The next morning, Sheath woke with a start. His body was still sore from the exhaustion of the previous day, but something else set him on edge—a presence in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the light filtering through the curtains, he saw someone standing at the foot of his bed.
It was Armin.
Sheath's breath caught in his throat. Memories rushed back in a painful wave—the coldness in Armin's eyes, the brutal beatings, the fear. He felt frozen, vulnerable beneath the blanket, unsure of what to expect.
"Finally, you're awake," Armin said coolly, holding a glass of milk in one hand. "I've been waiting. Drink this and get cleaned up. We've got something in store for you."
He placed the glass on the bedside table and turned to leave without another word.
Sheath remained silent for a moment, staring at the milk. His heart was pounding. Why was Armin here? Why was he being… kind? Or was it just another trick? He couldn't forget what this man had done to him—how violently he had once treated him.
And now… this?
Still, after a moment of hesitation, Sheath picked up the glass and drank. It was cold, creamy, unremarkable—but it left a strange taste in his mouth. Not from the milk, but from the situation itself. Nothing about it felt right.
After freshening up, Sheath wandered hesitantly into the living room. Armin was there, lounging casually on the couch like nothing was out of the ordinary. The tension in the air felt heavy, but Sheath forced himself to speak.
"Hey… Armin. What's the surprise you planned for me?"
Armin gave him a thin smile. "You'll find out soon enough."
Without warning, Armin stood up, drew a pistol from his side, and fired. The shots rang out like thunder. Two guards who had been standing silently in the room collapsed instantly, lifeless.
Sheath jumped back, eyes wide, pulse racing.
"What—what are you doing?!" he shouted, trembling.
But Armin turned to him calmly, unbothered by the bodies now bleeding on the floor.
"Relax. They were useless. I need people I can rely on," Armin said, then stepped closer, locking eyes with Sheath. His voice lowered. "Now tell me, Sheath—what do you want to be in life?"
Sheath backed up a step, the image of the dead guards still fresh in his mind. His voice shook as he replied, "I—I don't know."
Armin frowned. "No. That's not good enough. Look into my eyes and say it again. No fear. Just truth."
Sheath hesitated. The silence was unbearable. Then, with great effort, he forced himself to meet Armin's piercing gaze. Something in him, buried beneath all the confusion and fear, began to stir. He wasn't sure if it was anger, defiance, or something else entirely.
"I want to be… a mercenary," he said.
A slow smile spread across Armin's face. "Good boy."
He turned and walked toward the front door, motioning for Sheath to follow. Still dazed, Sheath trailed behind him silently, glancing one last time at the fallen guards. There was no remorse in Armin's stride, no hesitation. Whatever this man was planning, he had no time for second thoughts.
They stepped outside into the cool morning air. The property stretched out before them—massive and secluded. Just beyond the main compound was a wide, open field lined with targets, dummies, and obstacle courses. Soldiers trained there in silence and precision, their movements crisp and mechanical.
Armin pointed toward it.
"If you want to be a mercenary," he said, "you need to train like one. No more games. No more pretending. From now on, this is your life."
Sheath stared at the pitch in awe and unease. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. This wasn't a playground—it was a warzone in disguise.
And somehow, he was becoming a part of it.
when Sheath stepped onto the training pitch. The grass was wet with dew, and the air held the bite of early morning cold. Around him, a dozen other recruits were already at work—lifting weights, sprinting across the field, engaging in combat drills under the sharp eyes of hardened instructors.
Sheath felt out of place.
His boots felt too heavy, his shirt clung to him with sweat before he'd even started. Armin stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, silent. Watching.
"Let's see what you're made of," he said.
The first test was endurance.
"Run," the instructor barked. "Three laps around the perimeter. No stopping."
Sheath took off, trying to keep pace with the others. The first lap wasn't so bad. The second burned his lungs. By the third, his legs felt like lead. He stumbled once, catching himself with a grunt, but pushed forward, teeth clenched.
"You don't get to quit," a voice growled from the sidelines—Armin. "Mercenaries don't get tired. They survive."
By the time he crossed the line, Sheath collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving. But he didn't cry. He didn't complain. He just stared at the sky, silently daring it to judge him.
Then came combat training.
He was thrown into a ring with another recruit—taller, broader, and clearly more experienced. The instructor tossed Sheath a wooden staff.
"Defend yourself."
The fight began before Sheath was ready. The first strike hit him hard in the ribs. Pain shot through his side. He tried to swing back, but his form was sloppy, wild.
The other recruit laughed and swept Sheath's legs out from under him.
He hit the ground hard.
The others watched silently. Some smirked. One or two shook their heads.
But Sheath didn't stay down.
He stood up, gripping the staff tighter, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath, remembered how the other man moved—how he held the staff low before striking—and adjusted.
The next time the recruit attacked, Sheath blocked it. The clash echoed. He countered with a quick jab to the side, not strong enough to knock him down, but enough to wipe the smirk off his opponent's face.
It wasn't a win. But it was progress.
After the match, bruised and bleeding from a split lip, Sheath limped toward the water station. Armin approached, handing him a towel.
"You don't need to win every fight," he said quietly. "Just survive them. And learn."
Sheath didn't reply. He wiped the blood from his mouth and walked back to the training area.
