While the young man on the opposite rooftop spent the night frowning over his guesses, Chen slept soundly, his dreams untroubled by the looming specter of the Faith Game. He awoke not to the gentle light of dawn filtering through his apartment window, but to a stark, crimson notification hovering in the center of his vision.
**Special Trial (A Song of Blood and Fire [War]) has commenced.**
**Matching teammates (1/6)...**
**Trial Objective: Clench your teeth through the crucible of blood and fire. (Time Limit: 24 hours)**
Chen stared at the word **[War]** in the game's description, feeling a familiar, cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach. A dull throb began at his temples. This was going to be a brutal fight.
**[War]**, though an Entity of the **[Civilization]** Path, ran Trials that were anything but civilized. They were visceral, primal affairs. Subtlety and puzzle-solving were often discarded in favor of raw, unadulterated conflict. The formula was brutally simple more often than not: survive everything the Trial threw at you, and eliminate every enemy that stood in your way. Understanding cryptic clues was a luxury; staying alive was the only imperative.
But surviving for twenty-four hours… that was a marathon of endurance and mental fortitude. The enemies in a **[War]** Trial didn't grant respites. They didn't care if you were exhausted, wounded, or on the verge of breaking. Their assault was relentless, a tide of violence meant to grind you down.
In such an environment, capable teammates weren't just an advantage; they were a lifeline.
"Please," Chen muttered to the uncaring air of his bedroom, a desperate, half-serious prayer. "Match me with some warriors. Just one or two solid front-liners. A single slacker is enough—me. I'm perfectly qualified to be the dead weight. Please, please, please."
The universe, or rather, the capricious system governing the Faith Game, did not answer. The crimson text flashed once more.
**Matching successful (6/6). Entering Trial.**
The world around Chen dissolved into a vortex of distorted color and sensation. His bedroom walls warped and stretched like taffy before shattering into fragments of light. There was a moment of weightless, disorienting fall, a sensation of being pulled through a keyhole, and then—
He stood on solid ground. The air that filled his lungs was thick, acrid, and tasted of ashes and rust.
The sky was a bruised tapestry of grays and browns, choked by a perpetual, low-hanging haze of smoke that blotted out the sun, casting the world in a grim, twilight gloom. Chen took a shaky breath, the scent of burnt wood, ozone, and something coppery—blood, his mind supplied unhelpfully—assaulting his senses.
He stood atop a mound of shattered masonry and splintered wood. Looking around, he saw a landscape of utter desolation. He was in the corpse of a small town. Buildings were reduced to skeletal frameworks, their walls blown outward or collapsed inward. The husk of a church spire lay snapped across what might have once been a main street, now a treacherous gully of debris. Fires still smoldered in pockets, their orange glow the only color in the monochrome ruin, and their smoke contributed to the oppressive ceiling above. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional groan of shifting metal or the distant, hollow *whump* of a secondary collapse. War hadn't just visited this place; it had settled in, feasted, and left only bones.
"A fresh hell every time," Chen whispered, the words stolen by the dead air.
Seconds later, five beams of sickly, phosphorescent light lanced down from the smoke-choked sky, striking the ground around his ruined perch. As the light faded, figures materialized, and the silence was shattered by sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses.
His teammates had arrived.
Chen's eyes, sharpened by survival instinct, scanned them instantly. Three men, two women. His heart sank. Only one of them, a hulking man with shoulders like a bull, held a visible weapon—a massive, brutal-looking greatsword resting casually on his shoulder. The others, like Chen himself, bore no obvious arms. Their clothes were varied: practical modern wear, not the fantasy garb some newcomers mistakenly assumed was necessary.
*Hiss—*
Chen sucked in a quiet, pained breath through his teeth. A cold knot tightened in his gut. "Don't tell me it's another slacker fest," he thought, despair creeping in. The Faith Game recognized six core professions: Warrior, Mage, Priest, Assassin, Hunter, and Chanter. In theory, no profession was inherently superior; skill was the true differentiator. In practice, the nature of specific Trials created brutal hierarchies. In a **[War]** Trial, the classic trinity of Warrior, Mage, and Priest reigned supreme. Assassins, Hunters, and Chanters often struggled in the relentless, frontal brutality.
The six of them stood in a loose circle on the broken ground, sizing each other up with the wary, calculating looks of survivors. The big man with the greatsword took in the lack of weaponry on the others, and a flicker of irritation passed over his weathered face. He spoke first, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder.
"Let's not waste time. Old rules. Declare your Path and profession first, then your Leaderboard score. I'll start. Name's Hunter. **[Civilization]** Path, Warrior. Leaderboard 1647."
