Warrior Training System

As the two underlings roasted pieces of Cassian's flesh over the fire—carelessly chewing and drinking the poisoned blood they had taken before healing him—Cassian, now fully healed, slowly looked up. Though his weapons had been confiscated, the red sword, inside from the drop-shaped mark on his warrior circle, still remained within reach. So was his war armor, bound to his instinct. With a thought, it materialized over him.

With a sharp flick, he sliced through the metal cuffs in a single, clean arc—his crimson blade pulsing with raw energy. In one fluid motion, Cassian twisted his body, flipping backward and landing squarely atop the very branch they'd once used to bind him, now standing above them like a ghost risen for revenge.

The two cultists didn't even notice. Still poisoned, sluggish, and distracted by their sadistic feast, they hadn't expected him to move—especially with wounds they had left open to keep the blood flowing.

But thanks to the miraculous potion they had given him, the poison had been completely neutralized, and his healing ability had returned to full force—along with his strength.

Though he felt no pain, nor any personal rage for being treated like dinner—having pieces of him roasted and eaten—Cassian's fury burned for the countless others who'd likely suffered the same fate. As one of the underlings stood to grab another roasted slice of his flesh, Cassian's gaze locked onto him.

Without warning, Cassian shot down from the tree, the force of his landing making the ground tremble as roots split through the soil. In a flash of red light and a howl of slicing wind, he appeared beside the cultist in an instant.

The man froze mid-reach, a strange heat blooming through his body. For a moment, confusion flickered in his eyes—his body still standing, but something felt off. Then, like falling into a furnace, a wave of searing heat consumed him. His vision dimmed. Darkness closed in.

A second later, with another sharp gale and a flash of crimson steel, Cassian moved again. Both underlings' heads fell clean from their shoulders, landing with the same drunken, dazed expressions they'd worn while drinking his blood.

The flames quickly consumed them, twisting their grinning faces into something even more grotesque—smiles melted into eerie, charred masks of horror.

"Fucking cannibals…" Cassian muttered, spitting into the fire before turning away. He didn't waste a second. Moving quickly, he dragged their bodies out of the camp, slipping into the darkness. He couldn't risk the one they called Sar finding out his underlings were dead—at least not yet.

He was already setting the trap.

With the bodies hidden and the camp left looking undisturbed, he let the fire burn low. His own leg, the one they'd been roasting, had turned black and crisp in the flames—perfect for the illusion. The heads too had been tossed into the fire, their skulls hidden in the brush.

Now, crouched in the distance, Cassian waited silently, hoping Sar would return late—and to his luck, he did. Nearly an hour passed before he heard the distant approach. Cassian stayed low, every nerve sharpened.

Sar returned, dragging a bloodied and battered Simon behind him—his left arm severed, his face pale from pain and blood loss. The cultist was chewing casually on a chunk of flesh, speaking through his mouthful, "Why don't you taste as good as your friend?" he muttered, licking blood from his fingers. "He was almost as delicious as a Fifth Circle warrior…"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

The scent hit him first—burned meat and smoke.

His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the black haze rising from the campfire. A vein throbbed violently at his temple as realization struck. "Those fucking idiots…" he growled through clenched teeth, rage flaring in his eyes. "How the hell did a one-legged, one-armed bastard manage to escape? I swear I'll flay those morons myself—if there's anything left to flay."

He glanced around, senses sharpening. No sign of a fight. No sign of Cassian—just the lingering scent of blood, smoke, and a faint trail heading away from camp. A trap? Maybe. But Sar was too pissed to care.

Cassian, hidden not far away, crossed his fingers and held his breath. He'd left a trail on purpose—drops of blood and the faint scent of his healing potion-laced sweat. And it worked.

Sar took the bait.

Cassian remained still, eyes sharp, as the cultist marched off toward the trap. Once the figure disappeared into the distance, he moved without hesitation. Slipping through the shadows, he made his way to where Simon lay, still chained and barely conscious.

Simon's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw Cassian—alive, unharmed, and fully intact. Before he could even form a question, Cassian pulled a small vial from his pocket. The blood-red potion shimmered faintly in the moonlight—the same kind they had forced down his throat earlier. He'd found five more of them on the bodies after finishing the cultists.

Without a word, he uncorked the potion and brought it to Simon's lips.

Simon's eyes widened in shock as the cold liquid slid down his throat, quickly blooming into a spreading warmth. He watched in disbelief as the pain dulled and his wounds began to knit back together. "Wait… don't tell me… was that your blood you just made me drink?"

Cassian rolled his eyes. "No, and quit asking stupid questions. We need to move. Now."

He slashed through the chains on Simon's intact limbs and hauled him to his feet. Simon blinked, then broke into a grin as he saw his severed arm slowly beginning to regrow.

"Well, if it was your blood, I was gonna ask for a bottle to keep on hand…"

"Just shut up and run!" Cassian snapped, already sprinting through the trees.

Simon laughed and chased after him, the grin still plastered on his face. He'd honestly thought he was dead—but now, the fact he could even run felt like a damn miracle.

But that smile quickly vanished as they heard Sar's furious scream echo through the trees.

"You fucking food! You dare to trap me?!" his voice roared, followed by a blast that shook the ground.

Cassian and Simon froze, heads snapping toward the sound just as the direction of the voice shifted.

"You're nothing but my dinner! Just DIE!"

The words seemed to come from above, and when they looked up, both their expressions darkened with horror.

Bathed in pale moonlight, Sar hovered above them—his face twisted in rage, half of it overtaken by grotesque, tumor-like grey flesh. From his back, fleshy wings of the same sickly material pulsed and twitched, spreading out like the limbs of some unholy insect. His eyes gleamed with bloodlust as he fixated on them below.