Warrior Training System

Cassian's domain surged again, sending ripples of energy through the space, and his eyes locked onto the surface of the armor. The faint etchings on the stone-like exterior seemed to shift and glow under his gaze, but it wasn't the patterns that gripped him—it was the overwhelming sensation that poured into his mind.

His vision shifted, tinted with a scarlet hue so deep and endless it felt as though he were staring into a boundless void of blood. A chill ran down his spine as the oppressive feeling grew heavier, the weight of countless lives extinguished pressing against him. The armor radiated an aura of purpose, and though no voice spoke, a single name imprinted itself into his thoughts: Made to Kill.

The name was strange, almost too simple, yet Cassian instinctively knew it was the essence of the armor's existence. This wasn't a tool for protection or survival—it was a weapon of pure destruction, forged with one intent and nothing else.

Cassian hadn't come to this realization merely by observing the armor's physical appearance. No, it was the aura emanating from it—an overwhelming force that seemed to whisper directly to his soul. That aura dragged him into the scarlet abyss, a space that radiated an unrelenting killing intent, forged by the countless lives the armor had claimed. The sheer magnitude of its history, the number of beings it had slain, was incomprehensible, an ocean of death that stretched far beyond his understanding.

Suddenly, his vision snapped open, but it was no longer his own. Scarlet hues dominated his sight, like glass stained with blood, framed by a black border. The world appeared distorted, as though he were peering through a tunnel, and what struck him most was the height—an impossibly vast perspective that made everything below seem insignificant. It wasn't just vision; it was a glimpse into the armor's past, a view from the eyes of a being who once wielded this weapon of annihilation.

Cassian's breath hitched as he tried to focus on the surreal vision before him. The world seemed to ripple like a mirage, his senses dulled yet heightened at the same time. His gaze fixed on the flashing movement in front of him—a gleaming sword, its edge radiating a dark, menacing aura. The blade slashed through the air with an elegance that belied its lethal purpose, moving in arcs that seemed impossibly fast, as if the very air screamed in its wake.

He realized the arms wielding the blade were clad in the same stone-like armor now resting before him. The blackened stone ropes, the jagged texture, and the ominous glow pulsing from its seams were unmistakable. It was the armor—his armor, or so he thought. But as he concentrated further, a chilling realization dawned on him: he wasn't controlling it.

The movements were not his.

Cassian's mind reeled as the vision resumed, pulling him back into the crimson-soaked battlefield. The long-horned beings he faced were grotesque, towering over normal humans by at least a meter. Their bodies were humanoid in shape but disturbingly elongated, with sinewy limbs and taut, almost translucent skin that shimmered faintly under the blood-red sky. Their faces were nightmarish—sharp, angular features, hollow eye sockets glowing with an eerie light, and gaping mouths lined with rows of jagged teeth, reminiscent of a predator fish.

The sword in his hand—no, the sword wielded by the armor—moved with a terrifying fluidity, carving through these monstrous beings as though they were paper. Cassian watched in stunned silence as the blade sliced effortlessly, splitting torsos and severing limbs with precision that bordered on artistry. The creatures didn't bleed the crimson blood he was accustomed to; their wounds gushed a strange, scarlet ichor that seemed to evaporate into mist as it hit the ground, leaving behind a faint, metallic scent.

Each slash revealed more of the horrifying landscape around him. The ground was slick with the same scarlet ichor, and twisted trees jutted out from the earth, their branches barren and sharp like claws reaching for the sky. The horizon was a jagged mess of cracked earth and molten rock, and the air was thick with an oppressive heat that clung to his skin. It was a world of carnage, a place where life and death intertwined in a grotesque dance of destruction.

As the blade cut through another of the long-horned creatures, Cassian noticed something unsettling. Their mouths, lined with those terrifying teeth, opened wider than seemed physically possible, stretching into unnatural, grotesque shapes. They weren't just screaming—they were emitting a soundless cry, a psychic wail that sent chills down his spine. The armor didn't react to their cries, its purpose unshaken. The blade rose and fell, over and over, reducing the creatures to lifeless heaps.

Cassian tried to focus, to take control of the armor's movements, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. He wasn't in control. The armor was, and it moved with a will of its own, as if it had fought these beings countless times before. Why? he wondered. What is this place? What are these things?

