The first thing Lee Juwon felt was the cold.
Not the pleasant chill of dawn; no—this was the kind of cold that crawled beneath the skin, that nested in the marrow, that whispered:
Wake up.
The stone floor of the ruined cathedral bit into his spine like teeth.
Water leaked through the shattered rose window high above, dripping in slow, deliberate rhythm onto his cheek.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He knew that rhythm.
Seven hundred years ago, the exact same droplets had struck the exact same stone the moment he opened his eyes in this world.
So.
It happened.
He flexed his fingers. Thin. Pale. Weak. The body of a nineteen-year-old who'd never held a real weapon. A body the world would ridicule for the next three hours, until the outer-district ghouls tore it apart.
Perfect.
Juwon kept his eyes closed and listened.
SFX: (THUMP-THUMP-THUMP)
A thousand panicked heartbeats.
Ten thousand frantic thoughts.
One hundred thousand new souls, dragged screaming from Earth and a dozen other worlds and dumped here like cattle.
The air stank of fear, vomit, wet stone, and ozone—the signature scent of the Abyssal Crucible's arrival gate.
Somewhere to his left, a girl was crying.
To his right, a man was praying—
—in a language that would be dead within fifty years.
And above it all, the instructor's voice: bored, cruel, eternal.
"Next."
Boots crunched over debris. Someone was dragged to their feet.
The altar—a glowing slab the size of a truck—hummed violently, runes spinning like circular saws.
The Brand Evaluation.
The moment that decided whether you became a hero…
or feed.
Juwon counted heartbeats the way others counted sheep.
One hundred and twelve until his turn.
Only then did he open his eyes.
The cathedral looked exactly as memory preserved it:
Black marble veins cracked by centuries of divine tantrums.
Saints with melted faces peering down through fractured stained glass.
And the colossal statue of the Forgotten God at the far end—faceless, armless, yet somehow smiling.
He loved that statue.
He had killed the god it depicted. Twice.
"Move it, pretty boy."
Rough hands grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. His legs nearly buckled; he let them. Weakness had to look authentic in the first act.
The instructor was new—a rising B-rank, no doubt. Square jaw, split lip scar, the swagger of a man who believed survival equaled significance.
He shoved Juwon toward the altar.
"Name."
"Lee Juwon," he murmured—soft, hoarse, perfectly broken.
The altar flared white.
Runes accelerated.
A thousand invisible needles speared into his soul—reading, weighing, judging.
Ten seconds of silence.
Then the laughter started.
One soldier.
Then five.
Then the entire hall.
Even a few terrified newcomers joined in, laughing at the designated bottom feeder because it made them feel safer.
The instructor read the glowing letters with open amusement.
"Brand: [Echo of Nothingness]
Rank: F
Flaw: [Cannot inflict direct harm upon any living entity]
Aspect: None
Potential: Zero."
He grinned like a circus master.
"Congratulations, Seed Zero! The most useless human being in forty cycles! Even the cripples from Batch 312 could stab something."
More laughter.
Juwon lowered his head, dark hair sliding over his eyes. His shoulders shook—softly, believably.
He had practiced that tremble.
The instructor grabbed his chin and yanked his face upward.
"Look at you. Pretty enough to be a concubine in the inner districts. Shame no one pays for damaged goods."
He shoved him backward—straight into the rejection line, where fifty souls already awaited execution by ecosystem: ghouls, scavengers, the rain itself.
A little girl with burn scars caught him. She looked twelve.
She would die in nine hours when the ghoul pack smelled her blood.
Juwon gave her the smallest, softest smile.
"Thank you."
Her eyes widened. Something ancient and exhausted flickered behind the harmless boy's face. She recoiled as if burned.
The instructor barked orders:
"Trash to Gate 7! Survivors—congrats, you might live a week. Dismissed!"
Chains clinked. Soldiers began herding the rejects.
Head lowered, Juwon walked with them, counting steps.
Twenty-three to the side corridor.
Forty-one to the blind spot behind the fallen seraph statue.
Sixty to the moment the hidden Nightmare Trial opened—once per cycle, for only one soul.
He passed under the Forgotten God's statue.
For a heartbeat, the empty sockets flared crimson.
Welcome home, Sovereign.
The soldiers didn't notice the temperature drop.
They didn't notice the shadows rippling under Juwon's feet.
They didn't notice the single drop of black tears sliding from his eye—not sadness, not fear.
Just memory.
Seven hundred years ago, he had cried here for real.
Now?
Now the Crucible had made a mistake.
It gave the monster his weakness back…
…and forgot to take away everything he had learned while wearing it.
The outer gate loomed—beyond it:
Night.
Rain.
And the howls of things that once were human.
The instructor slapped Juwon's back, almost sending him sprawling.
"Try not to scream too loud, pretty boy. Some of us need sleep."
Juwon stumbled through the gate.
KRRRR—CHUNK.
The iron portcullis slammed shut behind the rejects.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
And within that darkness, Lee Juwon finally allowed himself his real expression.
A small.
Tired.
Gentle smile.
The smile of a man handed the keys to the universe a second time.
"Again, huh," he whispered to the rain.
The shadows beneath him murmured with a thousand hungry voices.
Yes, Master.
Let us begin.
Far above, in the divine viewing galleries, crimson alerts flickered across every god-screen.
[Anomaly Detected]
[Nightmare Seed Recognized]
[First Trial: The Night That Remembers Your Name — Activated]
None of the gods understood what it meant.
They would.
Soon.