It had been a month since the completion of the First Gate of Hell. Many of the children had either died during the trap-laden trial or succumbed to their injuries, exhaustion, or starvation in the days that followed. The survivors—now reduced to less than two dozen—had settled into the brutal rhythm of daily life in the cave.
Everyone had been stripped of their names and identities. They were now numbers. Tools. The instructors barked out commands using their new designations. Our protagonist had been given the number 007. The others were 002, 016, 031, and so on. Names no longer mattered.
Punishments were routine. Children who showed weakness or disobedience were beaten mercilessly by the masked instructors. Screams echoed through the cold stone corridors every day. Fear and pain had become a part of their existence.
The training was relentless. Push-ups with heavy stone slabs on their backs, squats with iron poles strapped to their shoulders, and runs through uneven terrain with their legs bound by weights. The most recent addition to their routine had been paired training—designed to build endurance, timing, and control. They were now required to work with a partner through countless reps of sit-ups, sparring routines, and push-up relays.
When the instructors ordered everyone to choose a partner for this next phase, 007 hesitated. He didn't know anyone. He hadn't tried to. Emotional attachments were a weakness here—he'd learned that quickly. Yet, by the time most of the children had partnered up, only one person remained unpaired.
She stood tall and composed, her arms crossed as she leaned silently against the stone wall. Her long silver hair, seemingly untouched by the grime of the cave, shimmered faintly under the dim torchlight. Her piercing blue eyes were calm—too calm. While most children showed fear, fatigue, or anger, she wore an expression of quiet certainty.
There was something strange about her. She didn't look worn down. She wasn't bruised or limping. In fact, she seemed untouched by the harsh reality of the cave—as if she had prior knowledge or had trained under similar conditions before.
"You. 007," one of the instructors barked. "Pair with 018."
So he did.
They sat across from each other, knees locked, preparing to do a hundred sit-ups with interlocked grips. She smiled gently as she leaned forward.
"I'm 018, but my real name is Yerin," she said in a low voice, whispering just loud enough to be heard over the grunts and yelling around them.
007 simply nodded.
"What about you? Do you remember your name?"
He hesitated, blinking. His jaw clenched as something stirred inside him.
"…No."
Yerin's smile didn't falter. "Liar."
He looked up.
"I saw you flinch when I asked," she continued. "There's something—someone—you're trying to forget."
He avoided her gaze and instead focused on the cold stone beneath them. But her words stirred something inside him. For a moment, he remembered a small hand tugging at his sleeve, a soft voice calling him hyung, and wide eyes filled with innocence and hope.
His little brother.
Yerin didn't press further. She gave him a nod, respecting the silence.
"You don't talk much," she said instead. "But that's okay. Neither do most people who've seen hell."
They began the sit-ups. One by one, they counted in unison, keeping their breathing in rhythm. The repetition calmed him. The pain became familiar. In this rhythm, he found a fleeting peace.
As the days passed, 007 and Yerin trained together every morning. The bond between them slowly grew—not as friends, but as comrades in survival. Yerin seemed strangely knowledgeable about the world beyond the cave. She spoke of famous sects, major clans, forbidden arts, and rumors of techniques that could defy death itself.
"You know a lot," 007 finally said one morning after their sparring session.
Yerin gave him a curious look. "I used to read a lot. My family… they were nobles before everything was taken away."
"Why are you here?"
She smiled faintly. "Same reason as you, probably. Someone took something from me. I want it back."
He didn't respond. But in his heart, he knew he understood.
A week later, the instructor ordered sparring matches. This time, the goal was simple: test their current capabilities after a month of body training. Everyone would fight using basic combat forms. No weapons. Just fists and reflexes.
007 stood in the circle when his name was called. "007. Face 012."
012 was a muscular boy, taller and heavier than him. He had a scar running down his temple and eyes that burned with fury. From the first second, it was clear that 012 saw 007 as a rival—or maybe just a target.
The instructor gave the signal. The fight began.
012 charged like a beast, fists swinging with wild aggression. But 007 stayed calm. He ducked, sidestepped, and weaved through the barrage with fluidity that made even the instructor pause.
One jab. One kick to the ribs. A twist of the wrist. A sweep.
And 012 was down.
The instructor crossed his arms and nodded in satisfaction.
"Impressive. 007, follow me."
After the other children dispersed, 007 followed the instructor into a quieter chamber where torches lined the walls in neat rows.
"You've shown consistent performance since the First Gate," the instructor said. "You've got talent—and more importantly, the will to survive."
007 said nothing.
The instructor continued, "There are five Gates of Hell. Only those who pass them all will reach the next stage. But know this: the child who shows the best overall performance will be granted a reward. Not just food, not just training—but something worth your entire life here."
"What kind of reward?" 007 asked, finally.
The instructor's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Enough to change your fate."
With that, the chapter of survival deepened. 007 clenched his fists quietly. No matter what happened, no matter how much pain he endured—he had to survive. For his brother. For revenge.
And maybe… for himself.