His vision shifted again, this time pulling back as though he were a spectator. He saw the battlefield from above, and his stomach churned at the scale of the slaughter. Thousands of the horned creatures sprawled across the landscape, their bodies piled high like grotesque monuments to the armor's destructive power. The armor-wielding figure—himself, yet not himself—stood at the center of it all, unmoving, the blade held loosely at its side. The ground around it seemed to pulse with a faint glow, as if absorbing the blood and energy of the fallen.

Cassian's domain surged again, sending ripples of energy through the space, and his eyes locked onto the surface of the armor. The faint etchings on the stone-like exterior seemed to shift and glow under his gaze, but it wasn't the patterns that gripped him—it was the overwhelming sensation that poured into his mind.

The visions shifted again, still drenched in the unsettling scarlet tint. This time, Cassian found himself gazing upon a field of colossal creatures—whale-like in shape but far larger than anything he could comprehend. These leviathans dwarfed any person, their immense forms comparable to mountains, drifting silently in a vast expanse of darkness. The void around them was endless, punctuated only by faint pinpricks of light, like distant stars scattered across the black abyss.

Cassian's breath hitched as he realized he wasn't standing on solid ground anymore. He was floating—or rather, flying—through the darkness. The armor encased him, its oppressive weight now feeling like a second skin. His movements were effortless, as though the armor propelled him forward with purpose. In his hand, he gripped a sword—not just any sword, but an enormous blade that radiated an ethereal glow, cutting through the darkness like a beacon.
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The realization struck him like a lightning bolt: the glowing sword wasn't just a weapon. It was his domain. Somehow, it had taken the shape of this massive, radiant blade, pulsating with an energy that felt alive. The power coursing through it was overwhelming, yet Cassian felt an odd sense of harmony, as if the sword and the armor were extensions of himself.

Cassian's vision shifted once more, pulled back into the endless void. He could see himself—or rather, the armor—launching forward, the massive domain sword swinging with devastating precision. It collided with one of the mountain-sized leviathans, cleaving through its immense form like it was nothing more than air. The creature let out a thunderous, guttural roar, its glowing patterns dimming as its life force drained away, absorbed into the armor.

But Cassian wasn't alone in this strange battle. All around him, other figures appeared, each clad in distinct armor. Unlike the one he wore, their armors seemed tailored to their wielders, each emanating unique auras that felt just as potent but far less oppressive. Their domains manifested in diverse forms—one shaped into a fiery spear that crackled with energy, another into a hammer surrounded by swirling winds, and yet another into twin blades that shimmered like liquid light. Each warrior moved with deadly grace, their weapons carving through the leviathans with precision and purpose.

Cassian tried to focus on the other figures, desperate to understand who they were and why they fought alongside—or against—him. But the armor refused to let him linger, dragging his consciousness forward once again. This time, his vision shifted, and the oppressive scarlet tint receded, replaced by a natural view of the world. Colors returned—green, blue, and gold, vibrant and alive. Before him stretched a wall covered in colorful murals, their intricate designs weaving a serene and peaceful story.

The scene felt blissful, almost sacred. The murals depicted lush fields, rivers flowing under clear skies, and people basking in harmony. Cassian found himself momentarily calmed, drawn into the artistry and tranquility. The wall seemed like a promise, a vision of what the world could be—free of conflict and pain.

But then, a single drop of liquid dripped onto the armor's eyeslit, startling him. Cassian flinched as more drops followed, forming rivulets that began streaming down the armor's face. The liquid wasn't water—it was thicker, darker, and it carried a sinister energy that made his stomach twist.

Panic surged as the liquid didn't stop. It cascaded down, flooding the eyeslit of the armor and seeping into his vision. Cassian gasped as the strange substance began to fill his sight, a scarlet haze creeping into the edges of his perception.

"No... no!" he thought, struggling against the armor's influence. But his resistance was futile. The red tint deepened, swallowing the vibrant colors of the world and plunging him into a dark, suffocating scarlet void.

The once-peaceful murals on the wall began to shift. Their serene depictions of harmony twisted grotesquely, the smiling faces contorting into expressions of agony and despair. The rivers turned to rivers of blood, their crimson currents cutting through blackened, decayed landscapes. The fields wilted into barren wastelands, and the people depicted in the murals began to writhe, their painted forms screaming in silent torment.