The third morning in the fortress was different from the others.
"Elian… Elian, sweetheart, wake up… you'll be late for school," whispered a warm, gentle voice.
For an instant, he thought it had all been a nightmare. The voice—it was his mother's. He could feel her presence, the familiar scent of her hair, the soft touch of her hand. But the illusion shattered when he woke with his feet dangling off the floor, a hand crushing his throat against the wall.
"1317… 1317… wake up, you little piece of shit, you'll be late for your suffering," said S, smiling with his eternal grin, his tone sharp with irritation. Elian hadn't reacted even when the guards drenched him in ice water or beat him with metal batons. His body was numb after the torment of the day before.
S held him in the air like a broken puppet.
"WAKE UP, YOU WORTHLESS SHIT!" he roared into his ear. Elian gagged on the stench of his breath—something between rot and stale coffee.
Paralyzed, barely breathing, he could only tremble.
"Ha… you're awake. Good. You're coming with me," S said at last, dropping him and slinging him over his shoulder as if he were a bag of garbage.
"W-what… what do you want?" Elian croaked, his voice weak. It was the first time S had ever heard him speak.
"So you do have a voice, cockroach?" S laughed, whistling as he strolled down the hallway toward the elevator. It took them to Level -3—the combat zone for the day.
"Hope you're used to blood by now, kid," S said, flashing a crooked grin.
When the elevator doors opened, he threw his arms wide and screamed,"What I want today… IS FOR YOU TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH!"
His voice boomed across the floor. The children froze where they stood.
"YOU FORTY-SEVEN LITTLE BASTARDS WHO SURVIVED THE FIRST TWO DAYS… WILL PROVE YOUR WORTH!" he shouted, delighted—recycling the exact speech he'd already given earlier to another group. But S loved hearing his own voice too much to care.
Elian looked around.The vast chamber was divided into small metallic arenas—each child separated by number. One would fight another until only one stood.
Every eye that turned toward him burned with hatred. Because of him, they thought, two children had died.
"—Murderer.""—Monster.""—Weakling.""—Coward."
The whispers were blades cutting him without leaving a mark.
"I—I won't fight!" Elian shouted, looking up at S. "I-It's not right… my mo—"
"Your mommy?" S interrupted, venomously mocking him. "Did your mommy tell you it's wrong to fight?"
He grabbed Elian's cheeks between his fingers, pressing until the boy's face twisted in pain. "Well, I've got news for you, kid… your hands are already filthy. Yesterday, you killed a boy—and another died because of you."
S's laughter echoed monstrously through the chamber.
Elian trembled. He couldn't stop seeing Arthur's face, the faint trace of worry in his eyes seconds before he died.
"N-No! I'm not a murderer!" Elian cried, tears blurring his vision.
But S wasn't listening. He kicked him in the stomach hard enough to fold him in two, grabbed him by his blood-stained jumpsuit, and hurled him into one of the arenas.
His opponent: Number 1305, a fourteen-year-old.
"I WON'T FIGHT!" Elian yelled again.
The older boy smirked. "Good. That'll make it easier for me, you little killer."
His eyes gleamed with a bright golden light before he lunged forward.
Elian raised his arms to block—but the blow came from the opposite side. He was knocked flat, stunned.
"W-what…? I—I blocked that… how…?"
Another punch, this time to the gut. The air left his body.
"Ha! You're actually fun, kid," 1305 laughed. "Anyone else would be bawling or begging by now."
Then Elian realized: the boy had an Elyth.
"I'm a Novalyth," 1305 said proudly, catching his confusion. "I call my Elyth Mirage. I can reflect my movements anywhere I want. When you think I'm hitting from one side—I'm already hitting from the other."
He waved as if to greet him—but the punch landed straight on Elian's face. The boy flew backward.
He crashed onto his back, nose bleeding, staring up at the metal ceiling. His mother's words echoed in his mind: people with Elyth were good—they used their gifts to protect others. He had never seen one in Saint Deux, only heard of them in bedtime stories.
Now one was beating him senseless.
For four hours, 1305 struck him over and over. Not to kill, but to savor the suffering. Elian cried, begged, but never raised a hand in return.
"Eh, I'm bored," 1305 muttered at last, smirking. "Guess I'll end your misery."
His golden glow faded; he clenched his fist, ready to deliver the final blow.
Elian, bruised and bleeding, barely stayed on his feet. Any other child would have died long ago. Somehow, he still breathed.
Then S's voice blared through the loudspeakers.
"AAAND THAT'S A WRAP!" he shouted gleefully. "All survivors, step out of your little sandboxes! If anyone kills someone now… I'll kill them myself!"
It wasn't mercy. It was whim.
"Tch… Lucky bastard," 1305 spat, kicking Elian before leaving.
Elian couldn't move. Guards dragged him by the arms, tossed him into the elevator, and dumped him back into his cell like trash.
Up in Level 2, S watched the monitors with a team of terrified scientists.
"S-sir S," one of them stammered, "w-we didn't gather enough combat data… w-why did you end the trial early?"
S turned slowly, still smiling.
"WHAT?" he exploded, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him off the ground. "It's my goddamn project! I decide when something ends!"
The scientist wheezed out a terrified yes, and S dropped him.
Fixing his hair, S took a long, deliberate breath.
"There will be more tests. We'll push them past the limit. Let the little shits rest for today." He smiled serenely—though inside, plans for new torment already spiraled.
He had ended the match only because Elian was about to die.
And S wasn't about to let anyone destroy the one child who "amused him most."
For S, that wasn't a compliment—it was a claim.
Meanwhile, Elian slept unconscious in his cell.
He dreamed of his old life: school days, laughter, his mother's arms. He dreamed Arthur was still alive. But also of blood—the knife in his hand, the sound of a head hitting the ground.