Prologue
There’s nothing quite like getting punched in the face to start your day.
They call it The Pit, an underground fighting ring lit by mismatched street lamps and a single swaying chandelier above the boxing ring.
Once you enter The Pit, you don’t leave the same.
Over a hundred students cram shoulder to shoulder around the ring, all of them wide-eyed, jittery, high on adrenaline. No one sits. The folding chairs lining the floor are just for show.
Inside the ring, blood spatters the mat, some dried, some still wet. Today, some of that blood belongs to Greta Gunther.
She’s one of us.
A student.
A warrior.
Breathless, bruised, and still on her feet.
She lets out a guttural roar, loud enough to rattle the arena, and lunges at Professor Simms.
Two sides. One fight. Glory at stake.
Greta’s been fighting in The Pit since freshman year, trading punches with other students to scrape together enough extra credit points to pass. She’s a junior at the Academy. Just one year to go until she graduates from “college.”
Currently, she is completing something more challenging than any written exam. She’s facing off against a teacher.
Win, and you graduate early. No exams, no thesis. Just a bloody rite of passage. And rumor has it that Greta is desperate to leave. I’m in awe of her courage. Every time I see her, she’s bloodied and bruised, and she keeps swinging. She doesn’t give up.
She comes back. Over and over again. I admire her ambition. The way that no matter how many matches she loses, she sits up, dusts herself off, and signs up for another one, every time.
It’s a high honor to fight a teacher in The Pit. I’ve watched plenty of matches, but I’ve never stepped inside the ring.
I imagine myself stepping into the ring. I shudder.
It’ll be a cold day in hell when that happens.
Fear, that’s what I feel when I think about it. I can picture hundreds of sets of eyes on me. I’d freeze. Miss a hit and make a complete fool of myself.
The noise alone would kill me. To even think about somehow drowning that out and being able to focus on fighting, now that’s talent. Whatever it may be, Greta’s got it.
“Come on, knock her teeth out!” Quincy yells beside me. She’s a short girl with the mouth of a trucker and the loyalty of a pit bull, my best friend since we were twelve, when we met at orientation to the school.
The crowd is a messy blend of students, professors, parents, and even some alumni. Everyone’s here to witness the carnage.
Greta flails, throwing wild punches, but Professor Simms is a predator, fast, calculating. She dodges easily, eyes always scanning for an opening. And when it comes, she pounces.
Simms sweeps Greta’s legs out from under her. She crashes to the mat, her head bouncing off the floor with a sickeningthud. The arena goes silent.
Professor Harvey, tonight’s referee, steps in and starts counting.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. You’re out!”
He raises Simms’ arm in victory.
The room erupts.
In The Pit, violence isn’t just a means of survival; it’s a celebration.
Yet, I guess each of us, in our own way, at Infiniteye, experiences pain in different ways. All pushed to impossible limits that test our ability to fight, endure, and conquer.
That was yesterday.
Today, I’m the one being hunted. There’s no crowd, no teachers, just me and the great outdoors, plenty of forest where no one will hear me scream.
The sun creeps over the horizon, casting golden light through the trees. The sky bleeds blue and yellow as the forest awakens. The air is still, with just the chirping of birds and the whisper of wind through pine needles.
Ding.My watch vibrates, and my heart rate is over 60 bpm. I inhale deeply and slow my breathing. If I don’t drop below 60, the watch will scream, and they’ll find me. Again.
I move carefully across the rocky terrain, each step soft as a whisper. The ground’s uneven, blanketed in leaves, and patches of early fall snow. My thin sweater does little to ward off the chill. I still can’t believe they took my coat.
Then again, it’s better than when they strapped weights to my ankles, or tied my hands behind my back, and left me in a bear cave.
You learn fast, or you fall hard. Memere once told me, “The world doesn’t need another weak soul. It needs a force of nature.”
