Zephyroin sat hunched over, his short jet-black hair shading his eyes from the harsh light.
"Number forty-two. Face to the wall. Hands behind your back," the guard said.
He stood up, his knees and back aching in protest at the sudden movement.
"You know it wasn't me," he said, his voice sounding wrong—too loud after not speaking for so long.
"Yeah, yeah, rich boy. It never is," the guard replied. Zephyroin scoffed, thinking that his parents might have been one of the ten richest families in Valkyrie. He hadn't seen a single cent of it since he was ten—almost thirteen years ago, he thought to himself.
He heard the rattling of metal and then felt the ice-cold cuffs wrapping around his wrists. The guard pulled him back with a grunt. "This way, kid."
The hallway almost looked white—at least, before his eyes adjusted. The smooth gray of the hallway stretched as far as one could see, interrupted only by doors on either side along its entire length. The guard pushed him to the right. Taking the not-so-subtle hint, he staggered in that direction. The dank air of the city, mainly consisting of ash, burnt oil, and bile, filled his lungs. "Home sweet home," he thought.
Valkyrie was a metropolis with thousands of skyscrapers, fully built cities at every few hundred levels. The lower levels of the city were all made of concrete, with no glass or pavement in sight. It was only when you got above floor five hundred that luxury began. After floor five hundred, some of the smell dissipated. There was pavement and a few small parks. After the thousandth floor, there was grass and smooth stone brick roads, with almost every building having windows and personal gardens. The last city level was level one thousand five hundred, where the elites lived. Mostly consisting of diviners—people who could use their spark—up there, you could have everything: fresh air, sunlight, mansions, butlers, man-made lakes with sandy beaches, and even amusement parks for kids. You name any luxury of life, and it's up there. Zephyroin remembered it fondly. The only thing they all had in common was The Pit—a mile-wide hole that went all the way to the first level, and then another hundred stories down. At the bottom was a ruined city from long ago, now covered in blood and gore, and it was where all the power for the city came from. How? The spark.
Everyone is born with "the spark," a touch from the divine. The spark can manifest as unimaginable powers. Some could control simple things like fire, water, earth, and metal. Others could control more complex abilities like teleportation, telepathy, or super speed. Then, a very few could control things that only the gods could: space, light, people, and even time. But the spark lies dormant in most people, never having the chance to fuse. The spark only fuses if a person has a near-death experience.
Every year, they take all the criminals from the city and drop them into The Pit. Where every death charges the city by taking their spark. The last ten standing get to live. Among them, those who are fused are sent to "the crucible," while those who are still dormant get to move up one hundred floors from where they were convicted. Some people voluntarily go to the pit just to move up. Most people there are guilty of only petty crimes, like stealing a drink, moving up a floor without proper authorization, or getting into street brawls.
"We're here," the guard said, pulling Zephyroin out of his thoughts. He looked up to find a plain room.