"Damn… so this is how I die."
Rubble pressed down on the 17-year-old, malnourished boy, Uriel, each breath a struggle. Dust clogged his throat. Blood coated his tongue with its sharp metallic tang. His vision blurred—darkness creeping in from the edges.
Not yet.
His fingers twitched, nails scraping against broken stone.
Not before I see them. Not before I look those bastards in the eyes and demand—
Why?
Why weren't they there when the monster came?
Why did they leave us to rot?
The light in his eyes flickered.
Then—
A shimmering script appeared before him, glowing like a phantom in the ruins:
[Would you like to become a cultivator?
Pass the trials, and power shall be yours.]
A laugh tore from his throat—hoarse, broken, bitter.
Of course.
After years of searching, after surviving the poison, the hunger, the betrayal...
Now it appears? When he's half-crushed beneath the wreckage of his own desperation?
But he had no choice.
"Yes," Uriel snarled. "I accept."
Light consumed him.
His body disintegrated—no, transformed—into flickering motes of essence. Pain faded. Flesh stitched itself back together. Bones reformed. Scars vanished.
When sensation returned, he was standing in a dense forest. Ancient trees loomed above, their thick canopies choking out the sun. Shadows twisted unnaturally, and the air was heavy, damp, wrong.
But Uriel wasn't focused on the trees.
He looked down at himself—the places where his body had once been torn and bleeding. His bloodstained clothes still clung to his skin, but the wounds beneath were gone.
He laughed.
A raw, unhinged sound.
"Aha… fuck you, world. You keep coming at me—
But I'm still alive!"
Then, the second message appeared:
[Trial Initiated]
Survive 7 days in a realm that shifts every few days.
The environment mutates. Your senses will betray you.
Illusions will mimic friends. Terrain will shift without warning.
A stalker hunts you — invisible, relentless, leaving only whispers and cryptic signs.
Survive one week. Or die in agony. Now run.
Uriel's breath caught.
A cold shiver ran down his spine—the same kind he felt that day.
He didn't stop to question it. He ran.
The forest closed in. Trees thick as walls forced him to twist and squeeze just to get through. Thorn-covered vines tore at his clothes. Branches whipped his face. At least the dense canopy blocked the sun's glare.
Still, he didn't stop running. Not until the feeling—that suffocating, crushing dread—began to fade.
Only then did he slow to a walk. His chest heaved. His legs burned. Every part of him screamed.
An hour passed.
Then—voices.
He froze behind a trunk and peeked out.
A group of people huddled around a campfire—survivors, maybe. Or illusions. Or worse. His mind raced.
"I look like a damn homeless rat… well, I guess I technically am. But anything's better than what's out there chasing me."
Still, he didn't approach.
Not yet.
Instead, he formed a plan. A performance.
He wiped dirt and dried blood from his face, forcing tears to his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then stumbled from the trees, crying.
"Thank god I found someone! I've been running for hours—I thought I was going to die!"
Weapons snapped up. The group stood, ready to kill anything—man or monster.
But then they saw his face.
The leader froze.
He stood tall, six-foot-four, muscles coiled beneath his black shirt and leather plating. His brown eyes narrowed. His black hair was short and unruly, like a beast barely contained.
He stared, stunned.
What the hell?
How can a human look like that?
It's like a divine descended… no—worse. Beyond that.
Uriel walked closer, trembling, eyes wide with faux innocence.
"Please… let me stay with you. Just until we reach somewhere safe."
He hated this act. But this was survival. He'd learned long ago—mercy was just another mask.
A girl stepped out from behind the tall man and squealed.
"Oh my god, how can someone be this cute?! Yes, yes, YES! You can stay!"
She was about 5'7", just slightly shorter than malnourished Uriel. Brown hair, brown eyes. Her top hung off her shoulders like armor forged for allure—plain in color, daring in cut. Long sleeves hid her arms, but her collarbones caught the firelight like twin blades unsheathed.
Her pants were dark, high-waisted, and laced tight—practical but sculpted. They bore the wear of travel but held her like armor: sharp at the hips, silent at the knees, unforgiving to weakness.
She grabbed Uriel's hand and dragged him to the fire.
The big man growled.
"Thessa! You can't just bring anyone you like! We don't know if we can trust him."
Thessa turned, snapping back.
"And tell me, Varek—what is this boy going to do to us? He's weak, half-dead, and looks no older than fourteen. If I wanted to, I could kill him before he even noticed."
"Let me have my fun."
Uriel stiffened at that.
But he couldn't focus on her threat.
Not yet.
Everything in this place could change—shift—twist. He needed to survive. To plan.
And then Thessa looked at him.
"You really are something else… I've never seen someone with white hair and golden eyes. Truly beautiful."
She reached out and ran her fingers down his back—then lower.
Uriel's stomach churned.
If he could've vomited, he would've.
Not because she was ugly. No.
Because he hated the lust. The favor. The hollow awe people showed him. It wasn't love. It wasn't companionship. It was obsession with a face he'd long since learned to hide.
Not vanity—survival.
He knew what he looked like. Knew what it drew out of people. That's why he usually stayed hidden in grime and dirt.
But here?
Here he'd have to endure it.
Humiliation.
Dehumanization.
He'd sacrifice his pride—his body—if it meant staying alive another day.