The final test of the day was precision.
A firing range stretched out before him. Dozens of targets lined up in rows. A standard issue sidearm was placed on the table. Cold, metallic. Heavy in his hands.
"Five shots," the instructor said. "Let's see your aim."
Sheath narrowed his eyes, adjusted his stance as he'd seen others do, and raised the weapon. His hands shook slightly. The first shot missed the mark completely. The second hit the outer ring. The third grazed the edge. He paused. Adjusted his grip. Slowed his breathing.
Fourth shot—center mass.
Fifth shot—bullseye.
There was silence behind him. Then a slow, single clap—Armin.
Sheath lowered the pistol, his arms trembling from more than just exhaustion. For the first time, he felt it—a strange spark inside. Not pride exactly, but control. A sense that he was beginning to shape something, to become something.
Not just a tool.
A force.
After the grueling training, Sheath collapsed onto his bed, muscles aching, mind spinning. It wasn't long before sleep took him. But it wasn't restful.
Within moments, he found himself drifting into a strange, ethereal world—soft, glowing, and timeless. It felt like floating in a dream, but somehow deeper, more vivid. He looked around and saw something that made his heart stop.
There, in a meadow bathed in golden light, was his younger self. A small boy, laughing and running through the grass. And beside him—his parents.
They were alive. Smiling. Whole.
His mother knelt in the flowers, arms open wide. His father stood tall, ruffling young Sheath's hair with pride. Laughter echoed through the air, warm and familiar, like a memory long buried but never forgotten. The scene was so perfect, so untouched by pain or time, that it broke something inside him.
Sheath stepped forward, trembling. His vision blurred with tears as he watched the version of himself he hadn't seen in years—happy, carefree, untouched by the horrors that would come.
A sob escaped his lips, and he dropped to his knees.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't protect you. I was just a kid. I was helpless."
He covered his face, shaking, drowning in guilt and grief.
But then—something shifted.
The laughter faded, replaced by a deep stillness. Slowly, his younger self and his parents turned toward him. Their faces were calm, kind, glowing softly in the surreal light. And then, as one, they spoke—not with their mouths, but from within his heart.
"Son… stop crying for us…"
Sheath looked up, eyes wide, breath caught.
"We know how much pain you carry. We know how broken you feel inside. But you must let go of this sorrow."
Their voices were filled with warmth and strength, like a distant fire on a cold night.
"You were never meant to stay in the past. You are not meant to live in regret. You must move forward."
Sheath felt something shift inside him—like a door opening in a place he didn't know existed.
"Chase your dreams," they said. "Become who you told us you would be… back when the world was still gentle. We believe in you. We always did."
The young boy—his younger self—smiled and raised a small hand, pointing at Sheath.
"You're on the right path," he said. "Even if it's hard. Even if it hurts. Keep going."
The vision began to fade, the meadow dissolving into light.
"Don't forget us," his mother whispered. "But don't be chained by us either."
And then they were gone.
Sheath woke with a jolt, breath shaky, eyes damp with tears. But for the first time in a long while, his chest didn't feel as heavy.
Their words echoed in his mind.
He stood up slowly, his hands clenched into fists.
He knew what he had to become.
And now… he was ready.
Sheath sat alone, the silence of the night pressing heavily around him. The dim light of the moon spilled through the window, casting long shadows on the floor. His body was still sore from training, but it wasn't the pain that kept him awake.
It was his thoughts.
His mind was in turmoil, a storm of uncertainty he couldn't quiet. He stared at his hands—calloused, bruised, hardened from combat—and wondered what they were becoming. What he was becoming.
A mercenary. A soldier of fortune. A weapon shaped by others.
But at what cost?
He tried to convince himself that he was following a purpose, that this path was the only one left to him. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, doubt kept creeping in, pulling him back into the questions he couldn't shake.
Is this the right path?
Each mission they spoke of, each training drill, each shot fired—it all felt like a step further into darkness. Slaughtering people. Destroying families. Breaking lives and dreams that once mirrored his own.
Was this justice? Was this strength?
Or was he simply becoming what the world had always tried to make him—a ruthless killer, molded by violence, feared by everyone?
He thought back to the vision of his parents, their voices still lingering in his heart like a soft echo.
"You must move forward."
But forward into what?
He didn't want to become a monster. He didn't want to lose whatever pieces of his humanity he still clung to. Yet, every day, the line between right and wrong seemed to blur just a little more. With every lesson Armin taught him, with every cruel truth he was forced to accept, he felt something inside him shift—something that used to resist.
The world hadn't been kind. It never gave him a choice. And maybe that was what frightened him the most—not the path ahead, but the realization that he was starting to accept it. To become comfortable in it.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. The silence pressed tighter.
Was he doing this for survival?
Or for revenge?
Or simply because he had nothing else left?
He didn't know.
And yet, beneath all the uncertainty, one thing pulsed steadily in his chest—resolve. He wouldn't allow himself to be a puppet. If he was to walk this road, it would be on his own terms.
He would decide who he became.
Not Armin. Not Kliner. Not anyone else.
With that thought, he sat up, his eyes steady now. The path ahead was still shrouded in shadow, but he would walk it with his eyes open.
Whatever happened next… would be his choice.