The morning air felt different.
Sylas noticed it the moment he opened his eyes. The orphanage, usually filled with shouts and careless footsteps, was unnaturally quiet. Even the creaking of old wooden floors seemed muted, as if the entire building were holding its breath.
Today was the day.
Children were being summoned.
Sylas sat up on his thin mattress and pressed a hand against his chest. His heartbeat was steady—calm, controlled. There was no fear in him, only focus. The headaches that had haunted him for years were gone, replaced by a strange clarity that sharpened his thoughts and senses.
He stood, adjusted his worn clothes, and stepped out of his room.
The corridors were crowded with children. Some cried openly, unable to hide their terror. Others clung to one another in silence, their faces pale and stiff. Caretakers rushed back and forth, their usual indifference replaced by rigid tension.
Sylas observed quietly.
He counted.
Ten-year-olds.
Some faces were familiar. Others were not. But all of them shared the same trembling hands and hollow expressions.
Then—
"Sylas."
His name was called.
For a brief moment, it felt as if the world itself had paused.
Sylas stepped forward.
The Matron's gaze lingered on him longer than necessary—on his tan skin, his frail body, and finally his striking blue eyes. For the first time, something close to unease flickered across her expression.
Light bloomed beneath Sylas's feet.
It was warm—not painful. The sensation spread upward, wrapping around his legs, his torso, his arms. The orphanage dissolved into blinding brilliance.
There was no falling.
No screaming.
Only silence.
When sensation returned, Sylas found himself standing on smooth white ground that stretched endlessly in every direction. Above him, the sky shimmered with shifting colors—blue, gold, and silver folding into one another like living light.
He was alone.
A transparent screen materialized before him.
Before he could read it, a voice echoed—not through the air, but directly into his mind.
"You have been chosen from your world."
The ground beneath his feet rippled.
"Each of you will be assigned a trial."
Light flared around him.
"Complete your mission."
The light intensified.
"Awaken your talent."
Then—
"…Anomaly detected."
The words sent a sharp chill through Sylas's mind.
Before he could think further, the presence withdrew, as if deliberately choosing not to pursue the matter.
Sylas frowned slightly, surprised by the message—but before he could analyze it—
Light exploded around him.
His vision shattered into fragments.
When his sight returned, Sylas was no longer in the white expanse.
He stood alone in a dense, unfamiliar forest. Towering trees blocked out the sky, their twisted roots crawling across the ground like serpents. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth—and something metallic.
Blood.
A translucent screen appeared before his eyes.
[Trial Initiated]
World: The Forgotten World
Difficulty: Variable
Mission: ????????
Failure Condition:
Death
Sylas exhaled slowly.
No instructions.
No allies.
No mercy.
He clenched his fists, feeling a faint warmth stir deep within his chest—quiet, restrained, but undeniably present.
His blue eyes hardened.
And with silent steps, the orphan took his first move into the trial.