The "old rules" were written in blood. Each Path housed two or three specific Entities. Declaring only your broad Path, not your specific patron Entity, was a crucial safety measure. It prevented immediately identifying ideological enemies. While all players in a Trial were, in theory, a community of shared fate, the Entities were fickle. If players of directly opposing Paths were matched, certain Entities might issue additional **[Divine Mandates]**—secret, often treacherous objectives for their Believers to fulfill, even at the cost of their temporary allies. The early months of the Game were littered with tales of betrayal and sudden, inexplicable violence from within the group. Caution was not paranoia; it was protocol.
Still, initial cooperation was essential for survival.
A tall, lean young man in athletic wear and wire-frame glasses standing near Hunter spoke next. "Song. **[Life]** Path, Assassin. Leaderboard 1636." He pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes analytically scanning Hunter's sword. "Hey, big guy. You're an 'Order Knight,' right? That blade… I've seen one like it before on another **[Order]** Warrior. Should be a sword-and-shield combo, yeah? Where's the shield?"
Hunter grunted, not bothering to deny it. He gave a single, curt nod.
A palpable wave of relief washed over the group. A Believer of **[Order]** was one of the few truly reliable commodities in the Faith Game. They lived by a strict internal code, respected rules and structures, and exercised rigorous self-discipline. They were, almost without exception, the most sought-after allies. And an **[Order]** Warrior in a **[War]** Trial? That was a top-tier asset. Dependable and devastatingly effective.
The order of introductions seemed to have settled into a clockwise pattern from Hunter. Next was the woman to Song's left. She wore a military-green tank top that showed off arms corded with lean muscle, and her posture was rigid, alert. Her beauty was sharp, severe, like a honed blade. "Summer. **[Life]** Path, Hunter. Leaderboard 1519." Her tone was as cold and flat as the steel of a gun barrel.
Song offered her a quick, acknowledging grin—a fellow follower of **[Life]**.
Next to Summer stood the other woman. She was petite, almost fragile-looking in contrast, with a cascade of jet-black hair that fell like a waterfall down her back. She was dressed oddly for a battlefield in a form-fitting, high-collared black shirt and dark trousers that covered every inch of skin, leaving only her pale, expressionless face visible. Her voice, when it came, was soft but clear. "Nangong. **[Abyss]** Path, Priest. Leaderboard 1396."
The moment the words "**[Abyss]**" left her lips, the atmosphere froze. Song's friendly grin vanished. Summer's cold eyes turned to ice. Chen felt his own breath catch.
**[Life]** and **[Abyss]** were diametrically opposed Paths. One embodied growth, vitality, and preservation; the other, decay, oblivion, and dissolution. They were natural enemies in the cosmic scheme of the Entities. The presence of an **[Abyss]** Priest, a healer who drew power from decay, in a group with two **[Life]** adherents was a volatile cocktail. The unspoken question hung in the smoky air: Had the **[Life]** Entity or the **[Abyss]** Entity issued a secret Mandate?
Nangong seemed utterly unfazed by the hostile stares, her face a placid mask.
The tension was thick enough to choke on. The man next to Nangong, a wiry fellow with nervous eyes and a twitchy demeanor, hurried to speak, as if to break the silence. "Uh, me next! I'm Three! **[Deception]** Path, Mage! Leaderboard 1221!" He offered a shaky, too-wide smile. **[Deception]**. Another wildcard. Trusting a mage whose power stemmed from trickery and illusion was always a gamble.
All eyes now turned to the last man, standing between Three and Hunter, completing the circle. He was of average height and build, with an unremarkable face that seemed designed to be forgotten. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert, constantly moving, assessing the ruins, the sky, his new companions. This was Chen.
He met their gazes. He saw Hunter's impatience, Song's analytical curiosity, Summer's cold appraisal, Nangong's eerie calm, and Three's anxious energy. He took a slow breath, the taste of ashes and despair filling his mouth again.
"Chen," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "**[Prosperity]** Path." He paused, almost apologetically. "Chanter. Leaderboard 1185."
A Chanter. In a **[War]** Trial. The reaction was a study in suppressed disappointment. Hunter's jaw tightened slightly. Summer's lip curled in a hint of contempt. Song adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. Three just looked worried. Only Nangong showed no reaction at all.
Chanters were support specialists. Their power lay in buffs, debuffs, and area effects—subtle tools of immense utility in drawn-out campaigns or complex scenarios. In a straight-up, twenty-four-hour meat grinder where the primary objective was simply to *not die*, their value was… questionable. They needed time to weave their songs, required protection, and their effects were often less immediately impactful than a warrior's charge or a mage's fireball.
