But in that moment—surrounded by rot, blood, and the overwhelming stench of death—hope still found a voice.
And he whispered it anyway.
A shadow moved across the clearing. Boots crunched softly over dead leaves and damp soil. Sylas lifted his head, his vision swimming.
A young soldier approached, younger than him by a few years, dressed in worn armor that still gleamed faintly under the moonlight.
A longsword hung at his hip, his hand resting cautiously on the hilt.
"You…" The soldier's voice was tentative, half in disbelief.
"Did you just crawl out of this Serpent?"
Sylas coughed, trying to sit upright despite his shaking limbs.
"Yes… sir. I was inside it. That thing—" he gestured weakly toward the grotesque serpent's corpse "—its stomach. I barely made it out."
The soldier's eyes widened. Without another word, he turned and rushed toward the small group of figures at the edge of the trees—gleaming armor, bright robes, and a man with burning red hair standing at the center.
The Hero.
The red-haired man stepped forward with commanding ease, tall and sharp-jawed, carrying the kind of presence that bent the world slightly around him. His gaze landed on Sylas —blood-soaked, skin pale, barely conscious—and his expression flickered. Just for a moment.
A priest stood at the Hero's side. He leaned in, whispering something that Sylas couldn't catch. The Hero nodded once.
Then, they both approached.
"Can you tell me your rank?" the priest asked, his voice low but steady.
Sylas blinked in confusion.
"Rank…?" he repeated. "What does that mean?"
The priest narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Show me your back. We need to verify something."
Sylas hesitated. His body was too weak to argue, and even if he could, there was no safer place right now than staying close to these people.
He gave a tired nod and turned around, lifting the torn remnants of his shirt.
Silence fell.
Then the priest stepped back, voice rising.
"It's another slave," he said grimly. "Another marked one—chosen by the Unholy God."
Sylas flinched. "What…?"
The Hero's eyes, which had held a trace of pity, now turned cold and unreadable. He looked away and waved his hand.
"Chain him. He belongs to the gods, not us," he said.
The young soldier obeyed without hesitation. He approached with shackles and a pained look, but he did what was commanded. Will weakly protested, but the chains clicked around his wrists and ankles all the same.
"No, please—you've got it wrong," Will said, his voice cracking.
"I don't know about any mark. I'm not anyone's slave. I just want to live. That's all."
But the priest only shook his head.
"You were born to be claimed," he said. "If we don't chain you now, someone else will.
That mark… it belongs to the God of Deceit. One of the Unholy Ones. Your fate was decided the day you were born."
Sylas didn't understand. None of it made sense—but what choice did he have?
He could fight and die here… or accept the only thing he was sure of: that with them, there would be food.
Water. Shelter. Safety.
And maybe, a chance to understand.
So he bowed his head, defeated, and allowed himself to be pulled toward the carriage.
They threw him in with the others—filthy, silent, broken people. He was the youngest among them. Faces turned toward him, hollow and sunken. No one spoke. There was no need.
Sylas sat in the corner, shivering beneath the weight of dried blood and cold iron, his mind spinning.
So this is what it means to survive…
He had escaped one nightmare, only to fall into another.
They shoved Sylas into a wooden carriage, iron chains clinking softly as he stumbled forward. The floor was hard, the walls reeked of sweat and decay, and every breath was filled with dust and hopelessness.
Inside, three others sat quietly.
One was bald, arms scarred, back leaning against the wall like he'd already accepted fate.
Another was massive—muscular, broad-shouldered, with hands large enough to crush a man's throat. He looked like he could snap his chains, yet he stayed still.
The last was a frail old man, his beard patchy, eyes dull with time. Wrinkles lined his face like the rings of an ancient tree, each fold a story of suffering.
Sylas , the youngest, sat near the corner, curled up with his arms around his knees. His chains rattled slightly with every movement.
The carriage creaked as it rolled across uneven ground, each lurch jarring Will's aching body. He sat near the corner, knees drawn to his chest, the chains around his ankles cold and tight.
The wood beneath him was splintered, stained, and smelled of rot and sweat. Every bump made his spine rattle. Every second reminded him he was still alive—and still trapped.
Across from him sat three others, their eyes dull, their skin grey with exhaustion. One was bald, his expression empty, shoulders slumped in a posture of quiet resignation.
Another was a heavily-built man with scars across his forearms, thick with muscle and silence. The last was older—much older—his face weathered like stone, with a long beard matted against his tattered robe.
Sylas's throat was dry, but the silence gnawed at him more than the thirst. He needed to speak. To know. Anything.
