The ugly lieutenant continued, his voice carrying a mechanical indifference. "The rules of the trial are simple. As you already know, we're currently floating above an island where Grade One and Grade Two monsters roam freely."
Damien stood near the platform's edge, the sky behind him stretched wide and open, the clouds below like a false sea. The wind tugged gently at his uniform, bringing with it the scent of distant salt and ozone from the island far beneath. Around him, tension crackled in the air, a silent, collective breath held by dozens of Deviants. His shoulder was stiff, his eyes sharp, but he wasn't shaking.
Maybe it was Cassie's earlier indifferent expression. Perhaps it was the rhythm of years of brutal training finally beating in sync with his nerves. Whatever it was, Damien felt strangely grounded—rooted, even.
He watched the lieutenant hold up a small object between two fingers.
"Implanted in each monster's heart," the man went on, "is one of these."
A brown, rectangular tag no larger than a keychain glinted in the sunlight. The metal looked scratched, dull, and almost unimpressive. But Damien knew better; It was the kill confirmation, the only thing that mattered.
"This tag tells us the monster's class. A grade two tag will earn your team two points. A grade one tag is worth a single point. Once your team has collected thirty points, you'll proceed to the tower in the island's center to turn in the tags. You pass the trial if you're among the first ten teams to arrive."
Simple. Efficient. Blood-soaked.
Damien's eyes shifted across the platform to the other Deviants. Most had started to relax now, tension giving way to cautious focus. Murmurs passed between squads, shoulders loosened, expressions eased. The rules weren't complex; they were straightforward math: Hunt, Kill, and Retrieve.
'That's it?'
He blinked, surprised by his thought. He'd expected worse—traps, chaos, some sadistic twist designed to break them. This almost felt too manageable.
But the moment he thought it, the lieutenant smiled.
It was slow, small, controlled, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Damien's stomach sank.
"There is… one more rule," the lieutenant said, gesturing casually to the massive display screen beside him. "Please direct your attention to the board on my left. You'll see a ranked list of the teams participating in this trial."
The screen flickered on with a mechanical hum, and rows of names and numbers scrolled into view.
"These ranks," the lieutenant continued, "were assigned by all the lieutenants based on several factors—academy performance, skill shown during the tournament, team cohesion, and your known abilities."
The crowd surged forward all around him, eyes flicking across the glowing list, scanning anxiously for their names. Damien didn't need to.
His eyes landed on their rank almost immediately.
#3 — Damien Love, Luka Sharp, Summer Park.
A normal Deviant might've felt pride. Relief, even. Top three out of how many? Twenty-four?
Damien just stared.
'Number three? Seriously? Don't they realize we've got two literal prodigies who can use all eight classes? Not to mention Summer, who's a freakin' defensive goddess—and adorable, by the way!'
His jaw tightened, irritation bubbling beneath the surface
Third place? That was an insult.
And worse—it meant there were two teams the lieutenants thought were better.
He folded his arms and leaned slightly back on his heel, eyes locked on the glowing board, a bitter smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
#2 — Daeron Freel, Simon Small, Julius Wade.
The moment the names registered, something inside Damien snapped.
His breath caught. A pulse of killing intent surged from his body like a ripple of heat, washing over the surrounding Deviants like a pressure wave. Conversations stuttered. Eyes widened. Even the more hardened recruits glanced around, confused by the sudden drop in temperature, the hair standing on the backs of their necks.
'Julius and Daeron on the same team? How did we get so damn lucky, Luka?'
He turned toward Luka, eyes practically glowing with madness. Luka met his look with one of his own—eyes wild, head tilted, a slow grin stretching across his face. Without a word, he dragged a finger across his throat in a slicing motion.
Damien grinned wider, the smirk becoming feral.
'I got you, Luka. Loud and clear.'
But before they could completely spiral into their little shared bloodlust fantasy, the voice of Squad Six's lieutenant cut through the air like a blade.
"If you don't like your ranking, do not fret. There is a chance to change it."
