Immediately, the realization struck him like a hammer blow to the skull.
The meadow around Klein fractured, splintering like a shattered mirror, and when the shards fell away, so too did the gentle dream of sunlight and blossoms.
In its place sprawled a grotesque garden. The sweet fragrance of wildflowers curdled into the damp, choking musk of rot and stagnant water. Moss stretched thick across the soil, slick and unwelcoming, squelching under his boots with every step.
Colossal flowers rose like crimson monoliths, their blood-red petals glistening with dew that gleamed too darkly, too thickly—more like fresh blood than water. Their centers pulsed faintly, each throb eerily like a heartbeat. From their gaping mouths seeped a white fog, curling low, clinging to the ground, thickening with every breath.
A sudden shimmer cut through the gloom.
A screen appeared, stark against the murk.
[Welcome to the Sin Trial, Chosen One.]
[Prepare for your first trial.]
[Objective: Survival.]
[Time — 10 minutes.]
Klein's grip tightened around his sword. Survival. It was not victory the trial demanded, only endurance. Which meant whatever lurked in this nightmare was something he could not hope to kill.
The silence pressed in. Heavy. Suffocating. The fog thickened, swallowing detail until even the colossal blooms became little more than silhouettes.
Klein exhaled sharply, forcing his nerves into stillness, raising his blade.
Something cold and slick brushed against his boot.
"Fuck—!" He cursed, gaze snapping downward.
A vine, black and wet, coiled tight around his ankle. The sword hissed free in a savage arc, slicing it apart, sap spraying like bile. But the reprieve lasted less than a breath. More vines slithered forward, countless tendrils crawling toward him in patient inevitability.
He leapt backward, boots splashing in the muck, narrowly avoiding being ensnared. Relief flickered—only to die as a sharp hiss tore the air.
Instinct screamed. Klein dropped low just as a vine lashed overhead, cracking through the fog with whip-like force.
His gaze snapped up—and his stomach clenched.
The monstrous flowers had stirred. Their vast stems convulsed, birthing a forest of writhing vines. Dozens, no—hundreds—snapped forward with breakneck speed.
"Damn it!" Klein spat, rolling aside as one struck, slamming into the earth where he'd stood. The ground exploded in a spray of mud and stinking water.
Another came. He parried, sparks dancing off steel as the force rattled his bones. Sap sprayed as he hacked through another tendril, the foul liquid splattering hot against his cheek.
He ignored the sting, his blade flashing again and again, cutting, parrying, dodging—but they were endless.
The fog grew thicker, oppressive, swallowing his sight. His breaths came shallow.
And worse—voices whispered from within the mist.
His parents. Elora. Familiar tones, gentle and cruel all at once, beckoning him. Mocking him.
Klein's mind reeled, his heart hammering as if their voices clawed at his sanity. He shook his head violently, biting down on his tongue until he tasted iron.
Focus. He could not falter here.
But distraction cost him.
"Gah!" A vine slammed across his back like a whip, pain lancing through him as he was thrown forward into the muck. He rolled, teeth clenched against the agony, forcing himself upright.
Barely a minute into the trial, and already he was bleeding, already stumbling.
The vines struck again, sensing weakness.
He roared his defiance, swinging in wide arcs, severing tendril after tendril, each impact sending shocks up his arms. His hands were going numb, his shoulders screaming with every motion, but he could not yield.
The ground itself writhed now, countless hidden vines pulsing beneath the soil, waiting for the moment he misstepped. Every second was a razor edge between life and death.
The clock ticked on.
Five minutes to go.
His lungs burned, his vision blurred, his body screamed in protest. Dozens of lashes had already scored his flesh, each strike threatening to drag him down.
Yet his blade did not falter. Not while his future depended on this moment. Not while power—his rise—lay on the other side of survival.
"Move!" he snarled at himself, driving his weary body into motion, blade flashing in desperate arcs, his willpower a torch against the suffocating dark.
He had to survive. Nothing else mattered. Not pain. Not fatigue.
He steeled himself and plunged forward, refusing to break.
Vines lashed forward like whips of judgment, each strike a verdict meant to break him. Klein met them with desperate resolve.
