The doors to the next chamber groaned open.
Warm wind swept out, carrying the scent of wilted roses and scorched earth.
Saint stepped forward, boots echoing on the bone-carved platform. His trench coat fluttered slightly as he passed beneath the archway, lighting a match with one hand and sliding it into his mouth.
The matchstick glowed against his lips, unmoving.
"You ready?" Dreyl asked from behind, his voice low.
Saint didn't look back. "Was born ready."
He adjusted the strap of his gun holsters and walked into the Hanging Gardens of Dis—alone.
The air changed instantly.
Gone was the heat and sulfur of the colosseum. This place was strangely beautiful—lush vines hung from impossibly high ceilings, and trees with burning crimson leaves swayed without wind. But everything was too still. Too quiet.
And above it all, suspended by chains made of gold and blood, hovered a throne of roots. Upon it sat a demoness draped in flowing robes of deep violet and black.
Lady Zephra.
Her face was pale like moonlight, her lips stained red with something that wasn't wine. Her long, clawed fingers draped over the arms of the throne like she owned every breath in the garden.
And maybe she did.
"Well, well," she purred, voice smooth like silk over razors. "They sent the pretty one next."
Saint tilted his head slightly, unmoved. "Trial number two, right?"
Zephra smiled with teeth too perfect to be human. "Indeed. Your trial is not one of strength…"
Chains shifted and sang above them as hundreds of flowers bloomed at once, petals opening to reveal blinking red eyes inside each one.
"…it is one of temptation."
The ground beneath Saint shifted into a circle of thorns, and he felt it—something tugging at the edge of his mind. Soft whispers. Promises. Regrets.
"Let's see if the gunman can pull the trigger when the past pulls back," Zephra whispered.
And then—
She snapped her fingers.
The garden began to warp.
The vines twisted into shapes—faces. Familiar ones.
Saint's eyes narrowed.
His old squad.
People he left behind.
One of them stepped forward, holding a revolver. "You left us," she whispered. "You always run."
The whispers grew louder.
His hands trembled.
But only for a moment.
Saint pulled both pistols free in one smooth motion, twin barrels flashing with cold silver light. The matchstick still burned in his mouth.
"Yeah," he said, cocking back both hammers. "And this time, I'm not running."
He fired.
And the trial began.
"You talk tough... but it's not so simple," Zephra whispered.
Saint smirked, spitting out the matchstick.
"So you say."
Zephra narrowed her eyes, momentarily bemused by Saint's confidence—but she quickly composed herself.
"If you think a few old friends and past regrets are gonna faze me..." Saint stepped forward, both pistols raised in a cross formation, barrels locked on target.
"Then you're dead wrong."
Zephra laughed uproariously, the sound like broken glass and thunder.
"Such insolence..."
Suddenly, rectangular electric blasts burst from the walls and sky, slicing through the air like jagged lightning.
Saint dove aside, landing in a roll just as the attacks scorched the ground he'd stood on.
He came up grinning.
"What was that? Confetti? My birthday was last month!"
"Fool," Zephra muttered, though a twitch in her eye betrayed her irritation.
Saint reached down to his belt and pulled out a small canister.
"Heh," he chuckled, flicking the pin with his thumb and tossing it casually into the garden.
Smoke exploded outward—thick, fast, and choking.
"It won't work," Zephra growled. "You can't hide in—"
But before she could finish, Saint's voice echoed from behind her.
"You were sayin'?"
She turned—too late.
He was already there, both pistols pressed to vital points, one aimed at her heart, the other just beneath her chin.
Zephra's eyes widened. It wasn't possible. Not with her vision. Not in this domain.
Saint pulled the triggers once—bang, bang.
Zephra crumpled to the floor, smoke curling around her like a death shroud.
Saint twirled his pistols and holstered them with a stylish flick.
"Talk about depressing. I was expecting more."
He turned, hands sliding into his pockets as he strolled toward the chamber exit.
But it wasn't over.
Not even close.
A low hum vibrated through the air. Zephra's body lifted slowly from the ground—not under her own power, but as if drawn upward by something unseen. Her form twisted and cracked.
But it wasn't Zephra anymore.
It was someone else.
Someone Saint knew all too well.
The voice that came from the figure now was human—but hollow, distorted, ghostlike.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" it asked, darkly amused.
Saint froze.
His eyes locked on the figure as his blood ran cold.
"...Nuke?"
His voice broke on the name.
And for the first time in the trial...
Saint looked truly afraid.
Saint didn't speak.
Couldn't.
The figure before him wasn't some illusion or trick of the Garden.
It was him.
Nuke.
Jet-black tactical armor. The red skull tattoo curling up his throat. That same broken dog tag Saint had watched him carve into his palm before every mission—still there, dangling like a cursed keepsake.
"You're dead," Saint muttered. "I saw you die."
The figure smiled. Cold. Familiar.
"You saw what you were meant to see."
The air warped—then the world broke apart.
Not in reality, but in Saint's mind.
Flashback.
Ten years ago.
A war-torn ridge outside District 37. Ash fell like snow from the scorched sky. The sky was crimson. The air choked with gunpowder and regret.
Saint crouched behind a burnt-out transport truck, his breathing ragged, pistols reloading with bloody hands. Around him, his team—Squad Echelon—lay in pieces. Only two were still standing.
Hawk, the sniper.
And Nuke—their leader.
"Where the hell is the evac!?" Hawk shouted from the ridge.
"Not coming," Nuke said grimly, voice calm as ever. "We're ghosts now."
Saint looked up, blood running from his temple. "What do you mean, 'ghosts'?"
"They cut us loose. Said we got too close to the sealed rift site. They're wiping the whole zone."
Hawk swore violently.
Nuke glanced at Saint.
"You wanna survive, follow orders. Get underground. Move fast."
"But what about you?"
"I'll hold the ridge."
"No way in hell, Nuke!"
Nuke turned his head just enough for Saint to see him grin.
"I'm the only one that thing's afraid of."
A silence followed.
And then it came.
A roar.
Something not meant for human ears.
The rift opened, screaming into reality. From its depths crawled something massive, infernal, made of shifting obsidian bones and glowing red veins—a Forgotten Beast. A devourer of time.
Saint had only seen it for a second before Nuke shoved him down into the sewers and sealed the entrance with an explosive.
The last thing he heard was Nuke's voice through the comms:
"Tell the others... I chose this."
Then nothing.
Silence.
And now—Nuke stood before him again.
But different.
Eyes dead. Aura wrong.
Twisted.
"You died to protect us," Saint said slowly. "What are you now?"
Nuke tilted his head. "Something better. Something eternal. Zephra didn't create me—she just found me... after the rift took what was left."
"You're not him."
"I'm what remains."
Saint clenched his fists. His pistols felt heavier now.
"You think I've waited all this time just to fight a memory?"
Nuke stepped forward, shadows rippling beneath his boots.
"No," he said. "You've waited all this time for the truth."
Saint froze.
"That mission? The rift? The real reason command left us to die..."
Nuke raised a hand.
"They weren't afraid of what was coming through. They were afraid of what I had already become."
Bang.
A bullet fired—reflexive, defensive.
But Nuke caught it midair.
With his fingers.
Saint's stomach sank.
This wasn't a trial.
This was punishment.
And he wasn't sure if he was meant to win.