A young man lay motionless atop a vast bed, his pale skin nearly blending into the sea of pristine white duvets and pillows that surrounded him. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm—deep in slumber and untouched by the world beyond his dreams. Dark strands of hair spilled over his forehead, framing a face that was eerily serene. Clad in white, luxurious pajamas, he seemed almost statuesque, like a figure carved from marble.
Then—a muffled sound echoed from the far end of the hall.
His breath hitched as his eyelids fluttered open, revealing icy blue irises. For a moment, he remained still, caught between sleep and wakefulness, his mind sluggishly piecing together reality.
"What's with the commotion?"
A dull ache pulsed behind his temples as he forced himself upright, his body reluctant to leave the comfort of his sheets. The room around him was large—larger than necessary, immaculate to the point of sterility. The scent of polished wood and freshly laundered fabric lingered in the air, undisturbed.
Vale lingered, letting his thoughts catch up to his waking mind before he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. His bare soles met the cold floor, sending a faint shiver up his spine.
He walked toward the door.
But before he could reach for the wooden handle, the door burst open.
A tall figure stood in the doorway, clad in black from head to toe. A mask obscured its face, void of expression or humanity. For a brief second, time stretched, and Vale barely had a chance to register what was happening before the figure moved.
A blade flashed under his eyes.
Then—A feeling of warmth bloomed in his chest, quickly spreading down his abdomen.
He gasped for air, his body locking in place. His gaze drifted downward, sluggish—almost unwilling. A dagger gleamed beneath the dim light, buried deep in his flesh. Crimson red blood spread like ink in the water, soaking into the white of his nightclothes, stark and inescapable.
His lips parted, but no sound managed to escape them. His limbs felt heavy, his strength slipping through his fingers like sand. He tried to lift his head—attempting to meet the gaze of his assassin—but the world had already begun to darken. His vision blurred, and his consciousness faded away.
Everything went dark.
But before the darkness could consume him, and before his consciousness could detach itself from reality, a voice resounded in his mind.
[ Congratulations! You have died. ]
[ Your First Trial of Death begins now. ]
The voice was neither male nor female. Neither loud nor quiet. It carried no emotion, no familiarity, yet it was not entirely foreign either. It was distant, yet it rang through his skull with clarity, as if it had always been there—waiting for him to die.
Vale lingered for a moment, his thoughts tangled, but not entirely chaotic. In truth, he knew exactly what the voice meant. But before he could fully process it, a shivering cold coursed through his body.
Then—an immense pain.
A searing, unbearable agony spread across his chest. His eyes shot open, his breath caught in his throat, and his hands instinctively clutched at the wound that wasn't there. Neither was the blood or the blade that pierced him. Nothing but the phantom pain of a death he had already suffered.
"Right," he muttered under his breath, the weight of realization settling over him.
He had died.
Or rather, he should have.
A masked assassin and a blade buried deep in his chest—he remembered it all very vividly. The memory still fresh in his mind. Yet instead of fading into the abyss, he had been chosen. Chosen by the System, to be cast into the Demon Realm and face his First Trial of Death.
He had read the books, watched the movies, and listened to the stories about the trails.
Everyone heard of them.
It had been nearly a thousand years since the first rift tore through reality and appeared into the human world. From its depths, hordes of monsters emerged, bringing chaos, death, and destruction. Billions perished, entire civilizations crumbled, and humanity stood at the brink of extinction.
But then—at humanity's lowest point, some of the dead returned.
Not as they once were, but reborn, wielding immense powers and a variety of artifacts which allowed them to fight back.
Only some were chosen for the First Trial, and even fewer survived it. But those who did, came back stronger, faster and more powerful than any mundane human.
After all, none of them had a choice.
Vale's heart still pounded with the phantom memory of the blade. The pain had faded, but a hollow chill lingered in his chest—a reminder that he had died.
Cold, damp air pressed against his skin. The scent of wet stone, iron, and something faintly sweet—perhaps decay—filled his lungs. His fingers twitched against jagged stone. He lay on a cavern floor, the softness of pillows and duvets replaced by grit and shadow.
His mind raced. His body trembled. But soon, both gave way to something else—calm.
Resolve ignited within him.
He'd read the stories. He'd studied the books. The ones who couldn't pull themselves together always died first… and he wasn't going to be one of them.