Silence reigned—brief, cold, expectant.
The obsidian mist that veiled the endless marble plain stirred as a metallic chime rang out. Vyuzka stood among hundreds—perhaps thousands—of confused and trembling humans. Every one of them had been torn from their old lives and dropped into this void, under the cruel mercy of the Trials.
The voice returned. Smooth. Sharp. Unfeeling.
[Attention, Candidates.]
[All personal weapons and equipment have been confiscated in the interest of fairness. You will begin this Trial with your base stats—Level 1—and no Obols.]
A pause.
[Your objective is simple.]
Vyuzka's crimson eyes narrowed. The others leaned forward in hope, praying for something manageable—perhaps survival for a time, or reaching a destination. Something with rules. Something fair.
The voice did not grant them that mercy.
[You may acquire Obols and level up by killing fellow Candidates.]
For a moment, there was no sound.
Then—
Laughter. Not human. Not sane.
[The Vantheons are pleased by this simplicity.]
[Let the First Trial—Begin.]
The black mist rippled like water struck by a stone. And with it, the world snapped.
Screams. Running. Blood.
The weak scattered. The strong hesitated only for a second. Then instincts overrode civilization.
They began to kill.
Vyuzka did not move.
Fists struck flesh. Someone picked up a rock. Another used their belt like a whip. Bones cracked. Cries echoed across the empty expanse.
A girl wept as a boy she once sat beside lunged at her with wild eyes. A man in a lab coat begged, only to be silenced by a shard of glass.
The Trial had no mercy. No weapons. No allies. Only desperation.
Vyuzka watched it all—the madness, the cruelty, the instant transformation of humans into monsters.
So this is how easily it breaks,he thought.
His eyes glowed faintly beneath his white bangs, unreadable.
Somewhere, a Vantheon chuckled again. A sound like steel scraping against bone.
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