"Why zero?!!"
"Sir! Sir..." The servant's voice was torn by panic. "The EYES from the sky are approaching!" "What?" "Sir, they are approaching fast—Sir! Siiir! Siiiiiiiiir!!!!..."
...
"Levan! Wake up!!!" Romo's voice came sharp. "Man... as usual, were you dreaming again?"
Levan replied with a hoarse voice, rolling onto his side: "That's enough, Romo... I'm getting up."
Levan opened his eyes slowly in a narrow room, more like a cage. Three opposing metal beds, a small basin for washing in the corner, and a single old locker topped with rust. The air was suffocating, carrying the smell of sweat and dampness, and the bare gray walls added to the place's gloom.
Existence in this world hinges on Zen energy; that internal power that grants supernatural abilities. Its absolute absence does not mean weakness, but sudden death; bodily explosion is the inevitable fate of those whose Zen runs dry. For this reason, although Romo described him as "Zen-less," his friends believed Levan possessed enough Zen energy to survive, but simply hadn't discovered how to use it yet. The nickname was merely sarcastic banter.
This entire building was not designed for comfort, but as a temporary "camp" for those unworthy of status. Everyone here belonged to the class of "The Forgotten," the lowest tier in the hierarchy. The Forgotten are the fuel for dirty work, slaves on demand, or simply mistakes that must disappear. There is no existence here except for the sedated or those threatened with slavery.
"Is this another dream?" Levan wondered, the look of laziness never leaving his face. He was twenty years old; a slender frame, medium-length black hair falling over his forehead in disarray, and gray eyes with lazy features that didn't leave him even when awake. He wore a simple black shirt and trousers of the same color.
Beside him, Romo (twenty-one) sat at the edge of the bed, tying his shoes with excessive care, as if it were a ritual to calm his nerves. His brown hair was short and neatly trimmed, his features calm but his gaze focused. He wore a dark gray training vest with tight sleeves and black trousers. He raised his head toward his companion and said in a low, steady voice: "Today begins the Nobles' evaluation—the Nobles are the Chosen ones, children of power with a paved path—and you are still without Zen energy for years. Yet, you deal with it as if it were a game. Every time you dodge and smile, we pay the price in extra labor and punishments. You Zen-less fool!"
Levan sketched a short, tight smile, leaning his back against the wall, deliberately projecting comfort: "I am not being reckless. Evasion is the only thing keeping me standing on my feet. Without Zen... I either move, or I break."
Romo tightened the shoelace until the leather squeaked, then said in a calmer tone: "I understand. But they don't call it defense... they call it provocation. If you want to remain standing, do it without occupying our day."
On the other side of the room, Ina (eighteen) stood up, tightening a glove stitched at the knuckles, as if preparing for battle. Her figure was agile, her skin pale, her features delicate. Her red hair was tied back tightly, with two strands hanging at her temples. She wore a dark vest tight at the waist and practical black trousers that facilitated movement. She spoke with a short coldness, cutting through the tension: "Save the fighting for the evening. The morning is long... and talk won't shorten it."
Romo's gaze shifted to Levan one last time, his voice lowering but remaining sharp: "I don't ask you for Zen, nor a miracle. I only ask that you choose the right time to move... and leave us one day without punishment."
Levan lowered his head for a moment, then muttered in a faint voice: "I'll try. Just for today... I'll try."
A short smile, barely visible, appeared on Ina's lips, like a rare reward. "Today is enough."
The entire dormitory was built on a prison-like system; a long corridor extending forward, with rooms distributed as opposing rows on both sides. Each room bore a serial number from 1 to 120, numbers engraved on faded metal plates above the doors. Above one of them was written the number: 117. The room to which Levan and his two companions belonged. The Forgotten began their preparations for a new day of the "Nobles' Evaluation."
Levan sat leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, and said with sarcastic lethargy: "The hour of humiliation awaits us today."
Despite his reckless appearance and the laziness Levan wore like armor, his insides were burning with a wild desire to fight and destroy the Chosen. He realized his complete inability to face their power due to his declared lack of Zen, and for this, he adopted indifference as a curtain to hide his anger and his urgent need to conceal what he did not yet have the power to achieve.
Before anyone could answer, a man's voice pierced through the small mesh window in the door of the adjacent room, sharp and agitated: "Levan! Please... don't do anything to anger the Nobles today!"
The voice was tired, as if coming from a chest weighed down by years, yet clear through the narrow grate that allowed only sound to pass. The man continued in a raised tone, tinged with suppressed bitterness: "In our last confrontation with them, you provoked them... so we were all written down for punishments. Yesterday we spent two whole days cleaning because of one word from you. Please, don't ignite trouble today. We are required to fight in absolute silence, with whatever strength we have left. And don't forget... this is real training; many of us may not return."
A heavy silence prevailed. The air in the corridor was still, as if it too were listening. The Forgotten behind the doors looked pale, some trembling. If asked for a wish, they would have asked for a quick death to avoid living here as slaves.
Ina looked at the grate, her fingers stiffening inside her gloves. Romo clenched his jaw and stared at the door without speaking. Levan answered slowly, sadness appearing on his face as he tried to justify his actions, his voice calm as if coming from the depth of the room: "I speak to confuse those stronger than me. Words unsettle them... and keep me standing."
The reply came quickly, tinged with desperate pleading: "Protect yourself with movement, not words. Don't give them an excuse—please."
The voice ended, and the final sentence remained hanging in the corridor like a stone on their chests. Levan exhaled slowly, looked at his two companions, then muttered in a faint voice: "I will. I will."
From another nearby room, a rough laugh erupted, strange in rhythm, as if its owner hadn't tasted laughter in a long time. He said between interrupted breaths, laughing bitterly: "Enjoy your lives... before we die." It wasn't a laugh of mirth, but closer to a painful mockery of fate.
Some of the Forgotten exchanged tense glances, then dropped their eyes to the ground as if fearing death might catch them looking. Romo tightened his shoelaces again with force, while a half-faint smile passed over Levan's face, quickly extinguished. In a place like this... even laughter induced fear.
The silence was cut by a sharp external whistle, echoing in the corridor like a stab in the chest. Shoulders trembled for a moment under its impact, then straightened again. Levan inhaled a short breath, raising his shoulders and exhaling slowly, as if donning his invisible armor, while Ina adjusted the glove at her joints.
Levan moved toward the door, his grip on the cold handle, and said in a cohesive voice hiding the bitterness inside: "Come... the arena of humiliation awaits. As living punching bags."
He opened the door and pushed it outward, spilling gray light into the room. Ina and Romo exchanged a quick glance, lips uttering no word, then followed him with steady steps, as if marching toward a pre-written destiny.
The trio exited into the corridor, joining the ranks of the Forgotten. The line marched with silent regularity; two by two, steps close together as if forced upon them. The iron doors closed behind them, turning the corridor into a long cage pushing them outside.
Faces hardened, eyes to the ground, no one spoke. Everyone knew they were heading to the arena... but what no one knew was that this evaluation would be the last.