Upon opening his eyes and taking in his surroundings, Gil raised his eyebrows in surprise and relief.
What greeted him was different from what he had expected, yet exactly as he had anticipated.
He had been expecting a nightmarish sight and had hardened himself as best he could to keep his calm, no matter what he saw.
From the voices, the blood on the ceiling, and the metallic stench, he had half-expected to be thrown into a slaughterhouse with mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.
For once, I am glad to be wrong.
Though the voices grew worse now that he was here, he managed to ignore them... for now.
A humongous glowing orb hung from the ceiling, shedding a moderate light over the scene.
They were still underground, just in a much bigger, wider, arena-like place.
Gil and the others were now in a wide-open space, around which a multi-layered, black circular arena with stand-like structures stood, coiled like a snake around its prey.
The ground was made of gray stone, showing marks of damage here and there. On many parts, dried bloodstains were easily visible, accompanied by a faint but persistent metallic scent.
Upon getting used to the change in light, the captives, for the most part, grew even more uneasy in the new environment and huddled together. Even the hardiest ones inched a bit closer to the others; it couldn't be helped, as something about this place was deeply unsettling, occasionally sending chills running down their spines.
The layout was already oppressive enough, but that wasn't the end of it.
They weren't alone.
Gazes—many of them, and not a single one friendly—weighed heavily on the group.
All around the structure, hundreds of people in the same garb as Hector when he first met Gil sat whispering among themselves in hushed voices, looking at them and pointing fingers.
From where Gil and his group stood, they couldn't make out what those people were talking about, but whatever it was, it was nothing good, judging by the looks they were getting from the cloaked ones.
Some were even openly hostile, jeering loudly at the captives as if they were awaiting a great show.
Though they couldn't possibly all be as strong as Hector or the jailer, they probably weren't common folk either. Gil could pick up dangerous vibes from them .
As the whispers grew in volume, some in the group of captives couldn't handle the pressure anymore.
Some broke into sobs, crying and pleading to be let go. Others grew frantic, looking in vain for an exit to make an escape. A few, pushed to the brink, threw caution to the wind and hurled insults and curses at the cloaked figures, defying them to descend into the arena if they dared.
A rare few managed to keep their cool, though their expressions grew grim and dark.
Nothing had happened yet, but mayhem already abounded.
As the situation grew noisier in the arena, Gil too wasn't immune to the atmosphere.
He clenched and unclenched his fists nervously to calm himself; it was the first time he was the subject of attention for so many people at once, and the situation did nothing to settle his taut nerves.
As seconds ticked by, he looked around warily, both to avoid being caught unaware and to keep the situation from getting on his nerves—at least, too much.
Doing so, he took note of a side of the stands that, though occupied, was eerily silent. It was the direction of the highest, frontal layer of stands.
The ones there didn't join the hustle like their lower-layer comrades; instead, they observed silently, refraining from any other actions.
Perhaps it was better to say they seemed to disdain doing so.
Above that layer stood a lounge surveying the entire arena.
There, five people sat.
Though they were far from him, Gil could feel a kind of threat—a sort of latent weight about them.
Though it varied in intensity from one to another, it was definitely there.
He was particularly drawn to the one in the foremost seat.
That person, without Gil knowing why, made him wary and—even though he didn't want to admit it—instinctively afraid.
It wasn't about his strength—not really. At least, the weight he exuded wasn't the strongest Gil had felt here. Sure, the person must have been strong, much more so than Gil, to be placed high up there he couldn't be a weakling, but... Gil's senses whispered to him with a quiet urgency, as if afraid to be heard, that this person was dangerous.
Dangerous in a different way than anyone he had ever met before in his life.
If he had to put it into words, he would say that while Hector and this man both probably had blood on their hands, that man was a bigger threat to his life in a completely different way than his nemesis, despite feeling weaker to Gil's senses.
This feeling was contradictory and left him confused, but by now, he had gotten used to not understanding things when it came to his perception ability.
Leaving the man aside while remaining on his guard—though it probably wouldn't help much, it was better to be prepared—he looked at the others at his side.
Aside from two whom he didn't find too threatening compared to their companions, two others gave off a much clearer and weightier feeling.
He even recognized two of them. He could match one of those pressures with the jailer's, and the other one...
Feeling a familiar gaze locked onto him, he jerked his head toward its source.
There, one of the five silhouettes, who had looked bored out of his mind earlier, was looking his way, his head tilted to the side.
"Hector!"
Gritting his teeth, he growled the name, his anger against the man overpowering the voices he heard for an instant.
Feeling the same playfulness radiating from that gaze, seemingly in response to his reaction, anger mounted to his head.
He stepped forward, ignoring everything else. Passing by the others without looking at them, he locked onto the silhouette of Hector and advanced without hesitation .
He knew that what he was doing was far from wise, but right now, he couldn't care less.
