With one swift, brutal motion, Omen twisted his legs, the muscles in his thighs tightening like a steel vice. The force was unimaginable, his passive abilities turning his body into an instrument of lethal strength. The bullock's neck gave a sickening snap as vertebrae shattered under pressure, the sound echoing through the forest like a crack of thunder.
The beast's body instantly went limp, its eyes glazing over in the span of a heartbeat. The last echo of its tortured roar died in its throat as its gigantic form collapsed, the impact shaking the earth. Dust erupted around them in a massive cloud, swallowing Omen and the beast in a dense haze.
Omen remained lying on its back for a brief moment, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. He stared up at the sky, the eerie silence of the scene pressing in around him, broken only by the occasional soft rasp of wind through the air. His thoughts drifted momentarily, the adrenaline in his veins slowly ebbing away.
He could still feel the faint pulse of life beneath him, but it was fading fast. The creature's massive body convulsed once more before growing still, its last remnants of energy drained away into his body.
He felt it—the subtle shift, the surge of power creeping into his soul. A new ability. One he had expected but didn't truly need. His smile was barely a twitch of his lips as the realization it: the power to see through any physical form. Another visual enhancement to add to his already vast arsenal.
"Useless, for now," he mused silently, his mind flicking through the abilities he already possessed: [exogene sense], [thermal sense], [night vision], [enhanced vision], and of course, the devastating [laser vision]. He had so much more, but unfortunately, the majority were active abilities and were thus sealed by the slave imprint
"A time will come when I'll be free, this realm would fear my return," he thought, letting the idea linger before something more pressing began to gnaw at him. A slow burn ignited at the base of his neck.
Omen tensed, his calm facade breaking as the burning sensation from the imprint on his skin flared to life. The black snake tattoo, which coiled around his neck like a living brand, began to glow a vivid red, the heat radiating from it like fire under his skin. He gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively reaching up to press against the burning mark. His muscles flexed as the pain intensified, but he endured it with a grim sense of familiarity.
They had his location.
"Of course, they'd find me now," Omen thought bitterly, his thoughts momentarily distracted by the searing heat coursing through him.
Moments later, the sound of boots crunching through the forest floor reached his ears. Their march cut through the tranquil silence of the woods, and soon enough, they emerged from the tree line, eyes narrowing as they caught sight of him.
Omen didn't bother to move. He lay atop the dead bullock lord, his body half-casually sprawled across its massive form, one arm resting lazily over its thick hide. Blood still pooled beneath the beast, a stark contrast to the serene forest around them. He could feel the sergeants' gaze on him, even the other recruits looked at him in shock.
He met their eyes briefly, the glow of the imprint still searing against his neck, but his expression was relaxed, almost indifferent. One of the sergeants stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. His gaze shifted between Omen and the colossal carcass beneath him, struggling to comprehend what had unfolded here.
"You're not capable of handling a bullock lord alone. Who assisted you soldier?" the sergeant said, his voice laced with unease.
Omen chuckled, though it was a cold, humourless sound. "Yeah sure, would you mind turning this off now as you've already found me." His voice was calm as he pointed lazily to the glowing tattoo on his neck, the searing pain from the imprint doing little to alter his casual demeanour.
The sergeant's eyes lingered on the glowing mark on Omen's neck, his suspicion deepening. He finally pulled out the small baton and switched off the pain, greatly relieving Omen. However the latter didn't show it on his face as he slowly sat up, brushing off some of the dried blood from his green clothing.
"Thanks, I presume a bullock lord should cover the mass of four normal ones right, then this hunting expedition has ended", he said arrogantly as he completely ignored the sergeants and recruits and headed back to the base.
…..
The early morning chill clung to the air, the cold biting into the skin of the recruits as they filed into the arena-shaped field. Omen, fully dressed long before dawn, stood off to the side, his eyes scanning the surroundings with cold detachment. The morning drill had been brutal—sergeants screaming at the top of their lungs, pushing the exhausted recruits out of bed with relentless shouts. Most of them had barely eaten enough to regain their strength from the night before, their bodies sluggish and uncooperative in the cold. Several recruits had been forced outside in nothing but thin cotton clothes, the biting wind stinging their exposed skin.
But now, the true challenge began. The recruits huddled together, casting curious glances at the tall, statuesque woman standing in the center of the field. Captain Carole. She was stunning—tall and beautiful, her presence commanding attention the moment she spoke. Her voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the low murmurs of the crowd, silencing them instantly. All fifty recruits looked at her with wide eyes, awe-struck by her presence.
Except for Omen, obviously.
"I am Captain Carole, and I'll be your combat instructor from today," There was no softness in her tone, only sharp precision and discipline. "I will alternate with Captain Don, who will be your overall combat tester."
The recruits shuffled nervously, stealing glances at each other. Carole's piercing gaze swept over them, taking in their dishevelled appearances and exhausted expressions with little sympathy.
