Rem kept moving.
The sky above was a flat, heavy black that seemed to soak up the light from the streetlamps. He found the entrance he was looking for—a concrete mouth cut into the sidewalk with a sign that read U7 ARENA in peeling, sun-bleached paint.
He headed down the stairs. The air changed as he descended, growing thick with the scent of damp stone, old electricity, and that faint, metallic undertone he'd lived with for years. The silence in the stairwell wasn't peaceful; it felt like a held breath.
The station opened up into a vaulted cavern, and it was already packed. It smelled of unwashed bodies, machine oil, and the sharp, sour tang of pre-fight sweat. Rem scanned the crowd, watching a man in the corner methodically tightening the straps on a set of leather armor, his hands moving with a slow, practiced rhythm.
Nearby, two women stood back-to-back, their eyes constantly roaming the room while their fingers rested on the hilts of their knives. In the distance, someone was vomiting quietly into a floor drain. These weren't teammates or a community; they were a collection of isolated tensions, all waiting for the same fuse to light.
As Rem navigated the crowd to find a patch of wall, the eyes followed him. They lingered on the deep hollows of his cheeks and the way his shirt seemed to hang off his collarbone. They saw the dried blood at the corner of his mouth and looked away just as quickly. They weren't seeing a competitor—they were seeing a corpse that hadn't finished dying yet.
He didn't care. He leaned against the cold tiles, closed his eyes, and waited.
An hour passed. The station grew warmer as more people arrived, but the chill beneath the skin remained. Then the train came.
it screamed into the station, a sleek, pale blue shape that looked too expensive and too clean for a place like this. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Postures stiffened. The silence became so brittle that Rem could hear the wet, ragged whistle in his own chest—the sound that had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember.
A voice crackled over a distorted intercom, toneless and mechanical.
"Cohort U7-A. Boarding commences. Failure to board constitutes forfeiture. Forfeiture is permanent."
The doors hissed open, venting a cloud of sterile, refrigerated air.
The crowd surged forward. Rem tried to keep his head down and blend into the shuffle, but a hard, deliberate shove caught him between the shoulder blades. He went down, his knees hitting the grit and his palms scraping raw against the platform.
"The Warrens is that way," a calm voice said from above him. "The Trial is for the blessed."
Rem didn't look up immediately. He watched the back of a white tunic vanish into the train car. A Highborn. He stayed on the ground for a second, catching his breath, until a hand appeared in his field of vision.
"Up."
It was a boy with sharp, observant eyes and a curved pendant hanging from his neck. Rem took the hand, feeling the rough callouses as the boy pulled him to his feet.
"Thanks," Rem rasped.
"Don't mention it," the boy said, nodding toward the open doors. "Let's go."
They boarded and found a metal pole to steady themselves. The car filled up quickly until the air was thick with the scent of fear.
"Boarding complete. Passenger count: eighty-nine. Doors closing."
The doors sealed with a heavy, pressurized thunk. Outside, one last contestant sprinted down the platform, slamming his palms against the glass. His mouth was open in a silent scream, but inside the car, no one looked at him.
The train began to move, accelerating with a hum that Rem could feel in his teeth. There were no windows, only pale blue walls and a harsh, white light that made everyone look like a ghost.
"Commencing transit. Commencing First Gate: The Unspoken Weight."
The hum changed. It wasn't just the sound of the engine anymore; it was a vibration in the air itself.
The pressure didn't hit all at once. It grew, steady and relentless. Rem felt it in his chest first—a familiar heaviness, but multiplied a hundred times over. He gasped, but the air felt like it had turned to liquid. All around him, people started to buckle.
To his left, a boy from the Warrens sank to his knees. "Ma…" he whispered, a single tear cutting a track through the grime on his face. "I'm sorry…"
His elbows hit the floor. Then his shoulders. It looked like he was being pressed down by an invisible hand. There was a wet, muffled snap—the sound of ribs giving way under a weight they weren't built to carry. The boy didn't just fall; he compressed. A fine mist of blood sprayed across the boots of the people standing nearby.
The lights flickered and stayed dim. The engine's whine climbed to a pitch that made Rem's head throb. He realized then that the train was feeding. Every spike of panic, every terrified realization, seemed to give the machine more power.
A woman began to scream, a raw, breaking sound that only made the pressure tighten.
The more they panic, the faster it goes, Rem thought.
He watched a man claw at his own throat before being driven into the floorboards. A teenager sobbed about a stolen watch before his spine folded in on itself. The smell of fresh blood was beginning to overwhelm the recycled air of the cabin.
