The clearing was a storm of fear. Some collapsed in tears, others whispered broken prayers, and most clawed desperately at familiar faces, clinging to anyone they knew. They thought numbers meant safety, but all Dante saw was weakness.
All eyes were fixed on the glowing door where the goddess waited. No one dared step forward. The crowd froze, each person waiting for someone else to take the first step.
So he did.
Silence dropped like a curtain. Every head turned as he walked, their whispers crawling against his skin like insects. He ignored them. Without a word, he pushed the door open and stepped through.
Inside, the light was soft and warm, wrapping the room in an almost holy calm. At the center stood Liora. Her presence radiated an age and patience that no human could carry.
"Come forward, hero," her voice rang in his mind, not as sound, but as thought. "I will grant you your skill."
Dante approached. Her hand touched his head. Pain lanced through him, sharp as white fire, burning along every nerve. For an instant, he thought his body would tear apart. Then it was gone, leaving only a strange emptiness.
"It is done," Liora said. "Your gift is Necromancer. You may raise the dead. Any creature you slay may return as your servant, bound to obey you. But every power has its limits. You must discover them yourself."
She stepped back. "Now, ask your question."
He had prepared for this moment. "How many of us will survive this forest?"
Her eyes softened with a sorrow that seemed endless. "Only six. There are six kingdoms, and each will receive one champion. That is all I can tell you."
No more words followed. With a wave of her hand, she turned away. The door opened, and he stepped back into the chaos outside.
In his absence, panic had worsened. Large groups had clustered together, some nearly forty strong, each clinging to the illusion of safety. When Dante appeared, silence fell again. Their stares stabbed at him—fear, envy, suspicion.
Necromancer, he thought. Powerful, but useless without corpses. I am the weakest here. For now.
He stepped forward. His voice cut clean through the noise. "I know what's waiting for us. I know how this ends."
They turned, desperate to hear.
"These mobs you've formed?" He gestured at the huddled groups. "They're worthless. Most of you will die. Holding hands won't save you."
A wave of mutters and anger rippled through the crowd.
"How do you know that?" someone demanded.
His gaze pinned the boy like a blade. "It doesn't matter how. What matters is this: my team will survive. The rest of you won't."
The silence that followed was colder than the night.
"I'm taking nine more. Ten is enough. Not because all ten will live, but because enough will remain when the others fall. That's the reality of this trial. If, by chance, all ten make it, then we fight for the last spots. Don't come to me looking for friends. This is survival. If you want the best odds, stand with me now."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then a girl stepped forward—Erica. Shy, quiet, the kind of girl who blended into the background. "I'll join," she said softly.
Masha, the student council president, followed without hesitation, resting a hand on Erica's shoulder. "Where she goes, I go."
That cracked the wall. Talia, the sharp-eyed fencer, strode forward. Then Rina, calm and studious.
Five boys followed—Jin, the martial artist; Edgar, sharp and calculating; Juno, clutching his sketchbook even now; Eric, the athlete with unshakable stamina; and Neil, the survival nerd who had read too many manuals not to be useful.
Ten stood at his back.
Weak, for now, Dante thought. But ten bodies give six survivors. Mercy has no place here. Attachments will only drag us down.
Around them, the crowd shifted. Others rushed to the goddess, chasing their own gifts and asking foolish questions. Some wasted their only chance begging to return home. Others returned with smug smiles or shattered faces.
And soon, his number—ten—infected them all. New groups began to form, each trying to copy his idea. Shouts turned into arguments. Friends clawed at each other, splitting apart.
Already breaking, Dante noted, watching the unraveling bonds. And the trial hasn't even begun.