Chapter 6.

Dom strode into the grand hall, his steps measured and deliberate, Marcia gliding at his side like a shadow, happy for the stares she got from ladies who wished to be in her shoe as the master's girlfriend.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted.

One by one, the room’s occupants dropped to a knee, right hands pressed firmly to their chests, a flawless display of allegiance and respect.

All but one.

Bryce stood motionless, mind adrift, his thoughts tangled on the uncertainty of what awaited him. The bowing figures around him blurred at the edges of his vision. He was obviously not in this world.

Dom’s gaze swept over the room, sharp and assessing, pausing for a heartbeat longer on the lone figure still upright. He noticed, but chose to say nothing. He deliberately chose to ignore.

Marcia, however, did not overlook it. Her eyes locked on Bryce, narrowing with a slow, and deliberate malice.

Her stare dropped, fixing on his waist as though she could see beneath flesh and bone.

A sudden, searing pain bloomed in Bryce’s abdomen. It was hot, and twisting, like a blade buried deep and set aflame. His breath caught; his hands flew instinctively to his abdomen.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his head up, and met Marcia’s gaze.

Her eyes burned with the satisfaction of someone who had just reminded him exactly where he stood.

“That's how to bow, boy,”

He heard her say in her mind.

Then they walked to their seat. The seats were carved from dark, polished wood, their surfaces gleaming in the light like relics of old authority. Marcia’s gown whispered across the steps, her chin lifted, eyes darting briefly toward the newcomers before she settled into her seat beside Dom.

From somewhere near the center, Dom cleared his throat, a deliberate, and commanding sound that rippled through the air. His gaze swept the hall before he leaned toward the guard at his side.

“Begin the initiation ceremony,” he instructed, voice calm but edged with authority.

As if on cue, the rustle of movement died down. Chairs scraped softly against the polished floor as everyone took their seats, anticipation thickening like smoke.

The guard stepped forward, his boots striking the floor with weighty, echoing thuds. He paused in the center, letting his eyes sweep over the room before announcing,

“Today, three new students will be initiated, and welcomed in anticipation of their first test.”

His words settled like a stone into still water, the subtle shift of the crowd betraying curiosity, rivalry, and quiet calculation.

The guard’s voice hardened.

“Can these three students step forward to the podium?”

Khalifa, still beside Bryce, tilted his head the slightest bit toward the stage, a signal as brief as a flicker. Bryce caught it and, after a shallow breath, forced his legs to move. Each step carried the weight of a thousand stares on his back. His palms were damp, and the murmurs from the crowd seemed to grow sharper with every inch he closed to the podium.

He heard them say things about his petite figure. But that wasn't his concern, yet.

A young woman in a fitted blazer and skirt moved gracefully from the opposite side, her heels clicking in a measured rhythm. A young man followed soon after, tall and wiry, his smirk suggesting he already thought he belonged there.

Bryce didn't look at the both of them. His focus was on the polished wood under his shoes, the shadowy outline of the guard ahead, and the pounding of his own pulse that threatened to drown out everything else.

Then they were on the podium, standing in front of thousands of students and a deadly master. All Bryce could do to help his nervousness was to drop his eyes to the floor of the podium.

The guard’s voice cracked like a whip through the hall.

“Open up. All three of you, strip.”

The command, long awaited by Bryce finally came. It hung in the air, heavy and unnatural. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

The young man’s eyes darted nervously between the two others. His fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, then stopped. He turned to Dom, his voice trembling just enough for the crowd to hear.

“Is… is this part of the initiation ceremony?”

Dom didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. Those icy blue eyes of his fixed instead on Bryce, steady, unyielding, and cutting through him like a blade. He watched as Bryce’s hands were buried in the pouch of his hoodie, but the restless movement of his fingers betrayed him. He kept tugging at the fabric, twisting it over and over, as though the thread might unravel and take his nerves with it.

The hall murmured with unease, the sound swelling and breaking like waves against the cold walls. No one expected this. Someone dare question the master?

The air had shifted; even the most seasoned among them could feel the edge of something wrong.

And then it happened.

The young man let out a sharp gasp, his body jerking forward as if gripped by invisible hands. His knees slammed into the hard floor with a hollow thud. Both hands flew to his throat, clawing at nothing, his mouth gaping like he was trying to breathe in air that wasn’t there.

It wasn’t an act.

Something was strangling him without ever laying a finger.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by an awful silence. Every eye turned toward the source of the unseen force…

But this force had its gaze fixed on Bryce instead.

He was already frozen, heart hammering, as the invisible grip still hadn't shifted its attention from him. Without being instructed, his fidgeting hands moved to the hem of his hoodie, peeling away every piece of clothing until he was bare.

By now, the young lady was already naked too, with nothing on her, her hands  trembling by her sides. That young man was her boyfriend.

Both she and Bryce watched him fight for his life, and then he stilled. He was gone, and his body was quickly taken off the podium by two guards. Bryce could swear that today was one of the worst days of his life.

At the center of the dimly lit room stood a low, rectangular table, its polished surface gleaming faintly under the overhead light, as though it had been placed there for a purpose far older and darker than the moment itself. The guard’s boots scraped against the floor as he stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the walls.

“You,” he said, his voice a cold, clipped order, pointing at the woman.

She flinched, eyes darting between the guard and the table. For a brief moment, it seemed like she might plead, or at least hesitate. But fear worked faster than reason. She stepped forward, each footfall quiet, like she was walking into her own undoing.

“Go with the boy first,”

A cold, thick  voice instructed.