Rem understood the trick now. Your thoughts had weight here. Your regrets and your fears had gravity. The more you carried, the heavier you became.
So he did what he had spent years practicing in the dark corners of the clinic. He let go. He pushed the image of the nurse out of his mind. He let go of the hope for a cure and the constant, nagging fear of his next coughing fit. He pictured his mind as an empty, white room. He made himself hollow.
The pressure on his ribs eased. He could breathe again.
He looked at the boy with the pendant next to him. The boy was pale, sweat dripping from his temples. "I didn't mean to leave," he was muttering. "I had to…"
"Stop thinking," Rem rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't let it get to you. Think of nothing."
The boy's eyes snapped to his. He gave a jerky, panicked nod and grit his teeth, staring intently at a scratch on the metal pole. His hand was trembling so hard the metal shivered, but he stayed upright.
The trial ground on. The train continued to scream through the dark. People fell, and the floor of the car became a landscape of broken forms. A Highborn girl near the front winced, shook her head sharply, and then stood as still as a statue.
Then, quite suddenly, it stopped.
The pressure vanished. The screaming hum dropped to a low, steady thrum. The survivors—maybe half of those who had boarded—stood in a daze among the red stains on the floor.
"First Gate cleared. Entering Primary Trial Domain: The Silent Cathedral."
The train slowed and came to a halt. The doors opened.
Dry, freezing air rushed in, smelling of dust and ancient stone. They stumbled out onto a plain of pale grey sand that stretched out into the darkness. The sky was night, packed with brilliant, cold stars. In the distance, a jagged black structure cut into the horizon—a cathedral with angles that seemed to defy the eye.
The silence was absolute. After the noise of the train, the quiet felt like a physical weight.
Rem was the last one out. The itch returned. It was a low burn at the base of his throat. It wasn't gone; it was just suppressed, held back by the strange atmosphere of this place. He exhaled a cloud of clean vapor. No blood. Not yet.
He looked back into the train, a scavenger's instinct kicking in.
There, propped against one of the seats, was the Highborn who had shoved him. He hadn't been flattened like the others, but he was broken. His limbs were set at impossible angles, and blood trickled from his mouth, soaking into his white tunic. His eyes were wide, filled with a terror that had frozen into a permanent state of agony. He was alive, but he wasn't going to move again.
Rem walked back into the car and stood over him. The boy's eyes focused, a flash of hate flickering briefly before fading back into pain. He tried to speak, but only a bubble of blood formed on his lips.
Rem didn't look at the boy's face. He looked at his belt.
Tucked into a black leather sheath was a knife with a wire-wrapped handle and a serpentine, S-shaped blade. It had a faint, purple sheen to the metal. Rem had seen the drawings in old books—a poisoned artifact from the Hellfire God's church.
He knelt down, his fingers working the buckle. It clicked open, and he pulled the knife free.
The weapon was warm in his hand, but not with body heat. It felt like holding a shell casing that had just been fired. As he turned the blade, he saw hair-thin runes pulsing with a rhythmic light.
[ITEM IDENTIFIED: SERPENT'S KISS. LOW-GRADE TOXIC ARTIFACT.]
[ORIGIN: HELLFIRE GOD CHURCH CRAFT.]
[MATERIAL: SOUL-FORGED STEEL. TOXIN: NEURO-PARALYTIC VENOM (DIVINE-GRADE).]
He stored the information away. He stood up, and the Highborn boy made a wet, guttural sound—a mix of rage and despair.
The itch in Rem's throat spiked. This time, he didn't try to suppress it. He coughed, a dry, controlled sound, and watched a single spot of bright blood land on the back of his hand. He looked at it for a moment, then at the darker blood soaking the boy's tunic.
He wiped his hand on his trousers.
"We're dead anyways," Rem said. He wasn't talking to the boy; he was stating a fact to the room. "The knife is mine now."
He tucked the blade into his own belt. The warmth of the steel against his hip felt like a new kind of truth. The strong took from the weak, and the living took from the dead.
He turned his back on the train and walked out onto the sand.
Behind him, the doors hissed shut. The train lifted on a column of silent force, hanging for a second like a pale insect against the stars, before shooting backward into the black. There were no tracks left behind.
The sand was fine and cold, leaking into his worn sneakers as he walked. Ahead, the other survivors were already trudging toward the distant black cathedral. The boy with the pendant was waiting a few paces off, his face grim.
Rem took another breath. He had managed to survive the appetizer. The next challenge might just be it for him.
He began to walk.