At the chilling gate of the Demon's Nightmare, filled with demonic qi that sent fear into the hearts of even the bravest, the son of the forsaken King stood in waste. Hanging onto sanity—and if it snapped, he would fall into insanity.
Ma-Jok stood next to the boy, washing him up as he prepared him for an even worse nightmare — The Demonic Hound Raising Squad. A squad of the Demonic Cult that was recently created. They focused on raising the next dogs of the Demonic Cult, from children taken into custody from the Orthodox Alliance.
They were kept in an underground chamber that was as wide as two soccer fields and as tall as a three-story building. It was so enclosed that the light of day only slipped through a small opening at the top of the cave. The kids were to remain there for the next seven years, where they will killed each other as they grow, surviving the harshest conditions humanly possible.
"Hey kid, if you don't want your father's death to be in vain, you must survive. Survive and become stronger than ever," Ma-Jok said, looking the boy straight in the eyes as though he was trying to light up a flame that was already out.
****
Many hours later, at noon of that same day, Ma Hyeolmu had already been transported into the cave with his eyes blindfolded, his senses blocked, together with other kids around the same age as he was.
The cave was vast, its stone walls stretching so far that the end could not be seen. Torches burned dimly along jagged rock, their flames spitting weak light that could barely hold back the darkness.
Squelch!!
The pressure points of the children's senses were finally released, sending sligh pains through their body as though qi had just punched through their veins.
"Look up, kids. There are 445 children here presently. You have three hours—I want the number dropped to 300. If after three hours the numbers don't hit the target, you may all die." One of the guards, masked with the word "DEATH" written across his face, said coldly.
"Who do you think you are... One of the children raised his voice in anger, ...my father is the vice squad leader of the—" Before he could even finish his sentence, his head was ripped apart by one of the demons standing behind him.
"Who said you could speak? You have three hours," the masked man said, as he and the other guards exited the room.
Even as the blood of the dead boy gushed out of his lifeless body, spraying everywhere, no one dared move. Even with panic written all over their faces, they didn't dare lift a finger.
****
The air was damp, heavy with the stink of moss and blood.
Four hundred and forty-five children stood in that cave. Sizing each other up with their eyes, which darted from one point to another, wide with confusion. Most of the kids were trembling, while others whispered their vicious plans to each other, plans too cruel for their age and origin. Most were no older than twelve, while the youngest was nine.
As the kids were still trying to figure out what was happening—still freaking out from the death of a child like them—the voice came again. Cold and merciless, echoing from the corners of the walls.
"Reduce your number to three hundred or less… within three hours. Survive, and you may live. Fail, and all of you might just die."
The voice faded, but its weight pressed against their bones. Silence followed. Thick, suffocating Silence, that sends shivers down one's spine.
A boy with a scarred cheek laughed first, the kind of laughter that made weaker children stumble back and shiver. "Three hours? Then if no one's going to start, I'll just start early." He grabbed the nearest smaller boy by the throat and slammed him headfirst against the ground. A scream tore through the cave.
Chaos erupted.
Soon the children started attacking each other in an all-out war. Some tried to plead for reason, shouting about working together, while others tried to use their parents' background as a bargaining tool. But all their voices were drowned out by the sound of fists, rocks, and martial arts techniques tearing into flesh. Fear turned to madness, madness to slaughter, and slaughter turned into death.
Amid the storm of cries and blood, a pale figure lingered at the edge, unnoticed by the crowd. His long white hair, tangled and unkempt, shimmered faintly even under the dim light. His body was thin, too frail to even lift a rock in defiance. Yet while the others clashed, the boy simply sank into the shadows, his breathing slow, his presence vanishing, unnoticed by the huge crowd, almost like he was never there.
Absolutely, one noticed him.
He had been invisible long before this day. Years of being locked away, tortured, starved, and treated as less than human had carved away the parts of him that screamed for recognition. Living with all his senses blocked, he could only hear his own thoughts and nothing else. All that remained was silence—a silence that let him melt into the air, unseen, forgotten.
The children ran past him, their hands coated in blood, screams breaking their throats. Bodies fell, blood pooling across the rock. He stood only a step away, yet none turned their eyes to him. It was as though he did not exist.
And for him… that was survival. Being weak and fragile compared to the others, he was the easiest target. But the only way he could live was by fading away.
The pale boy's gaze drifted across the carnage, his eyes empty, his lips pressed thin. Memories of his father's death and his brothers' and uncles' slaughter still burned faintly in his mind—betrayer, traitor, outcast. And now, here he was, a ghost among the living, waiting as death claimed the rest.
The cave howled with violence, but he remained unseen, his heart whispering the only rule he had ever learned:
SURVIVE!
To be continued...