled arm like it was dried meat. He chewed slowly, frustration flickering across his face. "But that damned mage wants his head. Orders are orders."

"Still," he added with a sigh, "we might as well enjoy what we can tonight. Maybe even get lucky and catch his little friend, too."

The underling who had spoken about the dark aura earlier perked up. "Oh, right! Aren't we gonna get something out of him about the other one?"

He joined in carving off another piece of Cassian's flesh, making Cassian flinch and grit his teeth against the fresh wave of pain. Sar, now lounging back and filling another cup with the blood still dripping steadily from Cassian's wounds, glanced up at the boy's pale, pain-wracked face and gave a lazy smirk.

"He's not gonna talk. But don't worry… you two go ahead and roast his leg nice and slow. I'll go fetch the other one. Should be back just in time for the main course."

Cassian's vision had blurred almost completely by now. The steady flow of blood from his wounds had slowed to a few weak, dripping drops. He tried to speak, to stop them from going after Simon—his voice barely a whisper. "No… no… don't…"

But he was far too weak to move or stop them. Darkness took him soon after.

Who knows how much time passed before something cool trickled down his throat—not cold, but oddly warm as it slid through his freezing insides. The warmth spread slowly, pushing back the numbness, and his vision swam back into focus. Blinking through the haze, he saw the two underlings crouched over him, grinning.

One of them, eyes wide with excitement, leaned close and said, "You better thank us, delicious dinner. You're still alive 'cause I used something real special on you." He held up the empty vial of crimson potion proudly, like he'd just done Cassian the biggest favor in the world.

"It was a blood potion," one of them said proudly, swaying slightly. "Made from the blood of hundreds of one-star monsters. Took nearly a month just to collect, and another to brew…"

Cassian could feel it—his veins surging with warmth as blood flowed freely again. His wounds knit themselves rapidly, flesh sealing shut. Even the mangled stump of his leg and the shredded arm began to reform, bones snapping into place, muscle crawling over them, skin stitching back together.

It alarmed him. This wasn't part of the plan—he didn't want to heal too fast, not yet. He still hadn't finished poisoning the them.

But as he glanced at them, his worry eased. Both cultists were wobbling where they stood, drunk off his poisoned blood. Their eyes were glassy, their movements clumsy. They could barely stand, let alone realize what was happening.

Cassian smirked faintly, the pain still heavy in his bones but a flicker of satisfaction lighting his eyes. Maybe they gave him the potion to keep the "meal" fresh, or maybe they were just too stupid to realize what was already eating them from the inside. Either way, it was working.