The Abyss did not have mornings.
There was no sun to rise, no warm light to greet a new day. There was only the crawl of dim violet haze and the grinding pulse of a world that did not sleep, but merely paused—waiting to taste fear again.
When the heavy door of Simon's chamber opened, he was already awake.
He hadn't slept. Sleep was a luxury given to those who felt safe. And safety here was a myth, a lullaby for corpses.
Orba stood at the entrance.
Not silent—silence implied mercy.
Not loud—loudness implied theatrics.
He simply was.
His presence did not fill the space; it crushed it. Muscles like coiled storms, aura like old blood drying on battlefield stones. His shadow stretched too far for the shape of his body, like it remembered wars his flesh had yet to fight again.
His eyes scanned Simon—not as one looks at a student, nor a prisoner, but as a blacksmith examines raw ore:
Potential. Or trash. Time will decide.
"Stand," Orba commanded.
Simon obeyed immediately.
Weakness was death here, but obedience wasn't safety. Obedience was camouflage.
Orba's voice rumbled low, each word like stone dragged across iron.
"You survived the first test."
Survived, not passed. Meaning survival alone meant nothing.
"But survival without strength," Orba continued, "is worthless. From today, your weakness begins to die."
Simon's pulse remained steady.
Weakness… yes, he had carried enough of that for a lifetime.
Orba tossed something to him.
Metal clinked against Simon's palms.
A sword—thin, lightweight, plain. Not ceremonial, not enchanted.
A tool for butchering the weak. Or being butchered with.
"A sword?" Simon asked.
"A toy," Orba corrected. "It is all you are worthy of."
Simon nodded once. Acceptance without humiliation—dignity held with fingertips.
Orba stepped aside. Two guards dragged a door of flesh-like material open, exposing a deep pit carved in jagged spirals.
Inside, shapes moved. Crawled. Whispered.
Orba jerked his chin toward it.
"Down."
Simon did not hesitate. Hesitation was an invitation for death—or worse, disappointment.
He climbed. The pit stank of damp earth, blood, and hunger. The ground beneath was uneven, gritty like crushed bones.
Creatures hunched in the shadows—limbs too long, backs arched, jaws twitching.
They were small, but there was nothing comforting about that.
Small things killed fastest when desperate.
One hissed. Another scraped claws on the ground.
And only then did it become clear:
They were starving.
Orba's voice echoed down.
"In the Abyss, there are only two truths. Eat… or be eaten."
Then the flesh-door sealed above him, plunging Simon into almost-complete darkness.
Simon's breath misted. The air here was cold enough to bite lungs. Perhaps intentional. Hunger and cold were siblings in cruelty.
He waited—not out of timidity, but calculation.
In darkness, rushing meant exposing throat first.
He adjusted his grip on the sword. Light, yes, but balance wasn't terrible. Weight distribution favored swift movement, not brute force.
A faint scuttling.
Then another.
A snarl snapped the silence, then a creature lunged—a flash of bone-white teeth and thread-thin limbs.
Simon pivoted sideways, feeling the rush of air graze his cheek, and swung down fast.
Steel met flesh.
A shriek tore through the pit—high, shrill, feral. The creature collapsed, twitching.
Warm blood splattered against his wrist.
Simon stared at the red streak.
He didn't tremble.
He didn't gag.
Another life taken.
Another mark on a soul already scarred.
He felt… nothing. Not pride, not horror.
Just necessity.
A second creature attacked from behind. He reacted faster this time—dropping, rolling, slicing upward. Movement born from instinct layered over desperation.
The creature gurgled, fell limp.
Breath burned his throat. Muscles strained. Sweat pricked his brow.
More came.
This time three.
Not waiting. Not testing.
They swarmed.
Simon ducked, slashed, kicked. One sank claws into his arm—sharp, electrifying pain shot through him. He gritted teeth and drove the sword through its skull.
He didn't scream.
He didn't curse.
Pain was merely information: where he was failing, where to adjust.
