"You are early." It said, slightly male and carrying the faintest hint of surprise. The voice slid through the space, calm and steady. It seemed to resonate from everywhere, not from the figure alone.
A peculiar thing was that the figure, likely male, was not speaking English, yet he understood the words nonetheless. Was that an influence from the original owner of this body? Lysander wondered.
"It seems that you weren't tired enough from yesterday," the man mused. The man didn't seem to wait for any response, nor did Lys give him any.
The light from his form thinned, then scattered back into the air, as if a swarm of grain-sized fireflies in the shape of a man suddenly released from cohesion, swiftly dissolving back into the darkness without ceremony.
With his disappearance, the strange sensation Lys felt, akin to a gaze taking form and pressing onto his skin, was lifted abruptly. In its place was replaced by something more immediate and less abstract.
Pain.
The throbbing pain arrived in a chaotic chorus of dull aches layered over sharper throbs. Only then did he remember to examine his body, only to discover it covered with bruises and a cluster of small bleeding wounds that had dried.
His body, which seemed able to move moments ago with deceptive ease, had now asserted its reality in full.
Lysander gasped.
The breath scraped through his throat, shallow and uneven, carrying the scent of damp stone and moss.
His chest slightly protested with each motion, throbbing with a muted but persistent ache, and when he instinctively tried to sit upright, his arms trembled with soreness, failing him near instantly. Lys collapsed back onto the cold ground.
It seemed whatever had forced the pain this body was feeling away had just vanished along with the strange figure.
The surface was stone. Rough and uneven.
He could not see his own hands in the darkness, but he could feel them. The raw knuckles, trembling fingers and the scraped and swelling skin. His legs appeared in better condition, albeit not by much—a deep ache was radiating from his left knee up to his hip, joints akin to rusted metal.
Bruises too. Many of them.
Minor wounds—small cuts, split skin and the faint sting of drying blood—could be found nearly everywhere along his body.
There was enough damage that should have made him scream. It was present, unmistakable, yet strangely blunted, not as sharp as it should feel.
I've felt worse, Lysander thought dimly, concluding without effort. Between the pain he was feeling and the process he had gone through with his treatment, his current state was undoubtedly better.
Chemotherapy, injections and needles. The numb exhaustion came and left his limbs unresponsive and heavy. Compared to that, this pain—this pain was familiar. It was manageable.
Not kind, but manageable.
The thought settled down in his mind with somewhat eerie ease.
Lys had no time to ponder more, however, since the cavern around him started to stir. Or rather, the space in the cavern. The same feeling he felt moments ago returned — a presence filled the cave again. This time, less forgiving and more oppressive.
The ground stirred as well, not from the strange man's peculiar presence that shifted the space but from people.
Just then, Lys realised he wasn't alone.
A body shifted somewhere to his left, stone scraping against fabric. Another breath sounded nearby, sharp and panicked, followed by a low groan that cut off abruptly.
Someone coughed, wet and strained, and further away, a child's voice whimpered before being silenced.
He stayed still.
Not entirely out of fear, but also his body needed a rest. Based on the reactions the others around him gave, he thought it'd be best if his body had some pause before whatever was to happen.
He lay on his side, cheek pressed to cold rock, breathing slowly, cataloguing sensation the way he once catalogued game environments: hazards, limitations, unknowns.
Darkness. Uneven ground. Multiple bodies. No immediate restraint. Lysander analysed. The last detail mattered.
There were no chains, no bindings. Not on himself and, by the looks of it, not on the other people around him as well.
That could suggest that whatever existed here, which the man—who was presumably a leader or supervisor—relied on to control the people here, did not rely on physical confinement. At least not yet anyway.
Sounds of footsteps.
They were unhurried and not careful, and heavy with authority. The sound echoed slightly in the cave, yet none seemed to dare breathe too loudly, as if afraid of disturbing the man.
Fear, Lys thought, is prominent here. The source stems from the man—the reason he would soon find out.
The footsteps stopped, and with them, the cavern fell into a tense, expectant quiet.
