Francis had always preferred quiet. Not because he was shy—far from it—but because noise was a distraction he couldn't afford. In a world that measured strength by power and recognition, words were often wasted energy.
Yet, today, words would not have helped him anyway.
The street under his feet trembled slightly at first, a vibration he barely noticed. Then the sky fractured, jagged streaks of light ripping through the air. A cold wind whipped around him, carrying the smell of ozone and the faint, acrid tang of fear. The ground beneath his shoes dissolved like sand through fingers, and Francis stumbled forward, instincts taking over.
He tried to call out—someone, anyone—but his voice caught in his throat. A strange warmth spread across his chest, and his vision flickered with colorless light. A symbol, faint but unmistakable, glowed there—etched into his very skin.
The world around him twisted. He was no longer on the familiar streets of the city. The air was thick, almost electric, and shadows writhed along walls that seemed to appear and disappear at random. Figures sprinted, collided, powers flashing in bursts of light. Screams echoed, reverberating from nowhere. Panic was everywhere—everywhere except in him.
Francis exhaled quietly.
A boy with fiery fists lunged at him, moving faster than the eye could follow. Most would have panicked, shouted, or thrown themselves into a reckless counterattack. Francis didn't flinch. He shifted his weight, sidestepping with uncanny precision. The flames hissed as they struck the stone behind him. Harmless.
Then a girl with blades like fractured lightning attacked. She moved fast, calculating every step. Francis met her strike with calm, silent accuracy, redirecting her momentum. Her eyes widened—not in fear, but in curiosity, as if she'd never seen a human move like this before.
Francis noticed her. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He didn't need to. There was something there—a spark, a recognition—but he ignored it. Survival demanded focus.
The first Trial was chaos. People fell. Some screamed. Some begged. Every strike, every attack, every spell thrown was a test of reaction, timing, and wits. Francis moved through it like a shadow no one noticed, precise and lethal.
The symbol on his chest pulsed faintly, and with each second, his awareness sharpened. He could sense the rhythm of danger: footsteps, breaths, micro-movements in the air. He didn't have raw power. Not yet. But he had calculation. And in this world, calculation could kill as efficiently as fire or steel.
A group of attackers converged on him—three at once. Most participants would have panicked. Not him. He adjusted his stance slightly, a subtle tilt of the shoulder, a shift in weight. One swung wildly; he sidestepped. Another lunged; he parried silently, redirecting energy. The last froze for a microsecond too long—and that was enough. Francis moved like a ghost, precise and silent, leaving the three sprawled, gasping, or unconscious.
The girl from before watched from a distance. Her gaze followed him, sharp and discerning. Not fear. Not awe. Something else. Understanding. And for a moment, Francis allowed himself to notice that attention. It didn't weaken him. If anything, it sharpened his focus.
Time passed, though he didn't know how long. The Trial ended in a blur of energy, blood, and chaos. Survivors were counted. The fallen were dragged away. And Francis—alone, silent, alive—stood at the edge of the arena.
The glow on his chest—the Mark of Silence—throbbed softly. It wasn't just a mark. It was a promise. Power, but at a cost. Words spoken could weaken him. Calmness and restraint amplified him. Every choice now mattered, every movement, every silence.
He glanced again at the girl, still observing him. He didn't speak. He didn't nod. Not yet. Silence was enough. For now.
And as the arena shifted for the next Trial, Francis realized something he hadn't in years: in a world that demanded noise and strength, sometimes the quietest man was the deadliest.
For the first time, he allowed a thought to pass through his mind—not fear, not strategy, not calculation. Anticipation.
This world… was finally going to see him.