Ezra just stood there, frozen, staring at the mess around him.
Dead kids.
Blood all over the floor and on the inside walls of the glass boxes. Some of it hadn't even dried yet, just thick dark puddles reflecting the ceiling lights. Tears, blood, and vomit mixed in horrible little smears near the drains. The room smelled like sweat, fear, and iron. Ezra didn't want to breathe.
Right in front of him, inside his glass box, the boy he shot was still slumped forward on the table. His body hadn't moved since the moment the bullet tore through him. A small line of drool ran from the kid's mouth, dripping down from lifeless lips. Ezra couldn't stop looking. His heart just kept pounding, hands vibrating.
The boy's last words still echoed in his head—his voice, the look in his eyes. Ezra's stomach turned again.
He wanted to puke.
Click.
The locks hissed and released with a mechanical whirr, and the glass doors of each box cracked open. Some kids stepped out fast like they couldn't wait to get away from the blood. Others didn't move at all, just sat there curled up like they were still strapped down. Ezra slowly stepped out, trying not to look at the body behind him.
The tall man who started the trial, the one in the long coat, walked in again. His boots clicked sharply on the wet tile floor, each step echoing through the giant room like gunshots.
He stood at the front like a teacher in a twisted classroom, towering over them.
"Children of Ashenlocke," his deep voice echoed, calm but cold.
Everyone looked up, even if their knees were shaking.
"For those of you who survived this first trial—congratulations, on passing the first trial of the Trial of Steel" he said. "You'll be moving on. This program was made to forge strength for the new age for Ashenlocke and Britannia. And if any of you think this is just for the lower branches or the mid-line families that were brought here then, you're wrong."
His eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk.
"Even the main head's children are here. All children of Ashenlocke from fourteen to seventeen years old. No one is exempt."
That last part hit like a wave. Ezra could feel it in the air, the way everyone's eyes changed. Suspicious. Tense. Some kids were looking around already, trying to spot who came from the higher lines of the family. Ezra did too.
It wasn't hard to guess. The main family kids had a certain look, snow-white or pure black hair, with cold black eyes or white that didn't flinch even in a room full of corpses. Unlike Ezra: his own hair was mixed, black with white strands. His eyes were pitch black, but the rest of him, he looked too blended to be part of the main branch.
He didn't belong. His features was the result of marriage between the Ashenlocke's and other lesser Noble families that wanted to integrate their family with the Ashenlocke making the lower-Branch of the Ashenlocke.
The man continued. "There will be nine trials. Many of you will die before the end. But those who make it to the final round will be seen as the new spearheads of the Ashenlocke family. The highest-ranking survivor will become the heir."
Ezra blinked. Heir?
That stirred the whole group like someone had thrown fire on dry leaves. Some kids whispered to each other. Others stood straighter. There was a weird mix of excitement, dread, and raw, hungry ambition in the room now.
Then the man raised his hand and waved it once.
Guards started dragging the bodies away without a word. The blood, the glass shards, the kids who didn't make it—gone like trash being cleaned up after a party.
Ezra didn't want to look, feeling pity and sadness for the falling.
***
The guards herded the rest of them out. The halls they passed through were lined with stone grey and old-looking, but polished like the whole place was part palace, part prison. Tall iron-framed lamps flickered overhead, casting long shadows.
No one talked. They just walked.
Eventually, the group was split, and each kid was sent to a separate room. That surprised Ezra. The accurate numbers of rooms for each of them. It didn't sit right.
He guessed they knew exactly how many kids would survive. The math was probably planned way ahead. Even so, the hallway had too many doors. Ezra counted in his head—more than eighty. Maybe even a hundred.
He entered his assigned room, stepping into a space that looked cold but fancy. A single bed with white sheets. A desk in the corner. A full mirror. The walls were stone but smooth, with a weirdly clean scent, like pine mixed with bleach. Didn't have a bathroom inside instead was built at the entrance of the hotel.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Ezra bolted out of his room to the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.
He vomited.
Hard.
Everything came out, his yesterday meal, the fear, the guilt, the horror. He clutched the toilet rim like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His head pounded; his stomach flipped again. From the nearby stalls, he heard someone else puking too.
That made him feel a tiny bit better. At least he wasn't the only one.
After a few minutes, he dragged himself to the sink and stared at the mirror.
The face that looked back was different from the one he remembered from his past life. Black hair with white streaks, dark eyes that looked almost too sharp for his age. His skin was pale, and his cheeks looked sunken from stress. Still… he looked kind of cool. Handsome, even. But he didn't feel it.
He looked haunted.
Just as he started to calm down, he heard footsteps behind him. More than one pair.
He turned; eyebrows raised.
A group of five kids stood there. Four boys and a girl. The girl was in front, chin raised, like she was used to being in charge. Her hair was snow white, and her eyes were pale as ice. The kind of girl you'd never mistake for anything less than high-tier royalty.
"That's him," said one of the boys, pointing at Ezra. His voice was cold, but his smile wasn't friendly.
Ezra blinked. "What's going on? Why is there a girl in the boys'…?"
Wham!
A fist slammed into his cheek. His head snapped sideways, crashing into the mirror with a sickening crack. Then another boy kicked him in the ribs. Hard.
He collapsed to the floor, wheezing. His vision blurred.
Behind them, he heard the other boys in the bathroom scrambling to get out. One of them whispered in a panic, "That's Pamela… from the Higher-line…"
Ezra barely lifted his head. Blood ran from his forehead, dripping down his face. His right eye was stinging. He coughed, and a bit of blood came out.
He looked up at them, four boys standing tall like bodyguards, and the girl in white, arms folded.
Her voice was sharp. "The boy you killed… he was my brother."
Ezra's mouth went dry.
He remembered the shot. The other boy slumping forward. He remembered him begging. His stomach twisted again.
"Wait…" he gasped, "I didn't know, I was just trying to survive…"
A boy with red strands in his black hair grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the gut.
Cough, cough.
Tears leaked from Ezra's eyes. Not because of the pain, but because he knew what was coming. He was outnumbered. Weak. And none of them cared about excuses.
"Let's just kill him before the guards show up," one of them muttered.
"No, one'll care, if a lower born like him dies so, let's just take our time dealing with him," said another. "He's just trash."
Pamela's voice stayed even. "Choke him in the toilet."
Two boys yanked Ezra up by the arms and dragged him across the floor. His shoes scraped against the tiles. He tried to fight back, but they stomped on his legs and pinned him down. His vision faded in and out. His head hit the floor.
So, this was it. He was going to die.
Again.
"Enough."
The voice stopped everything.
It was deep. Female. Angry. A guard.
Everyone froze.
She stood at the door—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the Ashenlocke uniform. Her face didn't show any emotion, but her tone was steel.
"No fights are allowed after a trial. What's going on here, young lady?"
Pamela straightened, trying to look cool. "Just taking out the trash."
The guard's tone turned cold. "Release him. Now, go back to your rooms. Unless you want to test the punishment rules for Higher-line children."
Pamela paled at that.
"…Let him go," she muttered.
"I said now."
The boys dropped Ezra roughly, one of them spitting on him before leaving. The group vanished like shadows. The guard didn't say another word, just stared at Ezra like she didn't care if he lived or died.
"Return to your room," she said flatly.
Ezra could barely move, but he knew if he didn't go now, she might leave him there to bleed out or something worse. He pushed himself up, legs shaking, body screaming.
He limped down the hall, dragging one foot behind the other. The guard followed silently until he reached his room. He stumbled inside and closed the door behind him.
The second the latch clicked, he collapsed.
And everything went dark.