There was no instruction. No timer. No glyph. No voice to taunt me. Only silence.
And in that silence, a truth settled in my bones: this wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't a test. This was war.
The marble beneath my feet dimmed, the glow retreating into invisible veins like light abandoning a corpse.
Then—wind. It came from nowhere and everywhere, spiraling down from the black ceiling like breath exhaled by a god. The air trembled. The world inhaled.
And something descended. Not from above. But from beyond.
Wings of light—seven of them, layered and overlapping—peeled through the air like blades slicing the sky open. It didn't flap. It hovered. It dripped.
Blood? No. Not blood. Light. But the kind of light that made you want to look away. Not holy. Not warm. Sanctified agony.
Its face was hidden behind a golden helm, carved in the shape of a weeping saint. Its armor was bone-white, etched with runes older than language. A spear of obsidian and gold hung at its side.
Its presence was wrong. Not twisted. Not evil. Just unaligned—like it didn't belong to this plane of reality.
My heart was already racing before it moved.
And then—it did.
A flicker. A blur. Pain. Unimaginable, piercing pain.
I didn't see the attack. I didn't react. I just fell. Split from shoulder to hip, my body hit the floor in two perfect halves.
It was over. Just like that.
[YOU HAVE DIED]
There was no scream. No echo. Just a soft whisper in the back of my mind.
Reviving...
Then the light returned. I was whole. Uninjured. Alive.
I gasped, stumbling forward—and there it was again. Hovering. Silent. Waiting.
I turned to run.
The Seraph moved.
The world turned black.
[YOU HAVE DIED]
Again. And again. And again.
Time blurred. Meaning faded. Death. Rebirth. Terror.
A loop forged not in punishment—but in lesson.
On the thirteenth death, I screamed. On the twenty-second, I laughed. On the fifty-fourth, I stopped fighting. On the five thousandth, I stopped counting.
And then—finally—her voice returned.
Smooth. Icy. Delighted.
"If you wish for it to end, little moth… There is a way. You may forfeit. No shame in that. We will let you die, for real this time. But… if you endure… If you win… You will be given a System."
The Seraph raised its spear. The marble hummed. The light flickered again.
And I—…moved. I dodged this time. And then died immediately with the next strike.
[YOU HAVE DIED]
I collapsed in pieces—again.
The Seraph never hesitated. Never changed. It didn't adapt. Because it didn't need to. I was the variable. And I was failing.
The light returned. So did the pain. And the dread. And the breath. Again. I stood. Slower this time. More careful.
And then I asked: "…Did you just say a System?"
Silence.
Then—her voice returned. Silken. Amused. Cold.
"Oh? Now you're curious." A pause. Almost thoughtful. "Do you not wish to die anymore, little moth?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because I wasn't sure. But I asked anyway: "…What kind of System?"
She laughed. Low. Velvet. Cruel.
"The kind that makes men into something else entirely."
The Seraph raised its spear again. And the marble floor beneath me shimmered like a pool about to crack.
"Endure, if you can. Bleed. Suffer. Crawl. If you beat the Trial of Combat… you will awaken."
Light flared. The Seraph lunged. I dodged once again, but immediately died on the next strike.
It took me a few thousand deaths—each more agonizing than the last—just to dodge two strikes in a row.
And it was a lucky dodge, more instinct than anything. But it wasn't luck alone.
Each time I died, I carried something forward—not just memory, but reflex. Like a save file burned into the soul. Muscle remembered. Instinct adapted. Pain taught faster than time ever could.
I was changing. Not just surviving longer. Improving.
It wasn't just muscle memory anymore. It was deeper. My reflexes were sharper. My footwork quicker. My instincts louder. Each time they reconstructed me, I retained everything I had earned. Every fragment of progress. Every inch of grit. Every scream.
It wasn't just punishment. It was refinement.
And that's when the thought struck me.
I want it. More than anything. I wanted the System. The one thing that had always been beyond me.
Back in high school, I did everything right. I was stronger than most. Smarter. Driven. I was supposed to awaken. Everyone thought I would.
And then—I didn't.
That day ruined everything, the day I tested my aptitude. All my plans. All my dreams. My entire life derailed by the absence of something I couldn't control.
But now… Now, for the first time in years—I had a chance. A real one.
No matter how many times I had to die. No matter what it took. I would not give this up. Not now. Not ever.
At this point, I wasn't sure if I had died more than a hundred thousand times. It certainly felt like it. And, most likely, it was true.
I knew this thing's movements. Every twitch. Every pattern. Every sequence of death.
But it didn't tire. At least, not noticeably. It didn't falter. It didn't get reconstructed like I did. Killing me didn't slow it down. It wasn't of this realm.
Even when I managed to land a hit—it didn't budge.
How long would this take?
I didn't know. At some point, I stopped being sure if this was still happening. Maybe I just... died. Maybe this is all there is.
Isn't this what hell is supposed to be?
No. I'm going to see this through. No matter how many tries it takes.
For the next hundred thousand attempts, I hit it—every time I had the chance. It hurt like hell. My fists shattered. My shins cracked. Over and over again.
But they were being conditioned. Each time, it took more to break them.
My combat instincts sharpened. My movements flowed cleaner. More deliberate.
Even though it was still faster—still beyond me—I began to dodge. I lasted more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. Against that.
But without a System, that wasn't humanly possible.
Which meant…
I was starting to evolve. Not from a gift. Not from some divine spark.
From pain. From death. From will.
Even without a System—I was becoming something else. Something above human.
It had been two million times. Give or take.
I tried keeping count—just to stay a little sane. Just to remember that time still moved.
And yet, it never slowed.
The Seraph was still going at full pace. Untouched. Unbothered. Unchanging. No scratches. No signs of wear. No weakness.
I wasn't even sure if time passed here. But it felt like I'd been fighting for a thousand years.
It attacked again—a thrust straight for my midsection.
I let it hit me. Took the spear through the gut. My mind was numb to pain by now. There was only instinct.
I grabbed the shaft. Pulled myself closer. And smashed my forehead into its helm. Once. Twice. Again.
My skull cracked. Blood poured. Then—darkness.
Another death. But it didn't matter. Because I was improving.
Every death honed something. My technique. My timing. My rage.
My body had become something else. Every reconstruction gave me what I needed—nutrients, healing, rest. A perfect reset.
But it didn't undo the gains. It built on them.
Over millions of deaths, my muscle had thickened, my bones hardened, my speed sharpened. I was no longer just human.
I was being molded into a weapon.
The Voices weren't testing me.
They were forging something—
Not a man.
A worthy vessel.