Some he parried, steel shrieking as tendril met blade. Some he severed, sap splattering hot across his face. Some struck true.
Each blow carved a price into his flesh, but still he fought on.
Time bled sluggishly, cruel in its pace. The relentless assault made every second feel like an eternity.
A vine smashed into his ribs—he heard the wet crack before pain ripped through him, sharp and suffocating. Another tore across his thigh, shredding flesh.
His body was broken, bloodied, but never once did he think of surrender.
One minute remained.
He spat blood, the copper sting burning his tongue.
Thirty seconds left—another lash ripped into his shoulder, bone tearing from socket, his arm dangling uselessly. His sword was now gripped in one trembling hand.
Ten seconds.
His vision blurred, fog swallowing everything. The world reduced to sound—the hiss of vines, his own ragged breathing, the mad hammering of his heart.
10… 9… 8… 7… The remaining seconds bled by.
Then silence.
The vines froze mid-strike. The fog itself stilled, suspended in the air as if time had been shackled.
Then, all at once, it collapsed.
Tendrils dissolved into nothing. Mist evaporated.
Klein fell to one knee, chest heaving. Blood dripped from his lips. Every breath scraped his broken ribs like fire across bone. His dislocated arm dangled lifeless at his side.
He leaned on his sword like a crutch, teeth clenched to keep from crying out.
A void swallowed the world—silent, black, unending.
Then, like wax melting from a candle, it collapsed and reformed.
A hall spread out before him, vast and blinding in its grandeur. Gold gleamed across walls embroidered with intricate patterns, chandeliers dripped with jewels, every inch radiating opulence.
But Klein's eyes weren't on the room.
They were on her.
At the center of the chamber stood a woman. At least—she wore the shape of one.
Her hair was long and silken, spilling like liquid shadow over her shoulders. A gown of pure white clung to her body, tracing dangerously along her lascivious curves.
At a glance she was divine, beautiful, sexy.
But then his gaze lowered.
Where legs should have been, a forest of slick, writhing tentacles slithered beneath her dress, coiling, uncoiling, carrying her with a slow, liquid grace.
Her lips curved into a smile that might have been alluring, had it not made his skin crawl.
A screen flickered into existence.
[Welcome to the Second Trial.]
[Objective – Defeat Your Opponent.]
The moment it vanished, her voice filled the hall.
"Another moth," she purred, voice like velvet and venom twined together. "So desperate to prove himself."
Klein said nothing. He forced his battered body upright, sword clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Pain roared in every nerve, but words would not save him here.
"A silent one." Her smile deepened. "I do love a silent type."
She licked her lips—long, deliberate, leaving a wet gleam across them—as she lifted one pale hand.
Dark energy coalesced in her palm, black smoke twisting, condensing, sharpening. A claw of shadow encased her fingers.
Then she moved.
Her lunge was inhuman, faster than the eye could follow. The claw arced for his throat.
Too fast.
Klein's body reacted before his mind could. His blade scraped against the strike, sparks exploding as steel met shadow. The impact numbed his arm, pain lancing through his broken ribs, but he forced himself to hold.
He staggered back, vision swimming. His body was ruined from the last trial, and now—this.
There would be no mercy.
She lunged again, talons shrieking through the air. Klein twisted aside, breath tearing from his lungs as the strike sliced past, the air itself vibrating from its force.
He countered with a desperate slash, blade biting into her side.
A shallow cut. Too shallow.
Instead of pain, she laughed—a low, delighted sound.
"How feisty. To harm a lady so recklessly... aren't you going too far?" she cooed, voice drenched in mock weakness.
Klein's jaw locked. He charged, raising his sword in both fury and defiance—
Her dodge was effortless. Her counter was merciless.
The punch drove into his stomach like a hammer, air ripped from his lungs as his body was hurled backward.
He skidded across the polished floor.
"Gahh!" Blood sprayed from his mouth as his slide came to a halt, but he managed to stabilize himself.
His whole body screamed in protest, pain lancing through every nerve, urging him to give up—yet he refused to give up.
At least not yet.