ivan
Ivan weaved his way through trees and rocks, only to be intercepted once again by one of the death row inmates. A hulking man stood in his path, holding a blood-soaked axe, his eyes wild and body covered in both fresh and old wounds.
Ivan caught the murderous gleam in his eyes, but there was no time for a fight. Without hesitation, he turned and dashed forward at full speed, running harder than he ever had, ignoring the man's screams behind him. All these obstacles—they were just a waste of time.
The deeper he pushed into the forest, the more corpses he saw. One slumped against a tree trunk. Another leaning on a rock. A third face-down in the dirt. Blood, stench, buzzing flies—everything screamed that this stage had claimed far more lives than the ones before it.
At last, after a series of jumps from branch to branch, his destination appeared: a white structure, resembling a massive glowing tent standing in the clearing. The first rest station. A temporary haven in the midst of hell. A faint smile touched Ivan's face, though it was tinted with exhaustion. He moved closer, eyes locked on the building.
"I'm close… I've cleared a third of the trial," he muttered to himself, then added with a note of unease, "I wonder how many others made it this far. Are they still going? Or am I the only one left standing?"
Ivan came to an abrupt stop, his muscles still taut from running, as his ears picked up a sharp metallic screech—the unmistakable sound of clashing blades, irregular and broken up by heavy panting and muffled coughing.
He turned his head quickly, locking onto the source. There, twenty meters away in a clearing between the trees, a girl was locked in battle with one of the condemned.
But this wasn't just a skirmish—it was a desperate fight for survival. Her sword moved, but she was retreating step by step, while her opponent advanced with confidence, like a predator toying with its prey before the kill.
Ivan watched her closely. Curly blonde hair tied back, torn clothing, and a number scrawled across her back—"47"… It was her. The girl with the distinctive scent he'd passed at the start of the stage. "Her again…" he murmured, furrowing his brows as he watched the scene unfold. Then he whispered to himself, "Should I help her?"
He looked at his watch… 19 minutes left.
"No… this isn't my fight. I don't have time. If I help her, then what? Will I help every person I come across next? No… this is a solo trial. Everyone has to carry their own weight. If she couldn't survive, then maybe she shouldn't have come in the first place."
He began to move again, feet lifting off the ground—yet his eyes remained locked on the fight. One step. Then another… but his head stayed turned toward her.
On the other side of the clearing, the girl was locked in a brutal fight for survival. Her breaths came in gasps, sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, and her arms trembled from exhaustion as she struggled to block the relentless waves of sword strikes.
Each blow came closer than the last, and every retreat brought her nearer to the edge of defeat.
Her opponent kept pressing forward with unrelenting force, his sword crashing down on hers like a hammer against an anvil.
The sound of metal clashing echoed through the forest—until the decisive strike came. a sharp diagonal slash knocked the girl's sword from her hand, sending it spinning to the ground, vibrating violently from the impact.
Before the enemy could exploit the opening, the girl stepped forward on instinct and stomped on his sword to pin it down. She followed up with a direct kick aimed at his face, hoping to buy even a second of time. But he raised his elbow and blocked her strike with ease, then countered with a punch straight to her stomach.
The air was knocked from her lungs all at once, as if her chest had caved in. She flew backward and slammed into the trunk of a tree, then collapsed to the ground, motionless.
The criminal stepped toward her, raising his sword high like an executioner about to deliver a final, irreversible sentence. She lay sprawled, limp, her gaze disoriented, and then her eyes shut in surrender. Her heart pounded violently, but her body wouldn't move. She gave in to the jaws of death… waiting for the final moment.
Then, out of nowhere—a sudden kick shattered the silence. A powerful blow, launched by Ivan, slammed into the side of the criminal just as he began to bring his blade down.
The man's chest caved in with a dull thud, and his eyes widened in raw shock. His sword dropped from his hand, clattering against the ground. His body was flung aside, rolling across the dirt as the breath was knocked from his lungs.
"I can't believe I'm doing this..." Ivan muttered under his breath, exhaling deeply, his voice laced with hesitation and inner frustration.
It sounded less like a statement and more like a self-directed reprimand, he had crossed a line he'd drawn for himself since the start of the trial.