The man spoke. "Stand."
Echoing, the word was not raised, nor emphasised. Yet, it did not need to be. Something in his voice, perhaps the flat, resonant and utterly disinterested in compliance, made it clear to the people that this was not a request — it was merely as if he was stating a whim, and to comply is simply expected.
Lysander watched the silhouettes of people shift as their figures struggled to be upright. Some of them were scrambling too quickly and ended up falling again, while others rose with clenched fists and unsteady legs.
It was a remarkable observation already, given the lightless environment. Lys rolled onto his back, pushing himself to a seated position, pausing to rest his sore hands and to calm his adapting vision—dark spots (even darker than the lightless environment) quickly blooming on his vision before receding just as swiftly.
Somehow, his eyesight in the darkness seemed to be improving rapidly, not enough to see as if under daylight, but enough to make out figures.
Slowly, he thought, don't waste strength.
He pushed to his feet in stages, using a nearby outcropping for balance, legs trembling but holding. Around him, dozens — no, nearly a hundred — of silhouettes stood scattered across the cavern floor, their outlines uneven, postures tense, breaths shallow.
The centre of the cavern was the man. The sound of his voice cut through the low murmurs.
"Silence", he says. Even in the darkness, Lysander could tell he was tall. Not imposing in the exaggerated sense, but well-proportioned. He had a kind of effortless symmetry and an authoritative confidence that made the objects and people around him feel smaller by contrast.
His presence was not overwhelming; it was compressive, like pressure on one's lungs increasing gradually until one noticed it was difficult to breathe.
The man wore no mask.
And his expression, more than anything, unsettled Lysander.
The man's face, from what Lysander can make out, was plain. Not scared. His expression was not cruel, yet not kind either. It wasn't anything really, as if how a divinity would look at a mass of mortals — detached, and just devoid of care. Perhaps he was divine.
His gaze swept across the gathered people with indifferent focus, borderline uninterested, lingering nowhere for long, as though the individuals did not matter to warrant memory. Each place his eyes landed, the people shivered from the pressure on their skin.
"As all have been elaborated three days ago, you shall try to kill me, with the weapons on the floor," the man said slowly, without haste, "For the newly arrived acolytes, however, they may ask, 'Why?'"
A pause.
"It is a valid question. Albeit one for weaklings," The man continued. "For the very idea of challenging a stronger foe should be enough motivation. However, I am sure this would not be a sufficient reason; thus, I shall tell you that if you do not kill me—"
The man said, perhaps with a little too much glee, "—Then I shall kill you."
The cavern was once again filled with depressing silence. No one dared to defy.
A voice spoke out in the distance, sounding not confident in the slightest. Yet, a hint of habitual arrogance is still in his tone.
Probably the son of some influential figure.
"Release me, m–my parents shall re–reward you wi—"
Before finishing, there was a soft slicing sound that resounded in the air. A dull thud. Some muffled screams from that direction. It was enough for Lysander to conclude that the young man was dead.
Shivering, he noted mentally, Don't bribe the mentally crazy man, got it.
"This," Crazy said calmly, as if the death of the young man was nothing but a mere minor distraction ", is part of your training."
He bent, retrieved something from the ground, and straightened again.
A weapon. A short blade, unremarkable in length and shape, its edge dull with use rather than neglect. He held it loosely with his left arm, almost casually, then demonstrated a single movement.
A downward strike.
It was clean and direct; there was no flourish. Yet, the air seemed to part for it. There was a certain special quality the strike had, enough for Lys to feel it, but not enough to pinpoint the exact reason.
The blade stopped an inch above the stone floor, then withdrew, returning to rest at his side in one clean motion.
"I have demonstrated the usage of the weapon", Crazy said, as he tossed the short sword away, as if he was confident that he would not need it. "If you can strike me, then you shall be rewarded with 3 days' portion of food; the rest shall starve. What you survive with, you shall keep it. What you lose— well, you deserve it."
"Well— that's enough with explanations." There was poorly concealed excitement in his voice. "You shall begin,"