The training was brutal. The Demon Officers pushed him to the limits of his endurance, forcing him to master the Blade of Shadows in ways he had never imagined. Each swing of the weapon felt like an extension of his soul, but it also drained him, as though the blade fed on his strength.
Days passed in a blur of combat drills, magical exercises, and meditation. He grew stronger, more in tune with the Blade, but the weight of the responsibility pressed down on him harder with each passing day.
On the fourth day, something changed.
As he sparred with the lead officer, the blade in his hand began to glow more intensely than ever before. A sharp pain erupted in his chest, the same burning sensation from before. He gasped, dropping to his knees as the Blade pulsed violently in his hand.
"What's happening?" he groaned, clutching at his chest.
The lead officer stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "It's the Mark of the Chosen."
Before he could ask what that meant, the pain intensified, and he cried out. Light erupted from his chest, and when it subsided, he saw it—etched into his skin, glowing faintly, was a strange, intricate symbol.
"That mark," the officer said gravely, "is the proof that you have been chosen by the gods. It grants you immense power, but it also marks you as a target. Every demon under Gruter's command will now hunt you."
The weight of the mark pressed down on him, both physically and emotionally. He had thought the Blade alone was a burden, but now this… this mark was a death sentence.
"Why me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Why was I chosen?"
The officer's gaze softened, just for a moment. "That is something only the gods can answer. But what matters now is that you accept your role. There is no going back."
He looked down at the glowing mark on his chest, feeling its power coursing through him. There was no escape. He was the chosen one, and the fight against Gruter had truly begun.