Lyra opened her eyes, but all she could see was darkness. Her chest tightened, and panic surged through her veins as if iron bands constricted her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. Her limbs felt numb, weightless, detached from her own body.
Am I dead? Is this the end for me?
"No… no…" Her thoughts were frantic, desperate. This can't be how it ends. Not now. Not when I've just started.
Her mind thrashed against the suffocating void, clawing for control.
"Wake up," she muttered. "Wake up… Wake up… WAKE UP!"
Light exploded before her, and she gasped for air, lungs burning as if she had been drowning. Her body pitched forward, knees scraping against a hard, cold surface. She knelt there, trembling, feeling the lingering fear clawing at the edges of her mind.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted, and the world around her materialized. Four hallways stretched out in different directions. Three of them appeared almost identical, nondescript and bleak, but the one in front of her was different—an unsettling masterpiece of grandeur and dominance.
The hallway stretched endlessly, yet it seemed unnaturally balanced despite its vast proportions. Monolithic pillars lined the passageway, carved from jet-black obsidian streaked with veins of shimmering gold. The runes etched into their surfaces glowed faintly with a shifting light—alive and pulsing like a heartbeat. The air itself was heavy, oppressive, and almost suffocating.
Lyra swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. Her heart still pounded in her ears as she took in the vivid colors—white, black, gold, red, and gray—melding in a chaotic yet harmonious fashion. A sense of overwhelming power radiated from the hall, sending shivers down her spine.
A groan from beside her snapped her out of her daze. The others were waking up—some coughing, some gasping, all as disoriented as she had been.
The first to rise was a hulking man, easily in his thirties, his presence commanding and intimidating. He wore noble attire, rich fabrics tailored to fit his broad frame, but his appearance was marred by his bald head and dark, rage-filled eyes. Lyra instinctively took a step back, making a mental note to avoid him. His anger radiated off him like a smoldering furnace, and he looked ready to tear apart anything—or anyone—unlucky enough to cross him.
Next was a woman in her late twenties, her long black hair cascading down to her knees, flowing like a dark river. Her brown eyes, however, were hollow, filled with a deep, unspoken sadness. She wore simple, worn commoner clothes, and Lyra's instincts warned her to be cautious. People burdened with that much despair could be unpredictable.
Lastly, two more figures stirred—a boy and a girl, both appearing to be around Lyra's age. They looked almost identical with their golden hair and piercing blue eyes, clearly twins. Their expressions were wary, but there was a cold edge to their glances that made Lyra uneasy. Something about them seemed calculating, as if they were already planning their next move.
A noise broke the tense silence—a low, haunting hum that sent chills skittering down Lyra's spine. It was coming from the hallway in front. The others noticed it too, their heads snapping in the direction of the sound. The humming grew louder, clearer, almost melodic yet sinister, and before Lyra could process it, a figure materialized right before them.
She barely had time to blink, and suddenly the man was there. Her heart nearly stopped. He looked young, in his early twenties, with short, fiery orange hair and eyes like molten rubies behind thin, round glasses. His presence was suffocating, his mere existence demanding submission. Lyra didn't need to be told—this man was overwhelmingly strong.
"Hello, you filthy mongrels," he greeted, his tone exhausted and dripping with disdain.
The bald man bristled immediately, stomping forward. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to, kid?!" He loomed over the orange-haired man, face flushed with fury. "You need to show some damn respect to your fucking elders! I didn't just—"
Before he could finish, a shimmering golden ring with black dots appeared on his right arm. Then, with a sickening crunch, his entire arm was gone—flesh, bone, all of it—leaving nothing but smooth, unblemished skin where his limb had been. Lyra barely registered the movement. It was as if the man had only flicked his finger.
The bald man opened his mouth to scream, but another golden ring appeared around his throat. "If you make another sound," the man whispered, his voice laced with venomous intent, "I will kill you."
Silence swallowed the room, the woman trembling, pressing herself against the wall as if hoping to disappear. The twins didn't move a muscle, eyes wide with fear.
The man adjusted his glasses with a bored expression. "Why the hell would I let a pathetic creature like you stain these sacred halls with your filth?" His voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and unyielding. "Get up. Follow me. Now."
As he turned to lead them down the hall, the bald man shuffled forward despite his agony, clutching the stump where his arm used to be. The woman hurriedly whispered to Lyra and the twins, "Stay behind me." They didn't argue, sticking close as they moved forward.
Lyra forced herself to breathe, trying to control the fear twisting in her gut. The walls loomed around them, lined with massive arched ceilings decorated with mosaics depicting gods, beasts, and battles. The images moved, telling stories of divine power and endless carnage. Lyra felt her legs shake, but she bit her tongue to keep from whimpering.
When the man stopped abruptly, they froze. A pedestal rose from the ground, engraved with swirling patterns. At its peak sat a chalice, crafted from metal that shimmered gold, silver, and black. A serpent consuming its tail was carved around its base.
"This," the man said with a sinister smile, "is the Chalice of Transcendence. Drink from it, and shed your pathetic mortality. Happy birthday."
One of the twins hesitantly asked, "Is it safe to drink?"
"Yes," the man replied casually. "I did it. Wasn't too bad."
The bald man was first, forced to drink. As his lips touched the chalice, he collapsed with a dull thud. One by one, the others followed—each collapsing like marionettes with their strings cut.
Lyra was last. She opened her eyes just a sliver, and the man instantly gripped her face. "I said to keep them closed," he hissed, his hand almost crushing her jaw. "It would be a shame to lose such beautiful eyes."
He forced the chalice to her lips, and the liquid burned down her throat. Then the pain hit.
Her mind shattered. Her body contorted, bones breaking, mending, breaking again. Fire seared through every cell, worms writhing from her pores. Her soul felt like it was being torn to shreds and stitched back together in an endless cycle. Agony. Agony without end. She wanted to scream, but even that was denied to her.
And then—silence.
She opened her eyes to see her reflection. Her hair was now golden and lush, her eyes vivid violet, her body no longer emaciated but lean and strong.
The man smirked. "Happy birthday. You're now a demigod—well, an incomplete one. Follow me. You need your blessings."
Lyra forced herself to her feet, her legs still trembling, and followed the man into the endless hall.