"Every five days, you will be introduced to a different captain, rotating over the five companies. Weapons, combat, assassination, support, and utilities," she continued, her eyes narrowing as she spoke. "These are all factors required by every special-grade combat slave. Once a week, your progress will be tested in duels overseen by Captain Don."
The title "battle slave" wasn't lost on them—every person in that arena knew exactly what they were training to become.
"Any questions?" Carole asked, her tone making it clear she didn't expect any. The field remained silent. Most recruits were too intimidated to speak. A few shifted uncomfortably, their eyes nervously scanning the ground.
"Good. Then let's begin," she snapped.
As the recruits stood at attention, Carole began, "Your first lesson will be a demonstration of what combat slavery looks like. You are not here to learn how to fight. You are here to learn how to die for someone else's cause. Forget your desires. Forget your own goals. From now on, your life belongs to Brigadier General Arthur. And you will give it without hesitation."
The cold wind blew across the field, but the weight of her words chilled the recruits more than the air ever could. Her eyes swept over them, cold and commanding, before she called out two names by their designation numbers. Two of the oldest recruits stepped forward, their large, muscular frames standing out among the group. Both of them had the same short-cropped yellow hair and oblong faces, a stark resemblance that marked them as twins.
'What am I even doing here?', Omen had to ask himself. He hadn't even taken another approach in his plans yet, all he had been doing was acquiring knowledge.
Omen watched with mild interest as they made their way up to the small, elevated concrete platform. The tension between the two was intense. They shared a glance, their postures wary as they silently agreed to attack together. Despite their muscular frames and physical prowess, something about them lacked the sharpness of true warriors. They were hesitant and overly cautious.
With a sudden burst of movement, the twins lunged at Captain Carole, fists flying through the air with the kind of reckless energy that only comes from desperation. But every punch they threw met nothing but space. Carole moved like a shadow, her fluid grace making their attacks look slow, and clumsy. The twins swung again, this time aiming directly at her face, but she easily sidestepped them, not even breaking a sweat.
"Rule number one," she began, her voice calm and steady despite the flurry of blows aimed at her, "Never underestimate an opponent."
As if to drive the lesson home, she parried another wild punch aimed at her and responded with brutal efficiency—a swift kick to one of the boys' groins The blow was grave, and the crash caused the other recruits to shudder. The boy slumped to the ground, moaning in pain, while his sibling paused, evidently hesitant whether to proceed.
Carole didn't give him the luxury of time to think. She spun on her heel, delivering a swift strike to the second twin's midsection, knocking the wind out of him with a single, calculated move. He staggered back, clutching his abdomen, but Carole's voice remained steady as she continued her lesson.
"Rule number two," she said, her tone as cold as ice. "Don't be afraid to fight dirty. You are not knights. You are battle slaves. There is no righteousness or purity in real battle."
Her words rang with a harsh truth that struck deep into the recruits' core. "You have been chosen for one purpose," she continued, circling the second twin like a predator. "To kill. To win. To survive. Nothing else matters. You fight to end your opponent, not for glory, not for honour. Forget whatever notions you had about righteousness or purity. Those don't exist here."
The second twin, still gasping for breath, looked up at her with a mixture of fear and defiance, but it didn't last long. Carole's next strike was swift and brutal—a sharp elbow to the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the ground beside his brother.
Carole looked down at the two terrified boys, her expression unreadable as they struggled to get back to their feet. She let the silence linger for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the rest of the recruits.
"This is war," she said simply. "If you're not prepared to get your hands dirty, you'll die. And no one will care."
Her words hung in the air like a cold, hard truth. Soon, the captain called a girl by her designation number. It wasn't long before she collapsed onto her face, the laughter of the recruits filled the air, but Captain Carole's voice cut through the noise like a knife. "Rule number three. Do not let emotions cloud your judgment. Channel your rage into your battle. Do not fight blindly."
The girl, humiliated and angry, tried to strike back, but Carole effortlessly sidestepped her attack, extending a leg at the last moment, and sending the girl sprawling to the ground. The recruits laughed harder, amused by the display, yet Omen stood silent, his sharp eyes analyzing every move.
Though he was aware of most martial arts as the son of an emperor, back then he was extremely weak and never had an opportunity to use his skills fully. So his focus never wavered. He had seen many combat techniques in his life, but there was something about Captain Carole's effortless skill that drew his attention. She moved with a fluidity that intrigued him. For the first time since arriving, Omen found himself genuinely interested after a while.
Even without his active abilities, he realized that learning skills like these would give him a significant edge in the future.
"Anyone else?" Carole asked, surveying the crowd with a challenging gaze. "I have more rules to teach, but they are better explained through demonstration."
The recruits exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to volunteer. Just as the silence began to settle in, a hand shot up from the second platoon—Dahlia. Her dark feline eyes gleamed with a dangerous excitement as she confidently stepped forward.
"The werebeast of the second platoon, number S18," Captain Carole called out, sounding pleased at Dahlia's enthusiasm. But before she could continue, another hand was raised.