Ezra woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the window. The room was dark and cold, though his blanket was warm. For a second, he thought he was dreaming. Everything felt wrong, quiet in a way that made his chest tighten.
He turned his head. His mother was standing beside his bed. She didn't move, didn't speak, just stared down at him with tired eyes.
"Ezra," she whispered. "Come."
Her voice shook a little.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't morning yet. The hallway outside was usually full of voices and footsteps, but tonight, it was empty. Only the faint glow of lamps touched the marble floor.
"Mom? Why so early?"
No answer.
She was already helping him into his coat. Her hands were cold, trembling slightly. Ezra didn't know what to say. His mother was the kind of person who always smiled, even when she scolded him. But tonight, her face looked pale, stiff — like she was forcing herself not to cry.
They walked through the silent corridor. The maids bowed when they passed, whispering to each other when they thought she couldn't hear.
"…Why him? Why not the brother?"
"He's weak. He won't survive it."
"The main house ordered it."
"But I heard the order is for all the children"
"Then why only the Young master?"
"Sheesh the Madam is here"
"God protect him"
Ezra didn't understand as their words echoed in his head as they reached the front door.
Outside, rain fell harder. Two servants waited by the car with black umbrellas. Their suits were pressed, faces expressionless, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Ezra shivered. His mother always told him to stay away from the cold, that his body couldn't handle it, that's why to the other noble kids he was not known. He was almost a ghost, his existence only known to those in the house. But tonight, she didn't stop him.
"Mom… where's Dad?"
She stopped. The rain whispered between them. She knelt, her cold hands gripping his shoulders.
"Ezra," she said softly. "You're going to the training center the main family built. It's to make the kids of our family grow stronger for the future. Please be strong and make us proud."
Her voice broke at the end.
He blinked, confused. "But… Why me? Brother's better. He's…"
She stood, cutting him off with silence. Her hand slipped from his as she turned away.
The men stepped forward. Ezra didn't fight them. He just stared as his mother's figure blurred through the rain as they led him into the car. Her final wave looked shaky and desperate.
It felt like goodbye, but forever.
The car door shut with a dull thunk.
The drive was quiet. The men in the front didn't speak. Ezra hugged himself and stared at the window. Raindrops ran down like silver threads. The longer he watched, the heavier his chest felt.
He didn't remember falling asleep.
***
When his eyes opened again, the light stabbed into them.
Cold metal pressed against his arms and legs. He tried to move, but something held him down. Straps. Tight ones. His breath caught in his throat.
He jerked his head around the glass walls. He was inside a transparent box. Across from him sat another kid, also strapped to a chair. Around them were more boxes, more kids. Dozens of them.
Then came the noise.
Screaming. Crying.
"Let me out!"
"What is this place?!"
"I want to go home!"
The voices overlapped, panicked, rising like waves. Ezra's pulse hammered in his ears. He yanked against the straps until his wrists burned.
A door opened somewhere ahead.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the room.
A man walked in, tall and straight-backed, coat brushing his knees. Two soldiers followed him, their boots hitting the floor in sync. The man's eyes were sharp, his face blank like someone carved from stone.
When he spoke, his voice carried over the chaos.
"Children of Ashenlocke, Welcome to the Trail of Steel" he said. "In front of you, under the cover, is a dismantled revolver. Remove the cover."
A mechanical click followed. The restraints on their arms unlocked.
Ezra's hands shook. He didn't move. His gaze flicked to the metal lid in front of him. Beneath it… a gun? Why was there a gun in front of him? Why was there another boy across from him? What kind of "training center" was this?
He lifted the cover with trembling fingers.
Gun parts. Cold steel glinting under the lights. Pieces scattered like broken bones.
The boy across from him did the same. Around the hall, dozens of kids stared down at the same cruel puzzle.
"What is this?" someone muttered nearby.
"This is insane," said another voice.
A loud slam broke the silence. One boy dressed better than the rest had slammed his cover shut. His face twisted in rage.
"You can't do this!" he shouted. "My grandfather's an elder! If you"
Bang!
The gunshot cut him off. His body slumped forward; his pants wet with fluid caused by the terror of death.
The man didn't blink. "He knew. Now you do."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke on.
"This program will decide your worth to the family," the man continued, his voice flat. "The head and elders approved this test. You will obey, or you will die."
He paused. "Your task is simple. Assemble the revolver. Kill the child across from you before they kill you. That is all."
Ezra's stomach dropped.
Kill?
He looked at the boy across from him wide eyes, shaking hands. No way. No way this was real.
Another gunshot echoed through the hall. The smell of gunpowder spread, sharp and bitter.
"Begin."
A few seconds passed and no one moved.
It was like the whole room had turned to ice. Every single kid just sat there, staring at the parts in front of them, or at the kid across from them.
The man lifted his hand again. One soldier stepped forward, stopping before the boy who had complained earlier. The soldier raised his gun.
"No, please!" the boy screamed. "Please, I'll do it…"
Bang!
Blood splattered against the glass. The girl opposite him screamed, trying to crawl away even though her legs were tied.
"Please! Please don't…"
Bang!
