"You're not going to die like this. Not yet." The man in heavy armour drove his boot into the boy's back, and the sound of iron shackles rang through the narrow corridor.
Neimon staggered forward, catching himself on his bloodied palms, but the kick had been so brutal that the chains around his wrists bit into his flesh, reopening old wounds.
"Move. Move faster. Enough with your act," the guard growled, his voice vibrating through his helmet. The spear he carried scraped along the floor as he walked.
Before Neimon could steady himself, another kick followed.
"Hurry up, bastard. I don't have all day."
This time the kick was lighter, just to tease him. Neimon didn't react and started walking ahead. Around him, dozens of boys in ragged white clothes shuffled forward in silence, their shoulders hunched and eyes glued to the ground, as if the guard's gaze alone could strike them dead.
At the corridor's end, iron-barred cells loomed in the shadows. The guard swung the doors open and pushed them inside.
"Eat your last meal and come out quickly. Don't make me call you twice… or else." He didn't finish the threat.
Inside, Neimon looked down at the steel plate before him. A scoop of half-cooked, sticky rice and a dented cup of water. The smell alone made his stomach twist.
"A mercy… on our last day?" he muttered, pouring water over the rice and swallowing it in large gulps. "At least something to drink."
He clenched his fists and stared at his dry, withered hands. "If I had the strength, I'd shove that spear through his head. But now…"
"I just… want bread. Once. Before I die." The trembling whisper came from a nearby cell.
The guard outside stopped walking. Footsteps echoed as he turned toward the sound. Then, with a soft whoosh of air, everything went silent.
Moments later, the guard came back from that cell. No one asked what happened. They just kept eating.
When the meal was done, the boys filed out. The guard counted them, wiping the tip of his spear clean with a rag. Everyone was present—except the boy who had asked for bread.
"Follow me."
The guard slung the spear across his back and started walking. The scraping sound of the weapon against the floor returned. Without saying a word, the boys trailed after him.
The guard led them into a pitch-black chamber. As soon as they were all inside, he slammed the door shut and locked it from outside.
No one screamed or panicked. They had already spent enough time in small, dark cells to endure this. But whispers rose in the silence.
"Are we… going to die?" a voice asked.
"No. Maybe they're just moving us…" another replied, his voice trembling.
"But he said that was our last meal—"
"Shut up."
Neimon didn't speak. He leaned against the cold wall, feeling the chill sink into his back, and closed his eyes.
Then, a voice came. Not from the door, but from beyond the wall. Low, commanding, as if it spoke directly into their bones.
"If you wish to live, obey. This is not your end, but your beginning. Succeed, and you will be worshipped as though you have already touched the peak of power. Fail… and your name will rot, forgotten even by the worms. Now, step onto the stage."
Neimon's eyes opened.
What's behind this wall?
He pressed his ear to the cold surface and heard footsteps. Dozens of them. The faint clatter of steel, like soldiers preparing to march. Then the voice returned.
"Your trials will lead you to your destination. Reach it, and you will be rewarded. A curse, a blessing, or something worse—it depends on your worth. Go, and tear through your pitiful limit."
Neimon's blood felt hot. His thoughts raced. Are we next? But the Trials aren't for people like us. Only the chosen one...
Before the thought could settle, the wall split open. A flood of blinding light entered the chamber.
At the threshold stood a towering figure, his body draped in a black cloak, his face hidden behind a featureless mask.
Behind him stretched a vast hall, lit by hundreds of flickering candles. The walls were lined with carvings—some grotesque, like headless bodies clutching severed heads, others strangely serene: robed figures preaching, naked dancers frozen in mid-motion. In the shifting light, the carvings seemed to breathe, almost alive.
Suddenly, a cold, metallic voice shattered the silence.
"Welcome." The masked figure paused, letting their attention settle on him, then continued.
"You are about to enter the Trial. Survive, and your life will change. Return, and a new one will await you."
It sounded like a proposal, but to these captives, it was more an order than a choice.
The boys froze. Sweat slicked their pale faces. Everyone knew the universal truth: no one who entered the Trial ever came back—at least, not people like them, who didn't even know their parents.
But at the edge of the group, Neimon was confused.
That voice… it wasn't the same as before. Or was it?
The masked figure noticed the puzzled look on Neimon's face. In a blur, he appeared before him, closing the distance without a sound.
"Your name?" His gaze locked on Neimon, searching for something hidden.
"…Neimon." The word slipped out like a breath. He was so unnerved he didn't even think before answering.
The masked man studied him for a moment, then turned.
"Step onto the stage."
He gestured toward a colossal statue—a blindfolded goddess with spread wings, holding a pair of scales. Beneath the statue lay a platform, its surface pulsing with glowing runes.
It felt too sacred to step on. None of the boys moved—not because of reverence, but because anything sacred was far more dangerous.
"Ungrateful creatures. I've given you a chance to live… and still, you hesitate?"
His voice cut colder, sharper.
"Don't mind. You know, I'm a very generous person—also very easygoing. So, I'll give you another chance."
He began pacing slowly, hands folded behind his back, as if deep in thought.
"How about… kill one, save one?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Two sharp claps echoed through the hall. In an instant, black-clad figures emerged from the shadows and dozens of daggers materialized, clattering across the floor.
The masked figure picked up one dagger, spun it once, and flicked it into the air. The blade buried itself into the skull of a silent servant. Before the body hit the ground, two others carried it away without a sound.
"Ah… Not sharp, but sharp enough for your soft flesh. Take a life, and walk free. Or…"
He extended one hand toward the glowing platform, the other toward the daggers.
"…step onto the stage."
The boys stared at one another, wide-eyed and trembling. They had just watched him kill his own subordinate for no reason.
Some began edging toward the platform.
Then one lunged forward, snatching up a dagger. He stumbled toward the smallest boy and drove the blade into his chest.
The dying boy's strangled cry was muffled by his shackles. Blood spread across the cold stone as the killer whispered, voice shaking:
"This life… I give to your name."
Now the real game began.
Some killed, clawing for freedom through blood. Others, pale and shivering, shuffled toward the stage, too numb to resist.
As they stepped onto the platform, strange markings flared beneath their feet.
From the shadows, more figures emerged—black-cloaked, faces wrapped in scarves, each holding a gleaming blade. They advanced in silence.
If they're going to kill us anyway… why so much drama? Helplessness twisted in Neimon's gut. He shut his eyes, waiting for steel.
But the blades only sliced through their shackles and the figures vanished as quietly as they came.
Then, from beneath the platform, a surge of blinding blue light erupted, swallowing the boys one by one.
When the last had vanished, the masked figure removed his mask. His cold, inhuman eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Perfect waste management. Even your pitiful lives can serve humanity… by making the worthy stronger."