Samuel walked in silence.
The forest pressed in on him like a heavy coat soaked in cold rain. Every step was a reminder of the fight—of how close he had come, and how far he still was.
You're still afraid.
Lyra's words echoed in his skull like a cracked bell. Not loud, not sharp—just persistent. Inevitable.
And the most bitter part?
She was right.
He was afraid.
Not of dying. No, death had long since lost its teeth. He'd faced it enough times to grow numb to the idea. But something else lurked just beyond death. Something deeper. Blacker. Hungrier.
The whispers.
They had come when he was fighting. When the wolves had pinned him to the mud and the world had shrunk to teeth and blood and breath. When pain had made everything real.
Voices. No... not even voices.
A hum. A pressure. Words that weren't words. A language he had never learned but somehow felt.
They had slithered into his mind like oil on water. Cold. Slick. Inviting.
He didn't understand the meaning—but the intention was clear.
They wanted him.
Not his body. Not his mind.
Him.
His soul.
Samuel shivered, and it had nothing to do with the rain.
Just thinking about it made his chest tighten. Like something was coiled there. A snake made of shadow and hunger, waiting for him to stop resisting. Waiting for him to open the door.
He could remember the exact moment in the fight—when his blood was pumping and fear was climbing his spine like a thousand sharp fingers—when he had almost let go.
Just for a second.
He had almost let the abyss in.
And it had responded.
The whispers had grown louder. Closer. Like they were crawling up from the bottom of his bones.
Samuel clenched his jaw, pushing his hand into the side of a tree just to feel something solid, something real.
He hadn't done it. He hadn't surrendered. Not yet.
But the idea haunted him.
Because the worst part wasn't the fear.
The worst part was the desire.
A part of him wanted it. Craved it.
To stop fighting. To stop struggling. To stop pretending he could claw his way forward with tricks and teeth.
To let it in.
To finally stop being the scared little boy pretending to be a warrior—and become whatever it was the abyss saw in him.
But he knew what came with that.
Madness. Oblivion. Becoming something else. Someone else.
Maybe something not even human.
His blood ran cold.
He had seen madness before. In the eyes of broken cultivators. In cursed beasts. In dreamers who touched too much truth and lost their minds in the process.
He knew where that path led.
And yet… he also knew something else.
Sooner or later… he would have to let it flow.
The forest breathed.
Samuel's thoughts were still wrapped in shadow, the whispers of the abyss lingering like smoke behind his eyes, when a sudden noise snapped him back to the present—harsh, ragged, human voices.
Real.
Alive.
Not beasts. Not ghosts. People.
He and Lyra froze for a moment, glancing at each other across the quiet underbrush.
No words were needed.
They both nodded, and ran.
Branches whipped past, leaves slapping against soaked skin. The rain had lightened into a cold mist, the forest floor slick with mud and scattered bones. The stench of rot still lingered faintly, but now… now there was something else.
The scent of fire.
And the unmistakable crackle of breakfast being made.
They reached a slope covered in moss and low trees, and Samuel crouched at the edge, peering through the foliage like a predator studying prey.
Below them was a clearing.
And people.
His eyes narrowed.
Disciples.
A group of survivors had set up a rough camp beneath the twisted limbs of ancient trees. Smoke curled up from a crude pit, where a few black robes were cooking something vaguely edible in a dented pot. Someone was laughing. Someone else was sharpening a blade.
But this wasn't peace. It wasn't safety.
Samuel could smell the tension in the air.
Like the smoke itself had teeth.
He counted them, lips moving silently.
"...Twenty black robes," he muttered. "Six white."
And then his gaze stopped.
One figure stood out among the rest.
Golden robe.
Still intact, though torn and stained. A jagged gash ran down one sleeve, and the boy inside it sat on a flat stone, holding a steaming cup in both hands like a prayer. His golden eyes were dim, and his expression unreadable. But something about him felt wrong.
He looked like he had fought.
Like he had bled.
Like he had survived something that should've killed him.
Lyra crouched beside Samuel, silent as death, her eyes scanning the camp with cold calculation.
"They've been in battle," she said simply.
Samuel nodded. The signs were clear. Burnt cloth. Torn robes. Scattered bags. The kind of camp people built in a hurry because they had to, not because they chose to.
Still…
There was food.
There was fire.
And for the first time since this hellish trial began, there were others. Witnesses. Stories. People who might've seen something. Heard something. Maybe even known Ethan—the vanished emperor. A piece of the mystery Samuel was slowly chasing like a ghost in the mist.
And yet…
His hand rested on the hilt of his sword out of reflex.
Something about this scene—this gathering—made the hair on the back of his neck twitch.
Too calm.
Too intact.
As if everyone here was pretending a little too hard to be fine.
He turned to Lyra. Her gaze was sharp, distant.
"Well," he said, voice dry, barely above a whisper. "Should we go say good morning? Maybe borrow a cup of sugar?"
Lyra didn't laugh. She rarely did.
Instead, she stood and dusted off her hands. "Let's go. They already sensed us anyway."
Samuel grimaced.
Of course they had. Twenty people. Campfire. Tension so thick you could carve it with a rusty spoon. It was naïve to think they'd slip in unnoticed. Still, part of him had hoped for a quiet moment longer.
Just to breathe. Just to think.
No such luck.
Samuel smirked faintly, though it didn't touch his eyes.
And just like that, Day 2 began—with mud on his boots, ghosts in his blood, and new players on the board.