The red spread like spilled paint. The glass dripped with it.
Ezra couldn't breathe. The room spun. The air stank of blood and oil.
The man's voice returned, colder. "Every twenty seconds without a gunshot, another pair dies. You have thirty minutes. Begin."
That was when panic truly began.
Children screamed. Some reached for the gun parts. Others froze completely. A few just sobbed, clutching their heads.
Ezra's hands hovered over the table. His body shook so hard the metal clinked under his fingers. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
Why did they send me here? Did she know?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
I don't want to die.
He reached for a part, sobbing, gasping for air.
Across from him, the boy was already trying to assemble his gun. His hands slipped, but he was working fast. Desperate.
Ezra glanced at the boy across from him, and the boy glanced back, their eyes meeting through the thick glass wall that separated them.
Shit… he's almost done.
Ezra clicked his tongue and forced his hands to move faster, fingers working over the metal parts of the revolver as sweat slid down his face and pooled on the table, his hands shaking so badly that they hovered for a moment each time he tried to fit a piece into place.
Then the sound came.
Bang.
Ezra jerked his head up in shock, and the bullets he had been holding slipped from his fingers, hitting the table and rolling in every direction before several clattered to the floor. His breath caught as he stared at the spiderweb cracks spreading along the right side of the glass wall that shielded him from the boy opposite him.
He missed.
Relief rushed through him, but it mixed with fear the moment he saw the boy lift the gun again. Ezra tried to twist his body away, but the strap tight around his stomach yanked him back into the chair, digging into his skin and stealing his balance.
The boy fired again, and the shot missed once more.
The boy's face twisted as he gritted his teeth, frustration clear in the way his arm stiffened. His eyes shifted to Ezra, who stared back with open fear, before flicking down to the table where the bullets lay scattered. A grin slowly crept onto the boy's face as he realized Ezra's position, believing that with this opening he could take his time, aim properly, and end it.
What should I do? What should I do?
Ezra's eyes swept across the table, his breath coming fast as his chest rose and fell against the strap.
All my bullets are scattered. Even if I grab one, he'll shoot me before I can finish. He has time. I don't. And even if I fire, I don't know if one shot will be enough.
One shot.
His gaze locked onto a single bullet lying close to his hand, resting near the edge of the table.
With one shot… I can survive.
***
Ezra Ashenlocke, the ghost of his family, had spent most of his life locked indoors because of his weak body, passing the time alone in quiet rooms where he read books or took apart toy guns and put them back together again. Assembling a revolver had always been part of Ashenlocke's training, meant to shape the minds of future Gun Alchemists, and even Ezra had been made to do it.
His father never allowed him to skip it, saying it wouldn't harm his health, so Ezra trained alongside his twin brother, practicing assembly and target work again and again, keeping track of their results.
Ezra had never lost.
***
He moved before the thought finished, stretching his arm forward as fast as he could, grabbing the last bullet and slamming it into the revolver with shaking hands, snapping the chamber shut and lifting the gun toward the boy.
Their eyes locked.
The boy's hands shook as well, the revolver heavy and awkward for his small grip, but confidence still lingered in his face because Ezra only had one shot left while he still had four.
Ezra adjusted his aim, pointing slightly away from the hole that connected their glass boxes, and when the boy noticed this, his grip relaxed, sure of his win.
Then the boy saw it.
His eyes widened as understanding hit, but the moment broke his rhythm, and when he fired again the shot barely missed.
"Wait—" the boy started.
Bang.
The sound tore through the chamber, sharp and final.
The boy collapsed forward, his body slamming against the table as blood spread beneath him, smearing across the metal surface and dripping down the edge.
Ezra froze.
Then the gun slipped from his hand and hit the floor as his body started to shake, his upper half folding forward while he gagged, his throat convulsing even though nothing came out except rough, broken breaths.
He had killed someone.
A kid.
Just like him.
Bang. Bang.
More gunshots echoed through the room, and each one made Ezra flinch hard against the restraints as screams followed, the sound tightening something in his chest until it felt like it might tear apart.
His heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out everything else, the noise filling his ears as he stared at the lifeless body in front of him, his breathing growing uneven, whether from the recoil, the fear, or the weight settling in his chest, he couldn't tell, but his body felt wrong.
Then pain ripped through his head.
Ezra gasped and clutched his skull as his vision flashed white, images flooding his mind in a rush that left no space to breathe. Blueprints spread across tables, lines and numbers clear and sharp, the sound of tools striking metal, the smell of oil and smoke thick in the air, and his own voice—older, steady—explaining how to build a weapon.
No… this isn't mine. This is…
A memory.
A life that wasn't this one.
A man working inside an army factory as sparks flew and machines roared, the weight of a finished gun resting in his hands, weapons he had built, weapons he had used, until death came in a gun shop.
The sounds of the room faded as the images took over, and then, slowly, they slipped away.
Ezra opened his eyes.
Sweat dripped from his chin as the world moved like it was underwater, his body tipping forward until he caught himself on the table, gripping its edge while his breathing slowly steadied.
"Wh… at… ah… ah… just happened?"