He turned slowly toward the girl, who still knelt on the ground, staring at him with wide, terrified blue eyes, tears beginning to form. Her breathing was erratic, like someone who had just resurfaced after drowning.
He bent down slightly and extended a hand. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft and low, yet heavy with the weight of the moment. She reached up and took his hand, rising shakily to her feet as her knees trembled beneath her. Then she said faintly, "I'm okay. Thank you."
She was about to say more when the moment was shattered by a hoarse, furious voice from behind. "Damn you, bastard!" It was the criminal—his voice now rougher, harsher than before.
The words came out through clenched teeth, as if he were chewing on his own rage rather than swallowing it. He had gotten back up, groaning in pain, but standing tall like a wounded mountain. "I was about to finish her off… Why the hell did you get in the way?!"
He stumbled forward, bruises covering his face, his clothes torn to shreds, but his eyes were locked firmly on Ivan. It wasn't a normal look, it was the gaze of a man struck by something. As if he'd seen that face before. Those features. Those cold blue eyes that stirred a deeply unsettling sense of recognition.
"You…" the criminal growled, his eyes widening slowly, like someone encountering a figure from an old nightmare. "Yeah, it's you! I could never forget that face. You were with that old man in the City of Seven Men… that cursed day!"
His grip tightened around the hilt of his battered sword, his fingers pale from the pressure, close to shattering it. Rage surged through his voice—a mix of hatred and madness, as if he were reliving a memory of humiliation and pain, played on loop inside his mind.
"The filthy old man… it's because of him I'm here, because of him they threw me into this hell! I'll get my revenge… and I'll start with you, by killing you!"
He stepped forward, swinging his bloodied, mud-covered sword as if slicing the very air with his hatred.
His voice grew louder, his face flushed red, and the veins in his neck bulged as though ready to burst. Beside him, the girl whispered nervously as she glanced at ivan, "Do you… know this criminal?"
ivan replied with a sarcastic tone, waving his hand as if brushing off the situation, perhaps trying to ease the tension, or simply mocking fate: "Hmm, not exactly… but I suppose I was a bad omen in his life. The old man I live with. he's the one who got him caught. I was just a bystander in the scene."
He added quietly, "Sorry, but I'm going to disappoint you. That old man you want to get back at through me? He doesn't care about me at all. Even if you cut me down right here, he wouldn't bat an eye."
The criminal moved toward ivan and said with a sneer laced with menace, "We won't know the outcome… until we try."
ivan exhaled sharply, planting his feet and bracing himself for the fight. "Damn it… all I wanted was to lend a hand, and now here I am, dragged into a battle that has nothing to do with me."
The criminal lunged forward suddenly, launching a flurry of swift sword strikes.
ivan countered with precise movements, using his chain to deflect the relentless blows. Sparks flew with each clash, and the sound of steel echoed all around.
The girl, number 47, moved swiftly behind the enemy. She had regained her strength and picked up her sword once more.
She approached from behind, attempting to catch him off guard while he focused on ivan, but she wasn't stealthy enough.
The criminal sensed her and spun around, swinging his sword in a backward slash that would've taken her head, if she hadn't ducked at the very last moment.
From that crouched position, she leapt onto his shoulders, locking her legs around his neck and flipping him violently to the ground—then tightened her grip like a snake constricting its prey.
The criminal roared in pain, and in a savage act, bit into her leg to break free from her hold. but before he could fully rise, ivan was already upon him, his chain winding tightly around the man's pinned arms.
He yanked him back with force, securing the bind, and said with cold sarcasm, "Fighting two people at once… tough, isn't it?"
The criminal struggled to break free, but the binding only tightened. His eyes widened in a mix of rage and despair.
At that moment, the girl swept her leg in a sharp circular motion, tripping his feet and sending him crashing down, still bound.
She pressed the tip of her sword to his neck, her breaths still ragged, her face smeared with sweat, dust, and blood.
Her eyes bore into him without mercy, yet something inside her hesitated. she spoke in a low, razor-sharp voice, "Should I kill you now… after what you tried to do to me?"