His actions attracted attention from the captives, unexpectedly distracting them from slipping further into their downward spiral.
Once he left their ranks, he caught the gaze of the cloaked ones in the stands, too. At first curious about him, looking where he was looking and going, silence settled instantly in the lower stands. In the higher layers, the ones there looked on in wonder and curiosity, resulting in no one in the arena daring to make a sound.
Gil noted this change but continued his advance.
Though his actions were reckless, even foolish, he justified his impulse to himself:
I already got caught and thrown here, wherever "here" is. What else could go worse?
No rescue is coming anyway, and I don't intend to play these people's games. So why not do as I wish?
With a devil-may-care mentality, he stepped forward, but he didn't go in blind.
He triggered his sight in preparation for a rematch against the man, or whatever they would throw at him. In a short time, he had gained at least some control over his ability, and honestly, he was itching to try it on his nemesis to see if he could at least land a punch this time.
Then, as if someone, somewhere wished to respond to his earlier question, Gil saw for himself that things could indeed go worse.
Earlier, he had been relieved not to see the disturbing sight he had expected upon opening his eyes.
He had even thought—or rather, hoped—that the voices, the blood, and the rest were mere hallucinations.
How great would that have been?
Unfortunately, upon triggering his sight, he had to face reality. He hadn't been hallucinating.
Though now... he dearly wished he were.
One instant he was in the ominous arena, and the next, it was as if he had been plunged into a realm of blood. Even the light from the orb on the ceiling seemed tainted red.
Blood.
As far as he could see, there was blood—so much of it that it almost reached his knees.
Though he had been fine earlier, now, seeing it—whether by a trick of his brain or something else—he felt its weight and resistance when he tried to move.
Floating on the surface of this sea of blood were body parts: maimed, mauled, torn off, and strewn around.
The gory sight was too much, too quickly for him to take.
Failing to suppress the urge to vomit, he fell to his knees and began to dry heave; thankfully, his stomach was empty.
His actions surprised many.
Some in the stands thought he had just been putting up a strong front and had finally broken, causing them to jeer at him even louder than before. Even among the captives, many began to look at him with slight disdain.
But there were exceptions among them who instead looked at him puzzled, their eyes narrowed in thought.
Among those were Greg, the intent-less girl, and... Hector.
Hector, in particular, was looking at Gil, frowning and lost in thought.
By his side, the jailer exclaimed in surprise, "Huh? What's up with that kid?"
"What else, Darius? He got frightened and made a fool of himself," another man said dismissively.
The jailer, Darius, scratched the back of his head a bit and finally said, "Nah, I don't think so. Leaving aside that he caught Hector's eye, I saw him yesterday, and from the bit I saw, he didn't strike me as the easily flustered type."
He proceeded to recount what had happened yesterday, and Gil garnered more attention from the others.
They looked closely at him for a while but didn't find anything noteworthy, so they looked to Hector for answers.
Seemingly oblivious to their stares, Hector kept Gil in his sight, fixing him with an unblinking gaze.
He, too, didn't believe the kid he fancied would be so fragile. No, his gut told him that something else was afoot. And Gil's expression before collapsing had been one of pure horror.
Looking at where the kid had stared before collapsing, Hector didn't see anything, but he became increasingly sure of his guess.
After all, wasn't it because of that very peculiarity that he had taken note of the young man?
Thinking so, his frown smoothed out and the corners of his lips arched upward, looking eagerly at the kid.
What did you see?
Finally responding to his peers, Hector said honestly, "I don't know," then fell silent.
The others asked no further and continued to wait a bit longer.
Finally, the man in the foremost seat said in a surprisingly soft voice,
"The leader sent news." He paused, and the others focused on him, looking solemn. Even Hector stopped paying attention to Gil and looked intently at the man.
Without making them wait too long, he said, "The next clash on the other side is near. Though we probably won't be able to do much in that bit of time, we are to shape them to our best, brand them, and depart right after."
At those words, reactions varied in the group. Hector and Darius looked as if they had received great news, appearing raring and ready to go right now. But the other two fell silent, looking partly eager, partly resigned, and even... a touch afraid at the mention of the "other side."
Back on the arena ground, Gil barely composed himself. Ignoring the mocking and the looks thrown at him, he breathed deeply, trying to get used to the scene he was seeing—and failing at it.
But he had to, no matter what.
A voice whispered in his ears, trying to lure him into disabling his sight.
Why not disable your sight? it said.
Why impose such a thing on yourself?
To harden yourself? To play the tough guy? it mocked.
And though he wanted nothing more right then than to disable his sight and spare himself the horrors he was witnessing, another firmer voice told him that he absolutely must not do so.
Earlier, when he had triggered it, he felt like something had clicked inside him, as if he had found the last piece of a puzzle, and he felt something about himself change.
Presently, he wouldn't be able to name it, but he knew that he couldn't and must not disable it. It was different from his usual premonition of danger, but in a way, the same.