He followed Lyra down the slope, boots sinking into the wet earth. A few heads turned. Black robes paused in their busywork—cooking, sorting weapons, patching wounds. Some watched with mild interest. Others with suspicion. A few with the vacant, dead-eyed look of people who had seen too much and survived just enough to regret it.
Samuel ignored them.
His eyes were locked on the golden robe.
The boy sat with perfect posture, perched on a flat stone like it was a throne. His robes—ripped and dirtied—still gleamed faintly in the morning light. Golden hair fell in soft waves around a pale, spotless face. His eyes, equally golden, reflected the firelight like twin suns trapped in glass.
He looked like he'd stepped out of the wrong genre.
Like he belonged on the cover of a great fantasy novel—Hero of the Realm: Volume One—instead of in the mud-soaked carnage of Pendora's death trial.
Samuel hated him on sight.
The golden-robed disciple sipped his steaming cup with the elegance of a noble in a palace, then looked up.
And smiled.
Warm.
Too warm.
The kind of smile that belonged in family dinners and recruitment posters. The kind that said
I'm safe. I'm trustworthy. You can tell me anything.
Anything !!
Samuel cringed inwardly.
"Oh! Fellow survivors, hah!" the boy said, his voice smooth as polished marble.
"Unity is strength, after all. First, let me introduce myself."
Oh no, Samuel thought. He's one of those.
The kind of guy who actually meant that line. Who probably believed they were all going to be friends. Maybe even hug it out after this whole nightmare.
"Leonhart Solvain," the golden robe said, placing his cup down and standing with a fluid grace that made Samuel's joints ache just watching it.
"First seat of the Western Golden Star Institute. Honored disciple of Grandmaster Aurelius. And, I suppose, provisional leader of this merry band of wretches."
He offered a hand.
Samuel stared at it.
Then looked at Lyra.
She was already folding her arms, unimpressed.
Samuel sighed.
"Samuel," he said finally, brushing his muddy hand on his already-ruined pants before taking Leonhart's. "No seats. No titles. No golden bloodline. Just here to avoid getting eaten."
Leonhart chuckled. "Practical. I like that."
Of course you do.
"And this must be your companion?" Leonhart asked, turning to Lyra with another of those disarming, porcelain smiles.
Lyra didn't answer. She just gave a slight nod. Cold. Sharp.
Leonhart didn't seem offended. In fact, he seemed amused.
Samuel watched him closely. Every inch of this guy felt curated. Polished. Like he knew exactly what kind of impression he was giving off—and did it on purpose.
Golden robe. Golden hair. Golden words.
Too perfect.
He wasn't just surviving here.
He was performing.
The rest of the camp had returned to their tasks, but a few black robes were still eyeing them. Quietly. Measuring. Weighing.
Samuel didn't like the feel of it.
"So," he said casually. "I take it things haven't been peaceful?"
Leonhart's smile dimmed just a touch. Just enough to be human.
"No," he said simply. "We were ambushed yesterday. A group of corrupted beasts. Not like anything we'd seen before. They moved in a pack. Coordinated."
His jaw tightened for a moment. The actor dropped the mask—just a crack.
"We lost six."
Silence stretched.
Lyra finally spoke. "You still have a fire going."
Leonhart raised a brow. "Should we not?"
She shrugged. "It means you're either bold, stupid, or confident you killed everything nearby."
He smiled again. This time, thinner. Sharper.
"I like to think it's all three."
***
Samuel and Lyra were soon absorbed into the machine of the camp—assigned some forgettable chore like hauling firewood or reinforcing makeshift shelters with branches still slick from the storm.
Menial work. Dirty work. The kind they gave to newcomers they didn't trust and didn't care to protect.
Samuel didn't mind.
He worked in silence, eyes always moving. Watching. Counting. Memorizing the order of things—who listened to who, who stood in the shadows, who kept their weapons too close even while eating.
The quiet ones were the worst.
Always.
By midday, food distribution began.
The fat one handled it—a broad, greasy slab of a man with a smug grin and stubby fingers clutching the ladle like it was a scepter. The other black robes called him Marn. Or maybe Swine. Hard to tell.
Each disciple passed, bowl extended, and received a generous helping of steaming soup. Thick, meaty, aromatic. Survival broth. Even the scent made Samuel's stomach twitch.
Then it was his turn.
Marn looked up, smirked, and slammed the ladle down into the pot with all the ceremony of a priest offering communion. He scooped—half a ladle this time—and plopped it into Samuel's bowl.
More water than meat. Less than a child's portion.
Samuel stared at it.
Then at Marn.
"Next," Marn said, waving him away like a servant dismissed. "Can't have the little shit getting too fat to run."
Laughter exploded around them—sharp, mocking, cruel. A few black robes grinned with open malice. Others chuckled out of instinct, not amusement. Pack behavior. The need to not be the next target.
Samuel didn't move.
Not at first.
Then his jaw flexed. And without a word, he stepped to the side, bowl in hand, and walked away. The laughter followed him for a few seconds longer before it lost interest and turned on someone else.
He sat beside Lyra, who had already gotten her food. Full bowl. Untouched.
Samuel didn't speak at first. He didn't have to. The twitch in his jaw, the controlled way he set down the bowl—every motion screamed fury held just barely in check.
Lyra didn't look up. She was staring into her soup like it held prophecy.
"Did you at least get a spoon?" she asked dryly.
"Nope."
"Hm. Harsh world."