This is a family tradition. The older generations train the younger. We don’t just rely on Infiniteye Academy to teach us how to hunt and survive. It’s the secret to the Knightly family’s longevity. We’re monster hunters after all.
Every generation is carefully molded, sculpted, and forced to endure unimaginable circumstances to prepare us for the worst. My training started when I was just a kid and will continue until my grandparents think I’m ready.
For what, they’ve never said. I can only speculate that it’s when I prove to them that I’m strong enough. That I won’t be so easily broken or defeated.
When dealing with creatures beyond common knowledge, every lesson is a matter of survival. Sometimes, the pressure can feel crushing, but I remember why we exist.
To save the world, or at least do our best to protect the innocent. Therefore, any anxiety or uncertainty is insignificant when compared to the overarching mission. Serve. Protect. Loyalty. Honor.
Most of all, I always remember, Knightlys don’t give up, and we never miss.
My senses are sharp now. Hyper-aware. One snap of a twig and I’m dead.
A puff of white smoke escapes my lips as I exhale. It might look like I’m smoking. I round a bend and freeze. Something huge steps from behind a tree. Human-shaped, but wrong. Covered in fur. Clawed hands.
Wham!My knife slashes forward, catching it between the eyes.Skreeeeech.My watch shrieks. Heart rate spiked. My position is blown. Shit.
I bolt.
The sound of rushing water reaches my ears. I scramble toward it, leaping over brush and loose rock. The river roars ahead, perfect. It’ll cover my tracks.
I follow the bank, lungs burning, blood pumping, the checkpoint’s close.
I sprint uphill, cutting away from the river. The trees break, and I see it. A clearing. The finish line.
Pop. Pop.My shoulder jerks. Then my leg. Stinging, sharp. Paintballs.
I dive behind a rock pile and check the damage, red stains spread across my shirt and thigh.Skreeeech.The watch shrieks again.
A hiss behind me, a target activates. I spin, hurling my last knife.Slam.It lands clean, right in the chest.
I run. Another shot hits my back, searing hot. Still, I keep going. The flag should be just...There. A tree. Of course, it’s at the top.
I sprint, but they’re fast, closing in on both sides. Black tactical gear, ski masks, visors. My attackers.
“On your knees!” one barks, gun raised.
I drop slowly, raising my hands. “Do you surrender?” he asks.
I squint up into the sunlight. He’s squinting too. Blinded.
I grin.
SLAM.I lunge. His legs buckle, and I wrestle for the gun. One hand grips the barrel, the other the trigger.Bang. Bang. Bang.
The second attacker drops, and paint bursts on his chest. I yank the gun free and fire.Bullseye.Another paint round to the forehead.
With both down, I dash to the tree, tearing off my belt. I loop it around the trunk and lean back, climbing with aching muscles and grit.
Branch by branch, inch by inch, I climb. Slip.Ding. Ding.The watch screams again. I dangle upside down for a second, staring at the forest floor.
Not good.
I grit my teeth and haul myself up, chest heaving. The flag flutters ahead.
I inch forward, balancing on the branch like a tightrope walker. My fingers close around the yellow fabric.
Victory.
I slide down the tree, triumphant, and land with a thud. Two attackers, unmasked now, watch me.
“I got the flag!” I shout.
Memere shakes her head. “Yeah, but you took three shots. One in the back.”
I glance at the paint stains. “Still hit all the targets!” I always do.
Pepere points to a wooden cutout I hadn’t paid much attention to, a woman with a giant floral purse. No fangs. No claws.
“Oh.” Realization hits me. I hit an innocent woman, just some bystander caught in the crossfire, and I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.
“Not everyone’s a monster,” he says. “And you can’t fight with just this,” he taps my head, “You need this, too.” He points at my heart.
“I’ll do better next time,” I promise.
Memere smiles. “You better. Now let’s go inside and warm up. I’m making hot cocoa.”
And just like that, my badass grandma turns into Betty Crocker.
