Sylas stood in the silence of the void, the echoes of fate's voice still ringing in his ears. The presence had left him, but its words lingered like smoke—faint, unsettling, impossible to grasp fully. He clenched his fists, trying to steady his breathing, his thoughts racing.
Two flaws. That was what fate had revealed. No, not flaws—blessings, wrapped in misfortune.
The first was cruel in its simplicity: he could never speak the truth directly. Any attempt to do so would twist in his throat, reshape into falsehood before it left his lips. A curse of deception. A liar's tongue, forced by the very design of his blessing.
And yet… he smiled.
It wasn't joy, not really. But something in him stirred. Relief, perhaps. Opportunity.
If he couldn't tell the truth, he would learn to shape it. Suggest. Imply. Manipulate. In the world of Nightmares, where monsters walked in flesh and lies were armor, wasn't deception a kind of weapon?
The second flaw was stranger, darker.
Whenever someone called his name, truly *spoke* it, he would become their slave. Not metaphorically. The bond would be absolute. Irrevocable.
Slavery with a single word.
Sylas trembled—but not with fear. His mind churned with possibilities.
What was a curse to one man could be a tool to another. If he hid his name well enough, buried it deep, then who could wield it against him? And if he *offered* his name... at the right time, to the right person...?
He didn't yet know the shape of the game, but already, he saw the board.
Yes, he thought, eyes narrowing. I can survive this.
Before Sylas could process the second flaw—before he could even form the thought—something shifted.
The world around him stilled, as if the very air held its breath.
Then came a sensation. Heavy. Inevitable.
The ground beneath his feet wasn't ground anymore.
It pulsed.
And then, it opened.
A massive hand—if it could even be called that—emerged from the void beneath him. Fingers of pure blackness, vast and formless, surged upward with slow, terrifying grace. They didn't grab him. They claimed him. Like he had never been anything more than a piece of dust resting on the edge of eternity.
Sylas didn't scream.
He couldn't.
The moment the darkness touched him, the breath in his lungs vanished. Not stolen—*dissolved*. Sound fell away. Time slowed, warped, stopped.
Then came the fall.
No wind. No direction. Just descent.
Down, deeper, until there was no up. No self.
He tried to open his eyes. They were open.
But there was nothing to see.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The dark was no longer around him—it was inside him. It crept through every pore, slithered behind his eyes, spilled into his ears, his throat, his veins. It pushed. It pulled. It drowned.
The sensation was endless.
Drowning in silence.
Sinking in pressure.
And then…
A sound.
Not heard. Felt.
A voice that shook the marrow in his bones, as if the words were etched into reality itself:
[Arise: Son of silences.]
A jolt.
Light crashed into him like a breaking wave.
---
He woke with a gasp that shattered the silence.
Air. Harsh. Cold.
He blinked, blinded by fluorescent lights above him. The ceiling was tiled. White. Too clean. Beeping pierced his ears—slow and steady, too familiar.
His throat burned.
Bandages wrapped tight around his arms. His chest ached. An IV line hung beside him, slowly dripping fluid into his veins.
Sylas turned his head, every muscle screaming in protest.
I'm alive…
The thought barely formed before emotion broke through. Not fear. Not confusion.
Relief. Crippling, raw, and real.
He survived.
He had survived the first Trial.
A sob escaped him, uninvited. Then another. His shoulders trembled as tears spilled down his cheeks, hot against his skin.
He reached for the edge of the bed, limbs weak and unfamiliar. It was like trying to control someone else's body. Shaky, unresponsive.
Somehow, he dragged himself up. One foot on the floor. Then the other.
He stumbled to the window and shoved it open.
Moonlight poured in, silver and silent.
And there it was—Earth. Cars in the distance. A tree swaying in the wind. The sharp scent of smog and cold night air.
Home.
The moment consumed him.
He had made it back.
His legs gave out beneath him.
Sylas collapsed, body hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn't feel pain—only numb exhaustion. His fingers twitched against the tile. He laughed, breathless and hoarse.
Footsteps rushed from the hallway.
A nurse screamed.
