The morning came with no mercy.
It seeped through the cracks of the walls, a thin, pale light that felt more like an accusation than a new beginning. There were no birds singing, no gentle warmth rising with the dawn.
Only the heavy, suffocating stillness of a world that had moved on without him.
Only the silent weight pressing down against his chest the moment his eyes opened.
Samuel — or Veilin, depending on which mask he chose to wear — rose from the narrow bed without a sound. He moved slowly, stiffly, as though dragging the remnants of a thousand sleepless nights behind him.
Each step felt heavier than the last, his body a reluctant servant to a mind that refused to rest.
The corridors were abandoned at this hour, bathed in a dim, flickering light that stretched their shadows into thin, skeletal shapes.
The public toilets were as cold and empty as he expected. He went through the motions mechanically
He did what he needed to do, washed away the remnants of his dreams, and returned to his room.
As the door creaked open, his eyes immediately scanned the room. Everything felt wrong, like his surroundings were no longer his own. Yet, it was his reflection in the mirror that caught his attention—haggard, disheveled, and still haunted by the weight of his new life.
It was then that he spotted it—the dagger. Hidden beneath the desk, as if it were a secret kept only for the truly desperate. Samuel's hand hovered for a moment.
'A weapon, bought with Abyssal Stones,' He thought.
The same currency the temple used to buy and sell power.
With a sigh that was more resignation than relief, he reached for it. The cold steel felt heavier than it should, as if it recognized the burden he carried. He turned it over in his hand and glanced back at the mirror. His reflection seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of how little control he had over anything.
The rope—that cursed thing —still hung around his neck, a twisted, almost invisible reminder of the forces pulling at him. He'd been meaning to rid himself of it, but every attempt to sever it had ended in failure.
Not anymore, though.
With careful precision, he placed the dagger against the rope. It felt like cutting through the air itself—stifled, restrained, like the very act of undoing this knot would break something fundamental inside him.
He hesitated just for a moment, staring at the rope in the mirror.
'Why had he let it stay on for so long?'
The answer was simple: fear. Fear of the unknown.
But fear had always been a part of him, hadn't it? It had followed him into every dark corner of his life, and now it followed him here, too.
'Maybe it's time to stop letting it control me.'
And with that thought, Samuel sliced through the rope.
For a brief second, he stared at the piece of cursed cloth now lying useless in his hand, and for the first time since waking up in this hellhole, he felt... lighter.
The tension in his neck seemed to vanish, but a new kind of tension settled in his chest. One he couldn't quite name yet.
He stared at the dagger for a while longer, the weight of the decision hanging heavy in the air.
"So... now what?"
Samuel stared at his reflection in the mirror, the length of his hair falling in tangled waves around his shoulders. It was strange to think that a simple thing like hair could feel like such a burden.
But here, in this new life, where everything was foreign and nothing felt quite right, even his hair seemed to serve as a reminder of how much had changed.
His hair, long and unruly, was nothing like the style he'd had on Earth. On Earth, he'd kept it neat, trimmed, maybe even a little stylish. But here, in Pendora, things were different. Here, hair wasn't just about looks—it was a symbol.
A burden.
He glanced down at the dagger still clenched in his hand. It wasn't meant for this, but it would have to do.
'If I had a trimmer…' He thought with a sigh.
That would have been a much better tool for the job. Still, a dagger was better than nothing, and he was determined to make it work.
With a grimace, he started cutting. The dagger was awkward in his hands, its sharp edge not quite made for slicing through thick, long hair. Every snip felt like an eternity, each cut leaving a jagged mess behind. The frustration mounted, but he kept going.
After all, he had to look presentable for the trial.
It took longer than he'd like to admit, but eventually, his hair was trimmed—sides short, the top long, just like the style he used to wear.
He looked at himself in the mirror again. The transformation wasn't perfect, but it would do for now.
The mess of hair around him seemed like a small, silly thing in the grand scheme of everything else. But at least now, he didn't look quite so disheveled.
After cleaning up the mess and dusting off the stray locks of hair from his shoulders, Samuel reached for the black robe that was laid out on the bed.
It was simple—plain black, just like the rest of the temple's disciples wore. It didn't carry the weight of authority or prestige that the golden robes did, but it fit him well enough for what he needed.
He dressed quickly, the robe settling comfortably around his frame. As he adjusted the collar, he felt a momentary shift in his chest—Like some pathetic part of him still believed he was preparing for greatness instead of disaster.
'I'll be ready for whatever it is,' he thought, his lips curling in a humorless smile.
Because lying to himself was easier than the alternative.
Without another word, he locked the door behind him.
The click of the latch sounded final, somehow. Then he turned and made his way toward the main hall.
It was about to begin.
And one way or another, something was going to end.
***
Temple of the Abyss — Outer Hallways
The stone beneath his feet was cold.
