Hell.
The World had turned to Hell.
People were screaming, crying, bleeding, and dying everywhere. The ground was fractured and steaming, split open by explosions that had scarred the earth. The coppery scent of blood clung to the air like smoke, mingling with the reek of burnt fabric and scorched grass. Overhead, the sky had turned a suffocating shade of violet-gray, like bruised skin about to rupture, and the distant echo of weeping and panic filled every breath.
Reed looked around, dazed, the sounds blending into an indistinct roar. His mind drifted in and out of lucidity, teetering between wakefulness and unconsciousness. His leather battle robes, once clean and marked with his name and squad crest, were now caked in mud, dirt, and something darker. Scratches lined his arms, the fabric shredded at the shoulders. His fingers twitched weakly, aching from overuse.
His eyes, only half-open, scanned the chaos for something—anything—familiar.
Marek.
The crater wasn't far. Reed could barely recognize him at first, covered in ash and lying twisted among shattered rock. But his chest still moved—slowly, rhythmically. Alive. Reed's heart gave a stuttered beat of relief.
But Lannis…
He couldn't find her.
Not a trace—no scream, no silhouette, not even a glove. The weight of dread settled heavier on his chest than any rubble.
How had they ended up like this…?
—— Five Days Earlier ——
As the young students began to file out of the shimmering gateway, their eyes adjusted to a jarring new reality. They had expected a forest or open plain—something they could mentally prepare for. But what awaited them was a square, sterile room.
It stretched evenly in all directions—fifty meters long, wide, and tall—with walls the dull color of dry concrete, scarred with ancient scratches and dents, as if something had been trying to claw its way out. The air inside was still. Too still. It was the kind of silence that didn't just hush voices but strangled them.
The gate, a glowing disc of swirling magic, hovered at the center of the chamber behind them, and aside from that, there was… nothing. Nothing except five small bundles huddled near the far wall.
Blankets?
Curiosity broke the tension first. Then concern.
The groups inched closer, boots scraping against the stone floor. As they approached, the "blankets" began to shift slightly. One stirred. Another gave a soft cough.
They were people.
Suddenly, the blankets turned toward them, and the realization hit like a slap to the face—students.
"No…" someone whispered. "Please say I'm imagining. Please say they didn't leave more students in this death trap… please…"
He had jet black hair, matted with grime and sticking to his pale forehead. His school uniform clung to his thin frame like wet paper. He looked like he hadn't eaten in days, his cheeks sunken and eyes red with fatigue.
The others looked no better. There were three girls and two boys, all wrapped tightly in tattered blankets. Their expressions were blank, hollow—refugees of an invisible war. They bore the same Academy insignia as the new arrivals, though theirs were stained and faded.
"Please say you're not real… please say you're another illusion made by this godforsaken place and not more sent to one of those godless professors…"
"W-What do you mean?" Yanis asked, his deep voice trembling. The towering boy, usually so unshakable, looked genuinely shaken—his posture tight, hands trembling near the handle of his weapon.
One of the girls sighed bitterly. Her blonde hair was tangled, and her gaze held no warmth.
"Of course those fucking teachers didn't say anything," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.
"Well…" another girl began, her voice tired but steady. "I suppose we should explain."
She took a moment to sit up straighter, though her movements were sluggish. Every word looked like it took effort.
"This place is called the Sacred Trials, but it's not what we were expecting. We thought… we were told it was an opportunity. That we'd grow stronger here. That we'd discover our potential."
Her lip curled slightly. "Lies. This isn't some fantastical place where dreams come true. This is a test of the gods. And now that you're here…" she paused, her eyes flicking toward the ceiling, "it will only get worse."
"You see, the way this place works is—"
But she never got to finish.
A sudden chill washed over the room, seeping into the stone and into their bones.
The air shifted. Every student—newcomer and survivor alike—froze.
From above, a sound like wind screaming through glass reached them. A faint hum of arcane energy began to materialize in the air, warping the space high above them. Purple mist coiled like a serpent, thick and oily, swirling into a focal point.
Then, something formed.
A small, imp-like creature floated down from the mist. Its skin was the same shade of violet as the fog, pulsing faintly. A single black horn protruded from the center of its forehead, twisted like a spiral. Its eyes were slits, unreadable, and yet filled with terrible intelligence.
One of the younger mages panicked. He reached for his canteen, pouring water into his hand and forming a quick spell—a missile, hastily shaped and hurled with a shout of defiance.
"Wait—no—stop!" one of the older, blanket-covered students screamed.
But it was too late.
The imp raised a single clawed hand and snapped its fingers.
And the boy's head exploded.
No incantation. No visible spell circle. Just a snap. And then gore.
His skull burst like an overripe fruit, the red mist staining those closest to him. His body stood for half a second, then collapsed face-forward, lifeless. The wet slap echoed far too loud in the stunned silence.
Screams erupted.
Students scrambled away, knocking over each other. Panic flooded the room. A few vomited. A few cried. One boy backed into a wall and didn't move again.
But the five survivors—the ones who had been waiting—didn't flinch.
They watched with glassy eyes. They'd seen this before.
And then—snap.
Again, the imp's fingers came together. But this time, time itself froze.
The mist coiled tighter around the imp's form, and the world stood still. Mid-screams halted. Tears held mid-air. Magic paused mid-cast.
Then the imp grinned and began to speak.
"Welcome, trial walkers, to the Sacred Trials," it said, voice smooth and cold as polished obsidian.
"For fame, glory, or to protect your home dimension, you have all willingly stepped forward and accepted the burden that is the Trials."
The imp's black eyes shimmered like ink.
"And now, I suppose I may explain a few things to you…"