Warrior Training System

Cassandra had been swamped with work these past weeks, her efforts divided between two pressing matters. Half of her burden came from the capture of Pastor Abraham Cornus, a notorious figure whose case had consumed much of her energy. The other half came from the desperate search for Cassian, who had been missing for over a week. She clung to the hope that he had been kidnapped and not killed, though the uncertainty gnawed at her.

Her focus was centered on Surock Village, the place where Cassian had vanished. She combed through the dense jungles surrounding the area, certain that the kidnappers wouldn't risk moving to another village. The neighboring settlements were heavily secured by city guards ever since his disappearance, leaving little chance for escape.

The guards and Cassandra's team didn't mind the relentless work of hunting down and eliminating cultists, though the sheer number of them hiding in the jungle shocked everyone. It was unsettling to realize such a significant presence had been operating so close to the city, right under their noses. The cultists seemed to have been planning something big—or perhaps still were, given the way they kept sending wave after wave of expendable followers to be slaughtered by the guards and Cassandra's team.

Cassandra, however, couldn't shake the feeling that something vital was missing from the picture. The puzzle didn't fully add up, but she had little time to dwell on it. Her focus was locked on Cassian. Though she knew she wasn't truly responsible for him—Cassian had chosen this dangerous profession himself—she couldn't help but feel the weight of his disappearance. He was her teammate, and she clung to the hope that he was still alive, determined to find him before it was too late.

As Cassandra returned to rest after a grueling day of searching, her eyes caught sight of a crimson pillar of light piercing the sky from deep within the jungle. Her blood boiled instantly, her mind connecting the ominous sight to the cultists. Anger flared as she cursed under her breath and leaped toward the source, her voice a growl of frustration. "Those damn fanatics..."

She wasn't the only one to notice. Behind her, her colleagues scrambled to keep up. Alix, flying just a short distance behind, called out, "What is that, Detective Cassandra?"

"I don't know," Cassandra snapped, her voice sharp with determination. "But I'm going to find out." She pushed herself harder, her body blurring into motion as she surged ahead, leaving Alix tens of meters behind in seconds. The distance between them grew rapidly, and Alix's worried gaze followed her relentless pace.

Moments later, Dallas caught up to Alix, her breath slightly labored. "Did she tell you what that light is?" he asked, his tone edged with concern.

Alix shook her head, her expression uneasy. "No, she didn't. But... I've got a bad feeling about this. That light—it feels wrong."

Both exchanged a tense glance before increasing their pace, the ominous red glow growing stronger as they neared its source.

Dallas felt a chill run down her spine as her gaze lingered on the source of the red light. A deep unease settled over her, and she muttered under her breath, "Me too..." The sensation clawing at her gut was disturbingly familiar, one she'd only experienced when apprehending dangerous criminals or facing them in the tense moments before capture—the suffocating weight of pure malice.

"It's... killing intent," she whispered, her voice low but steady.

Alix, after a moment of thought, nodded in agreement. The oppressive feeling in the air left little room for doubt.

Far ahead, Cassandra was already grappling with the same realization. She'd felt it too—an overwhelming, raw wave of murderous intent radiating from the direction of the light. Whoever was behind it wasn't ordinary, not by any stretch. And for someone to emit such unrestrained bloodlust, something monumental—or catastrophic—had to be unfolding.

As Cassandra raced through the dense jungle, her mind churned with grim possibilities. What could radiate such overwhelming killing intent? Who—or what—was capable of such malice? The red light pulsed ominously in the distance, a beacon of bloodlust that made her chest tighten.

Then, as she drew closer, her nose caught a heavy metallic tang in the air. Her eyes widened in shock as recognition hit her—it was the unmistakable scent of blood, thick and suffocating. The closer she got, the more overpowering it became, until it felt as though the air itself was saturated with it.

'How much blood has been spilled here?' she thought, her inner voice trembling. The stench was staggering, the kind she'd only experienced on battlefields where hundreds, perhaps thousands, had perished. But this wasn't a war zone. This was something far more twisted.

