After the boy replied with such uncharacteristic humility, we all stared at him in shock, exchanging silent, bewildered glances. Is this even the same person?
Before we could recover from the surprise, the second guard spoke with icy detachment. "If you had been just a few hours later, the recruitment window would have closed." He stepped aside, swinging the massive hall doors open. We entered immediately.
The moment I stepped inside, the sheer scale of the hall struck me. It was well-lit but suffocatingly crowded. The air was stagnant, heavy with a stench so foul it felt as though the place hadn't been designed for breathing. Faces filled the room—men and women, all young. As we entered, their eyes bored into us, calculating and sharp. Despite the weight of their gaze, I maintained a steady stride, heading toward a spot near the exit.
At the far end of the hall, a large platform rose above the crowd, guarded by a man whose eyes brimmed with boredom and thinning patience. He was short and lean, yet no one dared to even whisper in his direction. I took a position in a narrow, inconspicuous corner—close to the door, far from the stage.
Hours crawled by. I remained lost in my thoughts, wondering about my fate. The boy had left us at the door; he hadn't entered. As time passed, a crushing realisation settled in: we were like a herd of cattle in a pen. The architecture itself didn't bother hiding that fact.
Suddenly, the doors swung open, and a group of young men entered. All eyes snapped toward them. Their clothes were drenched in blood, and the metallic scent of it preceded them like a shroud. I glanced at them for a fleeting second before averting my eyes. I had enough of my own filth to deal with; I had no energy left for theirs.
A moment later, I felt someone approaching. He was of medium height, with a sturdy build, blonde hair, and narrow, cunning eyes. He stopped in front of me, his voice dripping with malice.
"It's been a long time, Rastel… and yet, you look pathetic. Like someone who's been crawled over."
The exchange drew the attention of those nearby. I didn't like the spotlight. "And you look like someone who bathed in a sewer," I retorted sharply. "Why do you smell so repulsive? Oh… I forgot. You're a pimp, Wolfgang."
A few bystanders murmured in disgust. Wolfgang's face twisted in annoyance. "How many times do I have to tell you, you son of a— I'm not a pimp. I run a nightclub."
I smirked. "Oh, my apologies. I forgot you've moved up in the world… The Chief of Pimps. You're awfully arrogant for a man who builds his life on what happens between the legs of the desperate."
Scattered, mocking laughter broke out, and our conversation began to draw unwanted attention. Wolfgang's rage started to seep into his features. "I've always wanted to cut that filthy tongue out of your head, Falconi. But at least I'm not devoid of dignity like some people… like you."
I wanted to end this quickly, but seeing his anger, I feigned genuine surprise. "Wait? Have we reached hell already? Has the world become so wretched that a pimp talks about dignity? I suspect you're even worse than you look—your club doesn't just exploit women, does it?"
A heavy silence followed. The crowd turned to Wolfgang with visible shock and disdain. He exploded. "Who told you that, Rastel?! I admit I'm bad, but not that bad! I haven't reached your level, beating the dead and taxing beggars! Where do you get the nerve to judge me?!"
I realised I was drawing too much heat, but silence now would make me an easy target. I spoke with a lethal calmness. "Yes, I profit from them. But at least I don't lust after their bodies… You pimp."
In the heat of the argument, ten figures made a grand, imposing entrance. Conversations died instantly. The atmosphere became stifling. These ten were different—each possessed a distinct, overwhelming presence. Elegant clothes, perfectly styled hair, and an undeniable aura of authority. Six men and four women. They cut through the crowd, the path clearing before them as if by instinct, until they reached the platform and took their seats.
The guard moved immediately, bowing with deep respect before turning to us. His voice was decisive. "Today, the fate of each of you will be decided. You will either rule your destiny… or become a servant."
A thick silence fell over the room. Faces were tight with anticipation. Without further preamble, he said, "Now, let the trial begin."
He looked toward the ten, who nodded in unison. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a black orb, slightly larger than a fist, and placed it on the table. "Angela Zain, step forward," he commanded coldly.
A woman moved with hesitant steps. She wore a brown dress; her features were ordinary, neither beautiful nor plain. She stood before the guard. "Yes, sir."
"Place your hand on the orb," he said calmly.
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then obeyed. Suddenly, a green light erupted from the orb. "Remove your hand," the guard said. "You passed. Stand over there." He gestured toward a vacant area. Angela blinked in surprise, then hurried to the designated spot.
He called another name. An ordinary-looking man stepped up. He placed his hand… and nothing happened. "You failed," the guard said flatly. The doors were opened, and the man was gestured to leave. He hesitated as if words were caught in his throat, but one look from the guard made him swallow them and exit.
The testing continued. With every failure, the faces in the room grew paler. After ten tests, only three had passed. Then, the guard's voice rang out clearly:
"Wolfgang, come."
I turned to him and saw a pale, trembling face. He felt my gaze, steeled himself, and forced a smile that looked more like a grimace before climbing the stage. He placed his hand on the orb.
A second later, a brilliant red light flared. The guard paused, then looked at him with an uncharacteristically friendly tone. "I hope we'll be good colleagues in the future."
Wolfgang took a moment to process it, then stammered, "The honour is mine, sir." The guard laughed and gestured for him to join the successful candidates.
The pressure on me intensified. What happened with Wolfgang wasn't an ordinary success. The red light wasn't lower than the green—it was superior. A mark of special selection. I looked at him and noticed he wasn't looking my way.
Good, I thought. Better he doesn't look at me now.
But anxiety continued to gnaw at my chest. Will I pass? And if I fail… what becomes of me? These people didn't bring us all this way just to let us walk away.
I hope I don't fail.