Luka's boots pounded against the dirt with a relentless rhythm, each step feeling like a hammer driving him deeper into the unforgiving reality of his now called life.
The training grounds stretched before him like a cruel joke, a maze of jagged terrain and relentless obstacles designed to chew him up and spit him out.
Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop.
Weakness was a luxury he couldn't afford. Every burning muscle, every ragged breath reminded him why he was here.
To survive.
To grow stronger.
To carve his vengeance into the bones of those who deserved it.
This wasn't about hope, or dreams, or even salvation. It was simple. Get back his life, save his queen and kill those fucking bastards.
The sun—or whatever passed for it in this twisted world—was a merciless overseer, bearing down on him with an unrelenting heat. Luka's hammer bounced heavily against his back with every step, its weight dragging him down like a lead chain, but he pressed on.
His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest heaving as he pushed his body past the point of exhaustion. He wasn't just running; he was fighting himself, every instinct screaming at him to stop, to take a break, to let his aching legs collapse beneath him.
But he kept going.
He had to.
There was no one else who would pull him out of this mess.
Finally, Luka slowed, stumbling to a stop near the edge of the grounds. He bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his face and pooling on the dirt below. Every breath felt like fire in his chest, his entire body trembling from the effort.
"Not enough," he muttered under his breath, straightening up with a grunt. He rolled his shoulders, the dull ache of overused muscles radiating through him.
This wasn't even close to enough. If he wanted to survive—no, if he wanted to win—he had to push harder.
Be better.
Faster.
Stronger.
Just as he was almost done catching his breath, laughter rang out from across the training grounds. Sharp, cutting, and unmistakably directed at him.
Luka turned his head, his narrowed eyes locking onto two figures leaning casually against a nearby fence. One of them, a wiry guy with slicked-back hair and a dagger twirling lazily between his fingers, smirked like he had just won a prize.
"Well, well, look at this guy," the wiry one said, loud enough to carry across the field. "Already wiped out after what? A jog? You sure you're not in the wrong place, buddy?"
His companion, a muscular woman with a scar cutting across her jaw, chuckled darkly. She crossed her arms, her biceps bulging as she leaned against the fence. "Maybe they've got a spot for you in housekeeping. You look more suited for mopping floors than swinging a hammer."
Luka clenched his jaw, his hands twitching at his sides.
Being made a sport.
He was used to it.
Useless. A waste of space. Those words had once cut deep, each syllable a dagger to his heart. But now? Now they were little more than background noise, a faint hum he barely felt.
The two of them waited, probably expecting some sort of comeback, but Luka just turned away. His silence wasn't submission—it was dismissal. They didn't matter, and neither did their words.
His lack of reaction seemed to irritate them more than anything he could've said.
"What's the matter?" the wiry one called out, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Cat got your tongue?"
"Or maybe he's too dumb to think of a reply," the woman added, her laughter grating like nails on a chalkboard.
Luka ignored them, his focus snapping back to the training grounds.
He broke into a run again, his boots slamming against the ground as he pushed his body to its limits. Each step was a battle, every muscle screaming for mercy, but Luka wasn't here to listen to his body.
The path ahead was cruel, uneven, and littered with obstacles. He vaulted over a low wall, the hammer on his back shifting and throwing him off his balance. He stumbled but caught himself, cursing under his breath.
The incline that followed was even worse. A jagged slope of loose rocks and debris that seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky. Luka gritted his teeth, his hands scraping against the sharp edges as he climbed. Blood smeared the stones beneath him, his palms torn and raw, but he didn't stop.
By the time Luka reached the top, his body was a trembling mess. He collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at the ground beneath him. Blood dripped from his hands, pooling on the rocks, but he barely felt it.
He pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him.
The world blurred at the edges as Luka's gaze swept over the sprawling training grounds, stretching endlessly before him—a relentless reminder of the uphill battle that lay ahead. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers curling tighter around the worn handle of his hammer, the weight of it grounding him against the overwhelming expanse.
This was his world now. A brutal, unforgiving hellscape that didn't care about fairness or morality. And he would conquer it.
Failure? Failure wasn't an option.
Not when everything he cared about was on the line.