Her pace quickened, urgency and dread driving her forward. When she finally reached the source, her breath hitched at the sight. Bodies—dozens, perhaps more—lay scattered across the jungle floor. Each corpse bore the marks of brutal deaths, their uniforms marking them as cultists. Some had been reduced to grotesque heaps of flesh and bone, crushed into unrecognizable masses. Others bore deep, clean cuts, their bodies severed in half or hacked into multiple pieces.

As she moved deeper into the carnage, Cassandra's sharp eyes noticed a distinct shift in the method of slaughter. The earlier kills were crude, a violent mix of rage and raw strength. But the later ones showed precision—cold, calculated slices. Each wound radiated pure hatred, as though the very blade used had been an extension of someone's consuming wrath.

"It's a massacre," Cassandra muttered under her breath, the words tasting bitter in her mouth.

'Who could have done this?' Cassandra wondered, her thoughts racing as she pushed herself to move faster. The sheer brutality she had witnessed left her both shaken and determined to uncover the source.

But as she neared the heart of the carnage, her breath caught in her throat. She froze momentarily, her wide eyes locking onto the figure responsible. Cassian.

There he stood amidst the slaughter, his body bathed in a red, pulsating glow that radiated a suffocating aura of killing intent. His hand dripped with blood, and his sword moved with relentless precision, cutting down the cultists one after another. Some of them were shrouded in dark fog, clearly more powerful than the others, their strength allowing them to withstand two strikes before falling. But even they stood no chance against Cassian's unyielding fury.

Cassandra's heart sank at the sight. This wasn't the Cassian she knew. She slowed her pace, stunned into hesitation. But then she saw it—a giant red orb of energy hurtling through the jungle, its trajectory aimed directly at Cassian.

Her instincts roared to life. Without thinking, she surged forward, her voice breaking through the chaos as she leapt toward him with urgency.

"Cassian!"

she screamed, her voice echoing in desperation.

**********

Julius's life had undergone a dramatic transformation. Born into a noble family, his path had always seemed clear. While most nobles were burdened with numerous responsibilities, Julius had been fortunate—or perhaps cursed—to have only one: mastering the sword. And master it he did, surpassing the limits of mortal human capability and ascending to the rank of a 7th-circle warrior, a feat so rare that only a handful achieved it every decade.

Julius took immense pride in this accomplishment, reaching such heights far earlier than most. Yet, despite this remarkable achievement, he would willingly abandon it all if his wife asked him to. She was his anchor, the one person who could sway his priorities and reshape his life. For her, the carefree man who had roamed through life without a shred of responsibility had willingly taken on one of the most demanding roles imaginable—not an office-bound job, but the gritty, perilous work of a public servant, serving as a detective.

Julius might have enjoyed his role as a detective if it involved hunting truly formidable criminals, but most of the time, it was tedious. The monotony was broken only by the weekly lectures he had come to enjoy giving and the camaraderie of his colleagues. Recently, though, things had taken a personal turn—one of his colleagues had been abducted, and his wife's dear friend had implored him to help. That's how he found himself here, deep in the jungle, dealing with petty cultist lackeys.

It wasn't all bad. After months of restraint, he finally had a chance to wield his sword freely, cutting down these small fries with ease. He relished the moment, wishing there were more opportunities like this—more fights, more chances to let loose.

That wish seemed about to be granted. An intense wave of killing intent swept through the jungle, stopping Julius in his tracks. His pulse quickened with excitement as he sprinted toward the source, hoping it would be worth the anticipation.

'Please let it be a cultist,' he thought eagerly. Fighting cultists was the best because he could unleash himself entirely without holding back. If it turned out to be someone good or neutral, the best he could hope for was a restrained exchange of blows before pulling back. But if it was someone evil, he could aim to kill, and that was where the thrill lay. Only an all-out, no-holds-barred fight could satisfy him as a 7th-circle warrior.

Finally, he reached the source of the overwhelming killing intent, and what he saw left him momentarily stunned. But that shock quickly gave way to exhilaration as his eyes locked onto a massive, glowing red orb hurtling toward the origin of the murderous aura. The sheer force radiating from the orb sent a thrill through him—it was the kind of raw power that only a truly formidable mage could summon. His grip on his sword tightened, and his lips curled into an eager grin. 'This is going to be interesting.'