As the young man was led out of the room, I stopped by the window. The world beyond the glass was blurred and savage. Below, on the proving grounds, the lights flickered to life—massive floodlights illuminating the muddy field with a cold, white glare. Under this light, every raindrop looked like a silver bullet, and the men below stood ready to pounce on one another like hungry wolves.
The heavy footsteps of "407" faded down the hallway behind the door. I signaled to the guards; they stepped out without a word. Now, the room held only me, the static noise from the monitors, and the nervous drumming of rain against the windowpane.
I approached the screen. There he was, entering the field.
His upper body was bare; the scraps of fabric I had sliced earlier fluttered in the wind from his shoulders. He moved into the very center of the grounds, surrounded by the other prisoners. The other "living shields" stopped the moment they saw him. To them, Number 407 wasn't just a comrade; he looked like a "traitor who had caught the Lady's eye."
"Begin!" I said into the microphone, my voice echoing like thunder from the speakers installed across the grounds.
At that instant, the group lunged at him. I leaned back in my chair, watching, my breath caught in my throat. He skillfully parried a blow from a giant of a man who attacked first, delivering a precise strike to his opponent's knee. The sickening crack of bone snapping was clearly audible through the microphone.
The boy's movements were strange—light, as if he were dancing, yet every strike was devastating. He didn't kill, but he rendered his opponents completely incapable of fighting. I stared at his face: his eyes were dark, showing neither pain nor fear. Only cold calculation.
"Just like me," I thought to myself, my lips trembling into an involuntary smile.
Ten minutes passed. The proving grounds were littered with motionless bodies. Only Number 407 remained standing. His body was coated in mud and blood, steam rising from his chest. He lifted his head and looked directly toward the glass-walled room where I stood. Even though I knew he couldn't see me, his gaze felt as if it were piercing through my very heart.
I stood up and pressed the elevator button to go down.
When the elevator doors slid open, the cold, damp air hit my face once more. I walked toward him across the muddy field. The guards cleared a path for me. Men lay all around, groaning and hunched in pain, but I didn't give them a second glance.
I stopped in front of him. He was panting, blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder.
"You survived," I said, leaning closer to his face. The scent of rainwater mingled with the metallic smell of blood rising from his body. "Now tell me, what is your name? I do not care to address my 'Shadow' by a number."
He took a deep breath and remained silent for a moment. Then, he answered in a low but firm voice:
"My name is... Alikhan."
"Alikhan," I repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. "A beautiful name. But know this, Alikhan: as of today, your past is dead. You breathe only for me, you kill for me, and if necessary, you die for me."
I reached out and wiped the mud from his face with my finger. He flinched slightly as my skin touched his warm flesh, but he didn't break eye contact.
"Come," I said, turning my back. "A fitting place has been prepared for you at the palace. Today is your first lesson: you will learn how to stand behind a sovereign."
I walked toward the car. Behind me, I heard his heavy but resolute footsteps. I knew—this boy would either become my most powerful weapon or my final mistake. But either way, the game had truly begun.