By the time his last attacker fell, Simon was panting, shoulder bleeding, chest heaving.
He wasn't a warrior yet.
He wasn't strong yet.
But he was alive.
And in this place, that alone was a victory.
Above, he felt a pair of eyes watching him.
Judging. Weighing.
And approving?
No. Orba did not approve.
Orba observed.
Approval was weakness. Observation gave power.
He wasn't done.
Movement flickered deeper in the pit—bigger shapes, slower, coiled with patience.
The small ones had merely been the appetizer.
Simon swallowed. Not fear—anticipation. Fear was a luxury. Anticipation was survival.
"Come," he whispered to the dark. "Let's finish this."
The first large beast emerged—skin like stone, eyes like molten tar. It roared, rattling bones.
Simon raised the sword. Light as it was, it felt heavier now—like responsibility, like rebirth, like the thin line separating existence from oblivion.
It charged.
He moved.
Not heroically—not gracefully.
He stumbled, dodged narrowly, nearly slipped on blood-slick ground.
But he kept moving.
Survival wasn't beautiful. It was raw. Ugly. Brutal.
A slash to the beast's throat did nothing.
Hide too thick.
It swiped him—sending him tumbling against the rough pit wall. Pain roared through his back. His vision flickered.
A past version of Jaka would have curled. Would have cried. Would have begged to wake from a nightmare.
But Simon was not Jaka anymore.
Or maybe Jaka had simply been waiting to be Simon.
He forced himself to stand. He spun the sword in his hand—not to show skill, but to steady trembling fingers.
"Again," he growled.
The beast lunged, jaws wide. Simon dove forward—not back—sliding beneath its neck, ramming the blade upward into the softer underside.
Hot ichor spilled. The beast thrashed. Simon clung to the sword, twisting, driving deeper until bone cracked.
The monster collapsed.
Simon staggered back, panting, half drenched in blood—his and not his.
Around him, silence stretched.
Then—clap.
Not loud. Just once.
But in this pit, in this world, it sounded like thunder.
Orba's voice rolled down like judgment.
"You adapt."
Not praise. A statement of nature.
Simon wiped blood from his cheek, lifting his face toward the faint crack of light above.
"And I survive."
"Survival," Orba replied, "is merely the first step toward power."
Simon's voice was hoarse but steady.
"I'll take every step."
The flesh door opened, lowering a bone ladder. Simon climbed.
Bleeding. Exhausted.
Alive.
The Abyss did not reward victory with rest.
But it acknowledged it with opportunity.
And that was enough.
Back in the training hall, Orba stood arms crossed, expression unreadable. No gloating. No amusement.
"You do not hesitate to kill."
"Only fools hesitate," Simon replied.
Orba's brow lifted slightly. "And only the weak speak like philosophers."
Simon did not flinch. "You asked for strength. Not silence."
A hum—a dangerous one—vibrated from Orba's throat.
Not annoyance.
Interest sharpened by menace.
"You bleed," Orba said. "And yet do not falter. Why?"
"Because there is no world where stopping benefits me."
"No world?" Orba echoed. "Interesting phrasing."
Simon said nothing. Orba didn't need to know why that sentence carried two lifetimes within it.
"You learn quickly," Orba finally declared. "Quicker than expected."
Simon exhaled a breath he did not realize he was holding.
"And you kill without trembling."
Simon's reply was simple.
"I have trembled enough for one lifetime."
A pause.
Then Orba turned, cloak sweeping like a shadow devouring light.
"Eat. Rest. Heal. Tomorrow, you face something more demanding."
"More beasts?" Simon asked.
"No," Orba said. "Worse."
He glanced back, eyes burning with ancient cruelty.
"Tomorrow, you face my expectations."
And then he left.
Simon stood alone in the training hall, blood drying on his skin, sword heavy in his hand.
For a moment, he closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his lids, two worlds flickered—one mundane and wasted, the other violent and awakening.