Calm down. Breathe. Raging or panicking won't help.
First, I need intel.
My eyes land on the perfect candidate: a weak-looking boy, bowing and sobbing.
Fragile types crack easily.
He even speaks my language.
I crouch in front of him. "Are you okay, brother?"
He hiccups, then lifts his head.
Black, tear-soaked eyes. Tangled hair. The faint smell of salt clinging to his rags.
A starving orphan.
"Who… who are you? What do you want?" His voice is hoarse, cautious, and trembling.
I force a smile.
My lips twitch. "Relax. Just checking if you're alive."
He breaks again. "This is wrong… I'm scared."
"Shh." I grip his shoulders, lowering my voice.
"Talk to me. Sometimes it helps."
Slowly, he nods.
"My name's Korus. I'm from Islenar… a Marhavan isle. Far from here. Where are you from?"
I pause. Rayan is dead. That name belongs to my old life. "…Ashan. From the Ogefil islands."
Korus sniffles, snot and tears streaking his face.
"Ogefil… I've heard of it. Far away."
"Good. Now tell me what the hell is going on."
His face tightens.
His eyes dart to the other kids.
But my steady grin convinces him to continue.
"I… I woke up in a cave. No idea how I got there. I was just begging on the streets before. Then I fell asleep and… it came." His body shudders.
"Your clone," I say.
He nods miserably.
So it wasn't just me. The others saw theirs too. Not a hallucination. Something real.
Korus continues, trembling.
"It listed my faults. Said I was lazy and weak. Counted my sins. One hundred and eight. His words crushed me, like I should just give up. I cried, shut my eyes, and covered my ears until… it vanished. Then the cave door opened. I saw bodies… dead children."
So that's the trick. Force kids to confront their sins until the weak break.
A spiritual execution. And one hundred eight must be the cap.
Not everyone survives judgment.
Before I can dig deeper, a rough boy with tan skin grabs another child.
He shouts in a foreign tongue. I can't understand a word.
"What happens to us now?" Korus whispers.
The air is thick with trauma. Some children sob, others scream, and others stare blankly.
Where's the destined hero, huh? Shouldn't one of these brats be heaven's chosen? The joke steadies me. Keeps me sane.
Then a voice tears through my skull.
"HA HA HA! Congratulations, splendid little boys and girls, for completing the first trial—Facing Your Sins. Out of one thousand, only seven hundred survived."
The voice is sharp, cold, and inhuman.
The fuck? In my head? First trial? How many more?
Children freeze. Some cry harder. Some flinch like beaten dogs.
"For the second trial," the voice continues, "move forward."
The tan-skinned boy yells back. Foolish. Brave. Doesn't matter.
Burst.
His body explodes like a balloon.
Blood sprays across my face. Warm. Sticky.
I wipe my cheek, staring at the red smear.
Korus pukes, gagging. Kids scream.
"Six hundred ninety-nine remain. Proceed," the voice says flatly, as if swatting a fly.
Panic spreads like a plague. Vomit, sobs, silence.
And me? I feel respect. Fear.
Whoever this is, they kill without hesitation.
Gods play with ants. Guess I'm the ant who doesn't want to get stepped on.
The torchlit path stretches into darkness. Endless.
Korus clings to me. "Ashan… I don't want to die."
'Miserable lamb.' I keep my tone calm.
"Think of it this way—if we clear their trials, maybe they'll let us live."
He breathes easier, nodding. Good enough.
"On your feet, Korus. Let's go."
We walk.
Ten minutes of silence.
Just dripping water, ragged breaths, and the stench of corpses from side caves.
Finally, the voice returns. "Welcome, children… to the second trial."
Light blinds us. Kids groan, shielding their eyes.
"Not this shit again," I mutter.
When my vision clears, my heart lurches.
We stand in a wide hall, torches blazing.
Tables scattered everywhere.
Seven chairs each. Baskets piled with food.
"The second trial is named… the Trial of Feast."