Cold like a grave. Cold like the bottom of the sea. Cold like the welcome you'd get when accidentally walking into the wrong cult meeting—which, as it happened, was a little too close to Samuel's current predicament.
He walked slowly.
One step at a time, down the ancient hallway lined with glowing runes and colder gazes. The other disciples streamed past him, black robes billowing, boots clicking in unison.
Some chatted, some smirked, and a few poor souls were trying very hard to look like they weren't about to soil themselves.
Which was reassuring.
At least everyone was terrified. Misery loved company—and apparently, so did doom.
Samuel's eyes moved from face to face. Most of them were younger than him. Sharper. Hungrier. Or maybe they just had the benefit of not being dropped into this world like a half-baked dumpling into a pit full of wolves and ancient death gods.
Lucky them.
One boy laughed—too loud. His voice cracked halfway through like even his vocal cords didn't believe he'd survive the day. Another girl was muttering prayers under her breath, beads of sweat trailing down her temple like holy water fleeing for its life.
Samuel tried to listen.
Her lips were moving fast. Repeating something again and again like a broken record with holy intent.
He leaned in.
"...Depths devour… Depths devour… Depths—"
Great.
That sounded lovely.
Nothing like walking into a trial with a motto that made hell sound like the safer option.
He swallowed hard, forcing his legs to keep moving. He tried to look calm. Normal. Like someone who totally, absolutely belonged here and wasn't, in fact, a transmigrated fraud with zero clue what this trial was or why these people kept whispering about things with too many eyes.
Behind him, someone snorted. "Can't wait to see which idiot gets eaten first."
Samuel didn't turn around.
He had a sneaking suspicion that if anyone was going to be eaten first, it'd be the guy who still wasn't sure which hand was used for the temple salute and who had spent the last hour rehearsing neutral facial expressions in a mirror.
Neutral. Not guilty. Not afraid. Just... vaguely pious.
The worst part?
It was working.
At least no one had tried to sacrifice him. Yet.
The hallway turned, sloping downward. The air grew heavier. Thicker. Like breathing through syrup flavored with despair. The runes along the wall shimmered faintly, and the laughter ahead dimmed into silence.
The Main Hall loomed beyond.
A great arch of black stone, carved with twisting, writhing symbols that may or may not have moved when you weren't looking. A doorway into something ancient. Waiting.
Samuel paused.
There it was again—that feeling. Like being watched.
Judged. Measured.
Possibly seasoned.
He took a deep breath.
"I'm fine," he muttered under his breath, trying to convince no one in particular.
"Totally fine. This is fine. Everyone loves being fed to unknowable entities, right? Classic spiritual growth."
His voice sounded hollow even to him.
Still, he straightened his back. Adjusted his robe. Tried to look like a faithful little lamb ready for ritual slaughter.
Then, with the grim resolve of someone walking into a dentist's office staffed by cannibals, he stepped through the arch.
Into the maw of the Trial.
***
The Main Hall.
Samuel reached the main hall.
It was just as charming as he'd imagined.
The white robes sat in neat, self-important rows, looking like they'd just finished oppressing someone for breakfast. Behind them, the black robes stood — backs straight, faces blank, the perfect image of second-class morons.
He spotted Elias, leaning casually against a pillar like the world's laziest rebel. Samuel made his way over, weaving through the sea of mediocrity.
"Your hair's looking good," Elias said without glancing up.
Samuel blinked.
Compliment or insult?
With Elias, it was a coin toss.
"Thanks," he muttered, because arguing about it felt like too much work.
He turned his attention back to the hall, just in time to watch the golden robes make their grand entrance.
Ah, the golden robes.
Shiny. Perfect. Radiating that main character energy Samuel remembered from trashy novels back on Earth — the kind where the hero saves the day, gets the girl, and never once questions why everyone else around him keeps dying horribly.
Samuel watched them march forward, all shining smiles and heroic confidence, and for a moment, he felt something warm bloom in his chest.
It was satisfaction.
Twisted, petty satisfaction.
Because they were going to die.
Horribly.
And they didn't even know it.
Unfortunately, if Samuel didn't move soon, he was going to be right there with them — another extra in someone else's tragedy.
He took a step back, already plotting his escape, when the great bell rang out overhead.
The sound was heavy. Final.
Like the universe itself was sighing in disappointment.
The Temple Master arrived first, gliding in like a corpse that had forgotten it was supposed to stay dead.
The Abyssal Elders followed, each one looking more thrilled to be here than the last.
Samuel straightened his robes and tried to look appropriately reverent. Inside, he was already mourning his own survival chances.
The Temple Master took his place on the dais, draped in black and gold like some badly aged relic.
He raised a hand, fingers long and pale as bones. The Temple Master's voice rolled out over the hall, deep and measured, like a funeral bell disguised as a sermon.
"Hail the Chained One, whose bonds hold the void at bay.
Hail the burden we are honored to bear."
***