Kuro's eyes opened slowly.
Twilight.
Same sky. Same emptiness above. He was still in the arena.
His body wouldn't move at first. Everything was stiff—burning joints, torn muscles. His hands were bandaged. Blood crusted on his arms and legs. Someone had cleaned him up, but the damage was still there.
Healers walked past, silent and focused. Dozens of mats were spread across the field. Only a few were occupied.
He counted.
Twenty.
Down from thirty.
Some kids were still unconscious. Others sat up, dazed. Some looked worse than he did. Mud-covered. Bloodied. Barely dressed. He wasn't the only one in just his underwear. No one seemed to care.
Eventually, he sat up.
Slowly.
Everything ached, but he was awake. A few others noticed him moving. No one said anything.
Then he saw the Scars across his arms, shoulders, even in his face . Not deep—healed already—but visible.
Across the arena, Takeshi stood on the raised platform with the old man. They were talking. No sound reached the ground.
He wasn't sure what came next.
But he thought the first trial was over.
Then, a voice beside him.
"Damn. Thought I was the only one this sore."
Kuro turned.
The boy next to him stretched casually, one arm across his chest. He looked about the same age, maybe a little older. Blond hair, tousled. Golden eyes. Clean features. Even after everything, he somehow looked... composed.
He grinned.
"Henry," he said. "Henry Hir."
Kuro hesitated. He wasn't used to this.
No one had ever introduced themselves to him like that before—not like a peer.
He glanced at the outstretched hand, then gave a small nod.
"…Kuro."
Henry blinked. "Kuro?" He tilted his head. "That's a peculiar name."
Kuro shrugged.
Henry didn't push. Just chuckled and let it go.
They stood side by side in silence, watching the others gather.
Kuro wasn't sure why, but it felt strange.
Henry leaned in a little, voice low.
"That cursed geezer... you know the one on stage?"
Kuro nodded slightly.
Henry scoffed. "They say he's been running this thing for centuries. No one knows how old he truly is."
He paused, eyes scanning the stage where the man stood beside Takeshi, talking quietly.
"Rumour is he used to be one of the Twelve Supremes", Henry continued. "Back when they still took part in things like this. Before they turned into ghosts behind walls and thrones."
Kuro said nothing.
Henry gave him a sideways glance. "Not much of a talker, huh?"
Kuro shook his head slightly.
Henry folded his arms, eyes still on the stage. "Whatever that guy is, he's messed up. Laughing while we were barely breathing…"
A pause followed. Then, more to himself than to Kuro, he muttered, "If that's the welcome, what the hell's the rest of the road look like?"
Kuro stayed silent.
The one-sidedness hung in the air.
Henry scratched his neck, letting out a quiet laugh. "Right. Might as well be talking to a wall."
He didn't seem too bothered, though.
"My trial," he said after a beat, "was a catacomb. Or something like it. Tight walls, no light. Just this sound, y'know?" He clicked his tongue softly. "Bones scraping. Shuffling feet. And then… I saw them."
Kuro glanced over.
Henry grinned, golden eyes catching the ambient light. "The dead. Or whatever counted as dead. They were fast. I mean fast. I had to crawl through holes barely wide enough for my chest, climb vertical shafts, drop into pits I couldn't even see the bottom of. One wrong step, and I'd have been torn apart."
He laughed again, like it was some wild game.
"Oh, it was awesome. Terrifying—but awesome."
Kuro didn't share the sentiment. But he nodded once, out of politeness.
Henry tilted his head. "Yours must've been brutal, too. You look like you got chewed up and spat out."
Kuro shrugged.
"Man of mystery, huh?" Henry said with a smirk. "Alright, Kuro. I'll stop grilling you. But if you ever feel like talking, I'm around."
He gave a two-finger salute, then turned as the crowd around them began to shift. Movement at the stage.
After some time, they were told to gather again on the open grounds.
The old man was gone. Takeshi stood alone on the stage now.
Once the twenty of them had assembled, Takeshi looked over the group.
"You all passed," he said simply.
No applause. No details.
He waited a moment, then added, "Next one will be harder."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Survive."
No one spoke. The air felt heavier than before.
"Return to your rooms. That's all for now."
Takeshi stepped down. The gate opened briefly to let him through, then closed behind him with a deep clang.
The group stood still for a beat, then started to walk off without a word. No one knew what was coming next.
Sleep came quickly after Kuro returned to his room. The exhaustion buried deep in his bones pulled him under, and he didn't remember closing his eyes.
************************************************
A hard shake pulled him from the fog.
"Jack. Wake up. Our shift's over."
He blinked, disoriented. The world was dim, cold. A fire crackled low against the far wall—the only source of warmth in the stone chamber. Two men stood over him, already belting on armor, tired but focused. Their faces were pale in the firelight, their voices hoarse from days of cold air and shouted orders.
Jack sat up.
His body ached. His palms were calloused, fingers stiff. Small wounds marked his arms and side—tender cuts, wrapped in simple cloth. His armor lay beside the cot, worn but serviceable, still bearing faint scuffs and dried blood.
He didn't speak. Just moved, letting instinct carry him through the unfamiliar motions. The armor felt like his. The name—Jack—stuck in his head, and for now, that was enough.
As he fastened the last buckle, he glanced to the side.
A narrow window slit let in a biting current of air. He stepped toward it.
Rain lashed against the tower's outer wall. Beyond the stone sill, the land plunged downward in steep, treacherous slopes, winding into the darkness below. The tower stood atop a massive hill—an old fortress reclaimed. The storm blurred everything, but far, far below, he saw them:
Lights in the distance. Isolated. Moving. Fires. Big ones. Some flickered. Others held steady like campfires or signal blazes, burning deep in the valley.
He couldn't tell what they meant. But they were there.
The two men finished preparing and were already at the door.
"You coming?" one of them muttered without turning.
Jack nodded and followed.
The door opened onto a spiraling staircase. Cold stone underfoot. Torches burned low and far apart. The tower rose three floors above and dropped at least four below. The air was damp. Cold bit through the armor.
They descended.
Each step echoed faintly, joined by distant sounds rising from below. As they neared the base, the muffled roar of activity grew—metal striking metal, raised voices, groans of pain, the bark of commands.
The lowest level opened into a vast chamber—far larger than anything Jack had expected.
The old fortress had been built to hold armies. The base hall stretched out like the belly of a cathedral: high-vaulted, stone-ribbed, echoing.
Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of soldiers moved through the space. Some walked with purpose, others limped or lay wounded on beds of straw and cloth. Medics hurried between them. Smiths repaired dented armor. Far ahead, near the wide iron gate, horses were being prepped—visible where the wind and rain howled in through the open portcullis.
The two soldiers moved toward a cloaked figure at the center of the hall.
Jack followed, falling into step.
They saluted. He mirrored them automatically.
The officer spoke in a strange tongue… but Jack understood anyway.
"Platoon Six. Caesar leads you. Departure in two hours. You ride at the front."
No explanation. No questions.
The officer gestured toward the supply line, and the three of them moved.
Jack was handed a pack—water, dried ration strips, a belt-blade to strap across his lower back. A smith gave his armor a once-over and nodded him on. A horse would be assigned once their column was formed.
In fragments of overheard talk, Jack pieced things together.
The fortress had only recently been retaken—after weeks of bloodshed. The region beyond the slopes remained enemy ground. Scouts had vanished. Something large was stirring out there, beyond the rain.
And now, they were riding back out.