He swallowed hard.
"Are… are you like me?" he asked, voice cracking.
The muscular man turned his head, his gaze settling on Sylas. There was no warmth in it—but no hatred either. Just… exhaustion.
"No," he said flatly. "I did worse.
Sylas blinked. "Worse?
The man gave a small, humorless laugh.
"Me and my crew thought we could kill an Awakened. We ambushed him at night. Thought we had the numbers. We didn't.
He lifted his hand and showed Sylas the faint marks of healed burns on his palms.
"Half of us died before we even touched him. I just happened to be the one they kept alive. As punishment.
Sylas's stomach turned cold. Awakened? He had heard that word before—but now, it sounded heavier. Real.
"You… became a slave because of that?" he asked.
The man gave a slow nod.
"A slave's better than a corpse. Barely."
Sylas looked down at his bound feet. His voice trembled.
"But I didn't do anything. I was inside that snake… I survived. That's all. I don't even know what that mark is on my back."
The old man stirred then, shifting slightly, his joints cracking from the motion.
"That mark," he rasped, "means you were never free to begin with.
Sylas looked up, eyes wide.
"What?"
The old man met his gaze. There was no cruelty in his voice—just truth, bitter and slow.
"That's the Mark of the Deceiver. A brand tied to an Unholy God. You bear it, whether you chose it or not. And in this land… that's enough to condemn you."
Sylas swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic. He didn't know anything about gods. He didn't want to. He just wanted peace. Water. Food. A place to sleep where he wouldn't wake up in the guts of a monster.
"I don't get it," he whispered.
"What is this place? Why is there a rank system? What's a Trial? None of this makes sense."
The old man sighed, leaning back as the carriage rocked forward again.
"This world doesn't care if it makes sense. It just *is*."
He pointed to the faint red glow pulsing beneath his own wrist—like a tattoo alive with embers.
Everyone has a rank. "There's a system in place, boy. A hierarchy. Ranks. Everyone's born with one, even if they don't know it. It decides everything—your status, your rights, even how people talk to you."
Sylas frowned. "I still don't get it. What do you mean by rank? Like… soldier ranks?"
The bald man finally spoke up, his voice rough like gravel. "No. Think of it like… a caste system. There's Bronze, Silver, Gold, and above that, Platinum. And even rarer ones above that. Each person's potential is tied to it. The higher your rank, the more Zani you can hold."
Sylas narrowed his eyes. "Zani…?"
"Power," the muscular man answered. "It's like mana, but not exactly. Everyone has a core inside them—it stores Zani. The more you train, fight, survive… the more Zani you gather. It's what lets people use skills, abilities, or magic."
Sylas slowly nodded, trying to wrap his head around it. "And Soul Essence? They mentioned that too."
The old man leaned forward slightly. "That's harder to get. Soul Essence is earned by killing creatures—monsters, mostly. Every time you defeat one, you absorb part of its essence. Enough of it, and you can rise in rank."
Sylas's breath caught in his throat. "So… you need to fight monsters just to climb the ladder?"
"Exactly," the bald man said. "And the higher you climb, the more Zani you can control. It opens up skills, techniques, even classes. That's how you move from Bronze to Silver… Silver to Gold…"
"But if you're a slave," Will whispered, "You don't get to rise, do you?"
The old man gave a slow shake of his head. "Not unless your owner lets you. Most don't. They'd rather keep us at the bottom. Easier to control."
Sylas leaned back against the carriage wall, heart pounding. So much information, and none of it good. He wasn't just chained. He was shackled by a system designed to keep him weak.
"…I just wanted to live peacefully," he muttered.
The muscular man looked at him for a long moment. Then, with a surprisingly soft tone, said, "Then you're in the wrong world, kid."
Outside, the sound of hooves and wheels continued, steady and endless. The forest blurred past them as the caravan crossed a shallow river, wheels splashing in the muddy current.
Sylas gazed out the narrow gap between the planks of the carriage. Trees passed by in silence.
Then he saw them.
Figures—barely visible—moving through the woods, keeping pace with the caravan. Not quite human. Too still. Too dark. Their shapes melted into the shadows.
His breath caught in his throat.
"…We're being followed," he whispered.
The others turned toward him.
"Are you sure?" the old man asked, eyes sharpening.
Sylas nodded slowly. "They've been there for a while. I thought I was seeing things, but… no. Something's out there."
Silence fell again, but it wasn't the same kind of silence as before. This one was heavier, tighter, filled with a new, creeping dread.
Whatever was out there… it wasn't friendly.