Even after the rest began to steady their breathing, grounding themselves in the knowledge that it had been a trial, the woman could not stop. Her shrieks cut the silence like knives, high-pitched and raw, her nails raking bloody furrows down her arms. The sound set every recruit on edge, their masks turning toward her in uneasy glances. Some looked away, unable to stomach the sight. Others clenched their hands, as if fighting the urge to silence her themselves.
Then—her voice broke off.
Not from exhaustion. But as if cut from outside.
Her body froze mid-motion, mouth still open in a soundless scream, eyes glassed over. The sudden quiet was suffocating. Dozens of masked heads turned forward in unison, toward the figure standing at the front.
His mask was unlike theirs—not the plain white of the recruits, but violet threaded with gold. Even without seeing his face, his authority radiated outward. Ronan recognized him instantly by aura alone. The same man who had taken the poisoned Knight away.
The weight of his presence pressed down until silence reigned.
"Your performances have been assessed," he said, his voice carrying through the room with calm finality. "Each of you has been judged according to your choices, your resolve, your will."
A faint murmur swept the recruits, but died as quickly as it began. No one dared interrupt.
"Take out your communication tokens," the man continued. "You will now see your scores."
Ronan’s fingers shook as he reached into his robes, pulling free the slim, sigil-etched token. The screen glowed faintly as his score appeared.
Participant #18 Ronan Ironfist. 48 points.
His breath caught. With the fifty-two points he’d already earned, that put him at exactly one hundred. The threshold. The promise they had dangled before him since the beginning. His heart pounded against his ribs, his fear dissolving into something else entirely.
The trial had shown him his weakness, despite all of his determination to rescue the children, he’d still died uselessly. His current life wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
He didn’t want to be as strong as he once was. He wanted more. He wanted the strength to take that giant Abyssal that skewered him in the vision—and skewer it instead.
For the first time in his life, Ronan’s fear didn’t outweigh his desire.
Now, he wanted power.
"Participant #6," the man said evenly after everyone got a chance to look at their scores.
Every masked head swivelled, following his gaze. It landed on the woman who had been hysterical only moments before. She sat still now, eerily calm, though whether from force or from sudden clarity no one could tell.
"Your total score," the man continued, "including this trial and your prior mission, is less than ten. Even if you received the maximum possible scores in the following 3 trials, you would not reach the hundred required."
His tone was calm, almost clinical. But there was no pity in it.
Privately, his thoughts were colder still. ’Even if you could reach one hundred, I would not want you.’
He remembered what Bea had transmitted to him: her pushing down others to buy time, betraying comrades to lure Abyssals away while she stole a bag of chips from a ruined store. Her cruelty, her cowardice, her willingness to sacrifice anyone for her own comfort. He had been so disgusted that he ordered Bea to show her the worst nightmare he had ever seen: the newborn abyssal worms of Brightstar City, devouring her alive. That was why she had screamed.
Two masked enforcers moved forward. One of them—a giant with broad shoulders—placed a hand on her arm. She didn’t resist as they led her out. No one spoke. No one dared. But every recruit felt the lesson settle deep in their bones: they could be discarded at any moment. Dıscover more novels at novel※fire.net
When the door shut behind her, another slim figure stepped out from the side. A white mask like theirs, but with a violet star etched in its center.
"You will have ten minutes to recover," the violet-and-gold masked leader said. "When that time is done, the second trial will begin. It will be worth up to forty points."
He paused. "Participant Eighteen. Step forward. You have already reached the required number of points"
Ronan’s heart leapt. That was him.
For a moment, every gaze in the chamber fell on his back. He could feel the weight of them—envy, bitterness, jealousy. Once, those looks would have made him shrink. Now, they only made him straighten his spine.
He stood and walked forward, guided toward the front. The violet-and-gold mask nodded at him slightly, then turned, leading him away. As the door closed behind them, Ronan felt the gazes burning into his back cutting off.
Down a flight of stairs, deeper underground, the air grew cooler. The walls here were different—smooth, polished, reinforced with runic steel. They passed into a chamber that looked brand new, starkly out of place compared to the abandoned ruin above.
Chairs formed a circle at the center. At the front, a stand gleamed with strange tools: needle-sharp pens, a vial of sparkling ink that shimmered with inner light. A great diagram was drawn on the wall—an intricate array of spirals and runes.
Another masked figure waited by the tools, his mask also with a violet star in the center.
"Tattoo him," the leader ordered. "I will oversee."
Ronan blinked, confused. Tattoo? That was his reward? His bravado flared, carrying him. "No big deal," he muttered under his breath. He had braced himself for anything, and if it was only ink and needles, he could take it.
He sat in the chair. Malzahir moved with efficient precision, dipping one of the needle pens into the shimmering ink. Then the first touch struck.
Ronan’s breath tore out of him. This wasn’t skin-deep. His very spirit screamed as if the needles were writing directly on his soul.
He bit down hard, his teeth tearing into his lip until blood ran down his chin. He would not scream. He would not show them that he’d weak. Every line drawn was agony, every mark another blaze of fire carved into him. His vision blurred with tears. Darkness threatened at the edges of his sight. ’I’m going to faint.’
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Ronan gasped, blinking rapidly to focus through the haze. Malzahir stepped back. The violet-and-gold mask watched him silently, arms folded.
But they weren’t alone anymore.
Across the circle, four others now sat in the chairs—recruits like him, their masks tilted toward him. Their bodies shook, their barely visible eyes wide with horror. They had seen what he endured, and knew the same fate was theirs.
Malzahir turned to them, dipping the pen once more.
One of them tried to shrink back. Another gritted his teeth. A third muttered something that might have been a prayer. But none refused. They had come too far, endured too much, to falter now.
The second screamed before the ink had even finished burning its first line into his arm. The third broke down sobbing. By the fourth, the others began asking to go sooner rather than later. Waiting was worse than the pain itself.
More trickled in as time passed, escorted one by one. Some looked dazed, others grim, but all eventually submitted. The chamber filled with the sharp scent of ink, sweat, and blood. When it was done, fifteen had taken their seats. No more came.