Moments later, white coats surrounded him. Hands pressed against his shoulders, his neck, his chest. Shouts. Commands. Disbelief.
None of it mattered.
Sylas closed his eyes.
First Trial… conquered.
Early Morning
Jack, a government agent dressed in a sharp coat, held a thick folder in one hand. His expression was unreadable—until he looked up at the boy sitting upright on the hospital bed.
"Congratulations, Sylas," he said slowly, with a strange mix of awe and disbelief. "You've been officially classified as a Ranker."
Sylas blinked. The light streaming through the hospital window was soft, almost surreal. He felt… disconnected. His fingers flexed slightly against the blanket. They were bigger than he remembered.
He looked down at himself.
His legs were longer. His arms heavier. His body… older.
"I…" Sylas touched his jaw, surprised by the roughness of faint stubble.
"Why do I feel so weak? My body—why am I taller? And my hands—what the hell happened to me?"
Jack sighed and leaned against the windowsill.
"You've been in a coma for three years, Sylas. Since the day you entered the Nightmare Trial."
"Three years…?" Sylas repeated in a whisper.
It felt impossible. In the trial, it had been… what, days? Maybe a week? But here—three years had passed like smoke. His mouth twisted into a hollow smile. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a dry laugh.
"So I went in a kid… and came back a man," he muttered.
"Hell of a shortcut."
Just then, the door opened.
Three people entered. Two were men in black coats and dark goggles—silent, looming. But the one who stood at their center stole all attention.
A woman—sharp-featured, powerful, composed. She wore a white navy-style uniform, her presence radiant and oppressive all at once. Her curled hair shimmered like molten bronze, and her emerald eyes carried the weight of command.
She sat in the chair across from Sylas without ceremony, legs crossed, gaze piercing.
"I am Colonel Eriya Varnes of the Libeus High Government," she said, voice crisp as glass.
"You will answer clearly."
Sylas didn't move.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Did you complete the Nightmare Trial alone?"
As he opened his mouth to answer, something shivered in his mind—sharp and invisible.
[Flaw Detected: You cannot speak the truth directly.]
[Flaw Detected: You cannot speak the truth directly.]
Sylas flinched. The invisible weight of the curse pressed against his throat.
He forced a smile instead.
"Yes," he said, his tone vague. "I… found my way."
A lie that sounded like the truth.
Colonel Varnes narrowed her eyes.
Sylas sat straight, trying to maintain composure as the woman across from him locked eyes with him. She radiated something—something sharp and disciplined, not beauty in the usual sense, but presence. Her uniform was clean, crisp. White with navy trim. A symbol of authority from the Libeus Government.
But Sylas wasn't looking at her appearance in that way.
His gaze hovered near her chest, or more specifically, near her heart. It was the aura. A soft red glow, shaped not just by emotion, but layered—dense, restrained fury beneath a sheet of stoicism. He was lost in it. Trying to read her, understand her.
"Are you looking at my chest, Ranker?" she asked coldly.
Her voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. It slid across the room like a blade through silk—quiet, sharp, dangerous.
Sylas flinched. He wasn't raised to stare. He'd grown up in a religious orphanage, where respect was taught with fear and obedience.
He tried to explain, but—
> [Flaw Triggered: You cannot speak the truth directly.]
"...Yes," Sylas said, the word escaping without filter. "I was looking at them."
And then his mind blanked.
The flaw twisted everything. A simple denial couldn't leave his mouth without being warped. If he didn't carefully filter his thoughts, his words would betray him.
Colonel Varnes stared at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, she stood.
Her gloved hand rose, fast.
CRACK.
The slap echoed through the sterile hospital room, sharp and precise. His head turned with the force, cheek instantly reddening, but Sylas didn't move or complain.
She dropped a sealed letter onto the table beside him, eyes narrowing as if delivering a warning etched in steel.
"Don't ever show that kind of nerve again," she said coldly, before turning and walking away.
Sylas sat there in silence, heart pounding—not from the slap, but from the realization:
Even the truth… is dangerous now,
He can't tell truth directly is more like cursed.