Moonlight washed over the Liu Clan grounds, pale and indifferent, as if even the heavens refused to choose a side. Tonight, blood would be spilled—not as punishment, but as permission. Those who survived would earn the right to change. Those who failed would remain what they were forever.
In the stillness before the slaughter, 032 sat alone, body coiled in a complex martial stance, breathing slow and controlled. Sweat slid down his skin, his muscles screaming beneath the calm surface, yet his face remained serene.
This was not meditation.
This was preparation.
It's time."
Rising, he walked to a drawer and retrieved a long, curved blade—eerily similar to a katana. The moment he stepped out of his room, the air turned unnaturally quiet.
Swoosh!
A kick descended from above, aimed precisely at his shoulder—enough to dislocate it on impact.
Anticipating the strike, 032 twisted aside. His katana carved a clean arc through the air as the attacker landed on its tip, pushing off and retreating when the ambush failed.
"02," 032 said calmly. "Not your usual hunting ground."
02 shrugged. "Eh. Just trying to rack up a few extra points."
A grin crept across his face. "Care to hand over your token—nicely—before I take it?"
032 snorted. "Dream on."
His arm brushed the blade. A cold gleam passed through his eyes, swallowing the moonlight. He rushed forward.
Steel clashed.
032 slashed.
02 blocked—and countered in the same motion.
The fight ended as abruptly as it began. They stood facing one another, blades lowered.
"…You win," 02 said at last. "We still have quotas to fulfill. You'd better go hunt too."
He turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving 032 alone.
The Midnight Game had begun.
A brutal contest devised by the Board to decide who was even worthy of undergoing the Awakening Process. As dictated by Liu Clan law:
"We do not train trash to create more trash.
We train trash to turn trash into treasure."
Quotas had to be earned.
Screams echoed through the halls.
Grunts. The snapping of bone.
032 walked forward, inhaling deeply. "Perfect," he murmured. "The smell of slaughter."
A grin split his face as he bolted down the corridor, his blade moving like an extension of his arm. Anything that breathed was cut down.
This was the ultimatum of the Midnight Game.
The first target appeared—a bulky mountain of flesh.
025.
032 tightened his grip and dove forward, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Steel flashed, carving mark after mark into flesh—deep enough to cripple, but not enough to kill.
025 roared.
032 exhaled. "Sigh… this is going to be a long night."
His eyes gleamed.
"Two more," he muttered. "Just two more, and I've got enough points for a quota."
Turning to look at 025 he licked his lips "So your about to get marked after this sigh..."
Marked ones dont own their own lives anymore even suicide is but grace as even as trash they can still be used
"So whos joining 025 in the marking hall after this"