The man's tone was mocking, amused, almost daring them.
"If your team eliminates another within the top ten, you'll earn a bonus point. Eliminate a top-three team…" He paused, letting the silence stretch, feeding the growing tension. "You get Ten points."
The words hit Damien like a bucket of ice water.
His manic grin faltered. Not out of fear, but because the reality had just shifted.
They were no longer just competitors. They were walking targets.
Every hungry, desperate team now had a new strategy: hunt the top three.
'Damn it all… why did I have to think this trial was going to be a walk in the park?'
The lieutenant smiled again, raising both arms with flair as if conducting an orchestra.
"With that, let the trial begin."
'Great,' Damien thought. 'A flair for dramatics and a death game fetish—what a combo.'
For a beat, nothing happened.
The Deviants looked at the lieutenant like he'd lost his mind. A few glanced around awkwardly. Damien exchanged a look with Summer, who raised a brow and shrugged. Somewhere, someone let out a nervous laugh.
Then—hisssssss.
Gas erupted from hidden vents across the platform, spewing in thick, curling clouds. The sound was sharp and sudden, like steam escaping a pressure cooker.
Panic followed instantly.
Voices shouted over each other, and movement broke into chaos. Some Deviants grabbed for their masks or cloaks, others instinctively covered their mouths.
Damien's reflexes kicked in a second too late. He tried to shield his nose and mouth, but the acrid, metallic scent of the gas was already filling his lungs. A sickly-sweet taste coated his tongue, making his legs wobble.
'Shit—too fast.'
The world tilted.
His vision blurred, and sounds twisted. Everything became dull, slow, and distant, like he was sinking underwater.
He saw Luka stumble forward, snarling something incoherent. Summer clutched at her side, eyes fluttering.
And then—nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
…
"Goblin, I'm getting bored. Wake up, please."
The voice sighed dramatically. He slouched sideways on his oversized throne, his cheek smushed against the back of his hand. His foot tapped lazily against the void below. His tone was light, but there was an undeniable edge to it—frayed nerves wrapped in forced humor.
Even though Damien's body had collapsed into unconsciousness, the voice remained wide awake.
Because, well… how could poison hurt a god?
The notion brought a brief flicker of satisfaction to his eyes. A small, smug smile tugged at his lips—until boredom smothered it like a wet rag on a flame.
"Hey, brat. Do you have any idea how dull it is watching your life through your eyelids?"
He paused, but only for dramatic effect, throwing his other arm over the side of the throne like a man on the brink of death from sheer ennui.
"It's not very fun, let me tell you. There's only so much Harry Potter I can reread before I start rooting for Voldemort."
He tried standing up, grunting with effort—but the moment he rose a few inches from the throne, a force yanked him back down with a thwump. The chair groaned in response, shimmering faintly with golden restraints.
He scowled. 'And this damn chair.'
Being stuck in this place was already bad enough—like living inside a gilded prison with an endless loop of Damien's unconsciousness playing on an enormous, all-seeing screen. But having to endure it without books, conversation, or mobility?
Madness.
He clenched his fist and threw it into the air, waving it wildly like a toddler mid-tantrum. The golden threads binding him shimmered mockingly.
'When I get my hands on those bastards, I swear…'
Then he inhaled sharply, lips curling into a feral grin.
"Goblin, if you don't wake up in three seconds, I swear I'm blowing up your soul."
He coughed into his fist, straightening his posture like a dignified executioner.
"Three… two… one… point five—"
He winced a little, clearly stalling—but to his surprise, movement flickered across the screen, hovering before him.
A faint glimmer. A surge of light.
Damien's senses were stirring.
The voice leaned in, all pretense of laziness melting away. His playful smirk faded, replaced with something heavier, sharper, like a storm cloud gathering behind the eyes.
He murmured, almost to himself, "Huh. I really do surprise myself sometimes."
The screen lit brighter.
He stared at it for a moment longer, expression hardening as he whispered:
"It's finally here."
His voice dropped low, nearly reverent.
"The beginning of the end."