Chen felt the weight of their judgment. *A slacker*, their eyes said. *Dead weight*. He'd asked for only one slacker on the team. He hadn't specified it would be him, but the Game, with its cruel sense of irony, had apparently taken him at his word.
"Great," Hunter rumbled, hefting his greatsword. The blade, Chen now noticed, was not a single piece. Intricate mechanisms were visible near the hilt. "An **[Order]** Warrior, two **[Life]** strikers, an **[Abyss]** healer, a **[Deception]** trickster, and a **[Prosperity]**… singer." He didn't bother to hide the disdain on the last word. "We've got front-line problems. Where are the other Warriors? The Mages from **[Civilization]** or **[Order]**?"
"The matchmaking's been getting weirder," Song offered, his eyes still scanning the horizon. "Pushing for more… dynamic compositions, maybe. Or just trying to kill us faster."
"We work with what we have," Summer stated, her voice leaving no room for argument. She unslung a compact, futuristic-looking crossbow from her back—it had been hidden by a clever strap. The weapon hummed softly as she checked its mechanism. "The Trial has started. The clock is ticking. Standing here complaining won't add hours to the timer."
She was right. Even as she spoke, the first sounds of the war reached them. Not the immediate clash of steel, but its precursors: a deep, rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* like the heartbeat of a giant, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Distant, percussive booms. The shriek of something metallic tearing through the air far overhead.
"Artillery," Hunter growled, his warrior's instincts kicking in. He looked around, his eyes calculating sightlines and cover. "Indirect fire phase. They're softening the area. The ground troops will come after."
"We need a defensible position," Song said, pointing towards the remnants of a large, stone-built structure on the slightly higher ground to the east. It might have been a town hall or a granary. One wall was completely gone, but the basement level and parts of the lower floor seemed partially intact. "That shell. It's got sightlines and some cover. Better than being in the open."
"Agreed," Hunter said, already moving with a surprising grace for his size, picking his way through the rubble. The others fell in behind him, a ragged, tense procession.
Chen brought up the rear, his mind racing. A Chanter. In this. His Path was **[Prosperity]**, an offshoot of **[Civilization]** focused on growth, trade, and amplification. His specific Entity… well, that was his secret. His "songs" weren't melodies in the traditional sense; they were focused applications of conceptual resonance. He could amplify the latent potential in an object or person, encourage rapid (if unstable) growth, or weave fields of fortunate coincidence. But it required focus, time, and a relatively stable environment—luxuries this Trial seemed designed to deny.
As they scrambled over a pile of shattered furniture and brick, the first shell landed.
It wasn't close—maybe two hundred yards to the north—but the effect was terrifying. The world dissolved into sound and fury. A flash of blinding white light, then a concussion wave that hit them like a physical wall, followed by a roar that swallowed all other noise. Dirt, stone, and debris geysered into the sky. The ground lurched.
"Down!" Hunter bellowed, but they were all already throwing themselves flat behind whatever meager cover they could find. Chen felt shrapnel and chunks of hot stone whizz past, pinging off the rubble around him. The smell of cordite and scorched earth became overpowering.
The shelling was sporadic, unpredictable. It walked across the ruined townscape, methodically pulverizing what little remained standing. Each impact was a reminder of their fragility. This was the "fire" in the Song of Blood and Fire. A random, impersonal death from the sky.
They reached the relative safety of the stone shell just as another salvo landed closer, shaking the ground and sending a crack snaking up one of the remaining walls. Dust rained down from the ceiling.
Inside, it was dark and smelled of damp mortar and old fear. Slivers of gray light cut through gaps in the walls. Hunter immediately took position at the largest opening, a jagged hole that had once been a window, peering out. Summer found a firing perch on a collapsed staircase. Song melted into the shadows near a doorway, his form becoming indistinct—an Assassin's skill. Three huddled behind a thick stone column, muttering to himself. Nangong stood perfectly still in the center of the space, her eyes closed as if in prayer, or listening to something only she could hear.
Chen leaned against a cold wall, catching his breath. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The opening movement. The artillery barrage was the overture. The blood would come next.
He looked at his mismatched, distrustful team. An **[Order]** pillar, a **[Life]** duo seething with tension towards an **[Abyss]** void, a **[Deception]** wildcard, and himself, the **[Prosperity]** dead weight.
"Twenty-four hours," he whispered to himself, the taste of dust and doom on his tongue. "Just have to clench our teeth and survive."
Outside, the thunder of the guns momentarily ceased. In the sudden, ringing silence, a new sound arose. A low, collective murmur, growing steadily louder. The scrape of boots on rubble. The clank of metal. And beneath it all, a hungry, wordless growl.
The blood was coming. And they would have to meet it with fire of their own.