Bracing himself, he stood up, looking at the sea of blood with an ugly expression.
How many have died here?
Before he could ponder the question further, something seemed to stir in the sea of blood. Bubbles began to form near Gil.
Getting a bad feeling about it, he stayed on guard, looking at where the bubbles were coming from and inching away, when the bubbling suddenly stopped and the sea of blood grew disturbingly quiet.
Far from being reassured, the alarm bells went off in his head and a chill crept up his spine.
He was about to dodge to the side when he heard a voice from behind him.
"Gil, are you okay?"
It was Greg.
Unknown to Gil, he had arrived near him and was looking at him with concern, his worry conveyed through the chain. He was the only one among the captives to have come to help upon seeing Gil in trouble.
Gil hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Whatever was coming from this sea, should he dodge, it would reach Greg—hell, the other guy couldn't even see the sea of blood.
Setting his jaw, he braced himself, refused to budge, and shouted urgently at Greg, who was coming closer:
"Careful! Don't come any nearer! Pay attention to your surroundings!"
He just managed to deliver his warning before something blurred out of the bloody water, dashed at him, bypassed his guard completely, and disappeared inside him.
Badump. Badump. Badump.
He didn't have time to react to this new development before his heart began to race faster and faster, and then everything grew dark for an instant.
Then, he found himself somewhere else he didn't recognize, unable to move or talk as fragmented bits of sounds, images, and feelings threatened to overwhelm him.
Not knowing how long it had been, the images grew more and more stable, and he could even get a gist of his surroundings, though it was all still heavily disjointed.
It was as if he were living the life of someone else. And though this person was struggling—was alone, having lost his only family, his father, because of the latter's work—at least he lived optimistically and earned an honest living.
Unfortunately, those days didn't last.
One night, as he was going back after another day of work, he was assaulted by strangers wearing cloaks and masks, and then he awoke in an underground place looking eerily similar to the one where Gil had passed the night.
At this point, Gil grew focused and threw all of his attention onto the scenes passing before his eyes, unwilling to miss anything.
From there, things went pretty much the same way they had gone with Gil and his group. Some tried to resist once the jailer came in, only to be mercilessly killed.
Then the jailer left them in the darkness.
The person in this strange replay was panicked, to say the least.
Where was he?
Who were those people?
What did those people want from them?
What will happen during the test tomorrow?
Would he manage to leave?
Gil could strongly feel the confusion, fear, and despair of that person, and though he deeply empathized with him, he couldn't offer any comfort.
He couldn't even talk, let alone forget that he was in the exact same situation.
But, luckily for the person in the replay, some people came to him.
"Hey, you alright, buddy?" A young man a few years older than him, leading a small group, asked with concern. "I know this isn't exactly the best place to meet, but nice to meet you anyway. My name's Mike." He flashed a friendly smile and extended a hand.
Gil's host hesitated a bit but finally took it and responded lowly, "Librom."
"Great! These guys are Radley, Corey, Dalilah, and Dara, and together we will get out of here!" Mike introduced his companions and announced their objectives with conviction, then concluded, "Are you in?"
Gil, reliving the scene, was rendered speechless, let alone the poor Librom.
Librom was stunned silly.
Did I stumble upon a bunch of lunatics?
He wondered.
But the man looked serious, and his friends, though looking embarrassed at his antics, still silently supported him.
For a while, Librom didn't know what to say, but before knowing why, he heard himself agreeing, saying,
"Take care of me."
His answer brought wide smiles from the band. Mike laughed heartily and said, "Great! With your addition, we are sure to succeed."
Though he didn't know where the man got such confidence from, his enthusiasm was contagious.
Like Greg, they decided to band together for warmth and to better tackle whatever would come their way the next day, first before everything else. Perhaps because of the circumstances, or perhaps because he was simply someone who easily grew attached, Librom quickly blended into the group.
He respected and admired Mike for daring to lead them—and his willingness to take on such responsibility in such circumstances—and grew to like his other mates. Over the course of one night, they grew closer. Keeping watch, wary of others there, and devising strategies to handle what was to come, Mike even taught them a few boxing moves in case they came in handy later.
So much so that when the next day came, though nervous, everyone was in high spirits and ready to take on the world if it came to it.
Once in the arena, though intimidated by the stares and the looks thrown at them, they straightened their backs and did not cower.
Then, from the highest point of the arena stands, another man—not the jailer of yesterday—took the stage.
"#########...."
Unfortunately, at that point, the replay grew worse. Images and sounds became distorted.
Then, Gil was suddenly assaulted by a tearing, burning pain that made him almost black out.
By now, he got the feeling that this strange experience was nearing its end, as the painful wounds on his host seemed to grow in numbers.
The last thing he saw was a pair of yellow eyes, a bloody maw full of rows of broken teeth, and an overwhelming stench of rot closing in as his vision plunged into darkness once more.