Each time Arthur drew breath, it felt like his life was being sucked out of him. His skin had grown paler than its usual tone, making him look like a corpse pretending to be alive.
His mouth was sealed by an oxygen mask, and his eyes were blinded by the blaring white bulb overhead. The stretcher beneath him swayed as the ambulance raced through desolate streets.
"I'm going to die."
Arthur's inaudible words were soaked in frustration and sadness. Power had long since left his body, and his heart thudded in a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm.
The frustration of years spent in the slums was nothing compared to the self-pity washing over him now.
There was still a chance—a small, flickering hope—that he could turn his life around. But Arthur knew better. It was almost impossible... and if the ambulance didn't reach its destination soon, he might die before his heart gave out.
As if in reply, the ambulance screeched to a halt. His stretcher slammed against the inner wall. The light above flickered, and a painful groan escaped his parched throat.
The back doors burst open. Two men in blood-stained, austere uniforms stood outside, guns pointed straight at Arthur, who lay half-dead on the stretcher.
Not that he could move even if he wanted to—his wrists were strapped down.
One of the officers jumped into the ambulance, approaching slowly.
"A teenage boy and still alive. Critical condition. Might not make it to the Altar," the rough-looking officer said into his walkie-talkie before unstrapping Arthur. The second man climbed in behind him—older, with more grey than brown in his hair and beard. He looked at Arthur with an expression that was a mix of curiosity and pity.
"Five minutes. Endure this for five more minutes, and you'll be saved," he whispered while lifting Arthur from the stretcher.
"At least... until we get to the Altar."
Arthur wanted to smile at the visible panic in the officers' eyes, the creeping fear that was starting to take hold as they carried him out of the ambulance. Its rear faced the entrance of a stone passage with towering ceilings lit by oil lamps.
Their footfalls echoed off the cold stone walls, merging with strange muttering sounds that grew louder, clearer, as they reached the end of the corridor.
It opened into a vast, brilliantly lit chamber. The ceiling soared above, and in its center stood a raised platform made of gold and platinum—like an altar. They laid Arthur atop it. He could feel the cold metal through his ragged clothes.
The officers leapt away from the platform, as if afraid to be near him.
"Listen carefully," one of them said louder, so Arthur—still breathing heavily through the oxygen mask—could hear. "Once you lose consciousness, you'll wake up in a different body—similar to yours, but... changed. Don't think you've died. You haven't. You can still fight. Call upon Hex. Hex will explain your goal. Complete it, and you'll return to the real world."
Arthur's mind was already slipping. He clung to the last scraps of awareness, terrified of falling asleep—for the second time in his life, sleep felt like a death sentence.
Then the platform beneath him shifted.
The surface of the altar rippled.
Gold flowed like water.
Arthur felt as if he were floating in an ocean—warm nostalgia enveloped him like a comforting embrace.
The golden liquid surged. Tendrils of molten platinum slithered toward him, coiling around his body, binding him in place, stripping him of any chance to escape.
Not like he wanted to. Where was he supposed to go? There's no one waiting for him outside—he himself was supposed to die way before any of this. After the age of seven, every breath he drew in was loaned to him.
Arthur's consciousness faded, left in the embrace of the ocean he dreaded. A slightly mischievous voice rang out:
[Welcome! The Hex calls upon you...]
Arthur's first trial had begun.
***
The Hex—or Trials of Hex—is a phenomenon that appeared out of thin air, parallel to a series of cataclysms that shook the world nearly half a century ago: earthquakes, tsunamis, and tectonic shifts of such violent magnitude that they reshaped the very face of the planet. Most continents merged into one; others sank entirely beneath the ocean.
The loss of life was staggering—about ninety percent of humanity was wiped out in an instant.
The planet had already been teetering on the edge of collapse due to overpopulation, global warming, and relentless wars over dwindling resources. The final blow came not as a surprise. Terraforming other planets had failed, and humanity had quietly resigned itself to extinction.
Humanity was doomed to perish.
But… amidst the chaos, the first victim of the Hex was found—a teenage boy, declared dead by doctors, who walked out of his own grave and stood before the world.
The only way to know if you're infected by the Hex is through the signs: a failing heart, violent seizures, and a gradual weakening of the body until death claims you—at least, according to medical science. But those who have returned from death call it something else.
They call it being put to trial by the Hex.
Those who emerge victorious from their first trial are known as Challengers. Before that, they are merely the Chosen Ones—candidates for survival, picked by something far beyond human understanding.
Arthur is one of those chosen.
And the altar he now lies upon will kill him—if he is corrupted.