The criminal gave a bitter laugh, a hoarse chuckle escaping his battered chest, then spoke in a worn-out voice: "Who would've thought my end would come at the hands of children… this is what they call irony."
He looked up at her with eyes filled half with mockery, half with surrender: "Go ahead, girl. In the end… I'll be executed anyway, whether I die here or after the trial. It makes no difference."
He turned his head to the side, as if offering up his neck, and added with a faint smile : "Just make sure the strike is clean. I don't want to writhe like a rat in my final moments."
The girl remained silent for a moment, her hand still gripping the hilt of the sword, but the blade had begun to tremble. She hesitated, then spoke slowly, as if talking to herself more than to him: "If I kill you now… would that make me like you?"
The criminal's eyes glinted for a second, then he answered in an oddly calm voice, "Maybe. Or maybe you'll become someone stronger."
Behind her, Ivan spoke in a cold tone, "The choice is yours… but don't let your emotions decide your fate. This place doesn't show mercy to fools."
She tightened her grip on the sword until the veins beneath her skin stood out. The shaking gradually faded from the weapon in her hand. She slowly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then drove the blade straight into the man's chest, piercing his heart.
The criminal gasped loudly, a final look of shock flashing in his eyes before his features fell still and his limbs went limp.
She pulled the sword from his body, blood trailing behind the hot steel in a thin line, as if the body refused to let it go without a trace. She stared at the corpse before her, her chest rising and falling.
The scene pulled her back to an old memory... a moment etched into her mind like an open wound. A face, a voice, a name… all came rushing back like a loathsome phantom forced to return.
But a voice behind her broke through that spiral: "Are you alright? How do you feel?" It was Ivan. His voice sounded cautious, like someone afraid of touching a raw wound.
She turned to him. Her gaze was steadier than he had expected, but her face looked utterly exhausted. "I'm fine,"
A moment of silence followed. Ivan didn't know what to say, so he just studied her features. She was pale but composed. The girl looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to figure him out. Then suddenly, she said, "I'm Irene. And you?"
"Ivan," he replied, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Ivan gave a faint smile, then added with a dry bit of humor, "Irene, huh? Small problem: I've got a bad habit of forgetting names. So if I call you something else, don't get mad. Happens all the time with the old man I live with. I forget his name completely, so I just call him 'Old Man.'"
Irene let out a light laugh, part amused, part surprised, and tilted her head slightly. "You're funny, Ivan." There was a trace of ease in her voice, as if, for a moment, she'd forgotten the blood that had stained her clothes just minutes ago.
But then her tone shifted, and her voice took on a curious seriousness as she asked, "Let me ask you something… Why were you staring at me before the trial began? Don't tell me you were sizing up the competition—your eyes weren't watching, they were… studying. Are you into me or something?"
Ivan froze for a moment, then his usual sarcastic expression returned. He shrugged and replied with a dry, slightly exaggerated tone, "Really? That's what crossed your mind? Of course not... it was the perfume you're wearing. That's all. It reminded me of someone. Someone who wore that exact scent."
Irene's eyes flickered with subtle interest, then she glanced down at her blood- and dust-stained clothes. "You mean this perfume… now tainted with the smell of blood and dirt? Odd that it still stirs memories in a place like this."
Then she added, "I bought it from a cheap shop on the outskirts of the capital. That was about two years ago. What drew me to it was its simplicity. It wasn't like those heavily manufactured perfumes.
It felt natural, honest, different… Sadly, when I went back later to buy more, the seller told me it was no longer being produced. He didn't even know who had been supplying it to him."
She paused for a moment, then continued with a tone of genuine regret, "It's a shame, isn't it? Beautiful things vanish too quickly."
Ivan smiled softly, a faint warmth rising in his chest as he listened to Irene praise the scent. To him, it wasn't just a fragrance—it was a trace of his mother, her labor and patience. It felt good to see something she'd made with care being appreciated.
"We need to move. Only seventeen minutes left," Irene said firmly, glancing at her watch flashing in red. She exchanged a quick look with Ivan, and then the two of them took off at full speed.
They reached the entrance, where the building's white door opened for them as if it were swallowing those who had survived—offering a brief moment of rest before hell resumed once more.