I opened my eyes to the soft whirring of the ceiling fan, its blades slicing lazily through the quiet air. For a moment, I lay still, wrapped in the warmth of the futon, until a familiar jolt of panic shot through me.
Ah—the booklet. The exam.
I sat up so quickly the sheets tangled around my legs. My hand darted to the small table, grabbing the booklet and flipping it open with a rushed urgency. The crisp pages rustled loudly in the otherwise silent room.
I glanced at the clock.
4:00 AM.
"Wow… I woke up this early," I whispered to myself, half-amused, half-grateful. The sky outside the window was still heavy with night, only a faint bluish tint hinting that dawn would come soon.
Perfect. More time to study.
I settled back onto the futon, legs crossed, booklet open on my lap. The warm, faintly herbal scent of the room kept me awake as my eyes traced the first lines of the lesson. The quiet was absolute, no footsteps in the hall, no chatter, no clanging from the training grounds. Just me, the soft hum of the ceiling fan, and the rustle of turning pages.
The perfect hour to begin preparing.
I flipped through the next few pages, and my eyes widened at what I read.
Rules inside Arkael…?
Aunt Jeya told me that death only happens once, that a riftborn's body can die but their existence is preserved unless corruption overtakes them. But what the booklet described was clearer, harsher, and far more terrifying.
"A riftborn may die indefinitely. Only when the corruption gauge reaches maximum does one suffer absolute death. At full corruption, the ember is stripped away, leaving behind a hollow, deranged creature lacking reason, memory, and morality."
I swallowed.
So that's what corruption truly meant. Not just danger, but erasure.
I kept reading.
Rule of Regression.
Not time regression. Instead:
"Upon death, a riftborn loses all oathmarks they have obtained."
Oathmarks were embers left behind by beings of Arkael. When consumed, they granted abilities, sometimes even fragments of the beings' power or essence.
I pressed my lips together.
"So if I die… I lose every ability I gained from oathmarks?" I murmured to myself.
Meaning the skills from my own affinity stay, but any additional powers I gather inside Arkael are wiped clean with each death.
Harsher than any game. Crueler than any fantasy.
I flipped to the next part.
"Weapons obtained in Arkael, except those born from the riftborn's own affinity, return to their original place when their wielder dies."
So no permanent arsenal. No stacking power endlessly.
"Ha…" I exhaled softly, half nervous, half defeated.
This place really doesn't want us getting comfortable, huh?
I turned the page again, and the rules only grew more brutal.
"When a riftborn loses an oathmark or item through death, the knowledge of how to wield or use it is erased as well. Unless the riftborn is under a divine contract, only then can one's hard-earned mastery remain intact."
My fingers tightened around the booklet.
So not only do you lose the power…You lose the memory of how to use it.
Meaning you return weaker and ignorant of the strength you once had. The only exception is if a god binds you with a contract, something rare, dangerous, and never guaranteed to favor the riftborn.
I kept reading.
"Upon death, a riftborn's corruption gauge instantly rises to two-thirds of its full capacity."
Two-thirds.
Just one death away from losing yourself unless you purge it immediately.
"To restore one's corruption gauge to its safe state, the purge needle is the only absolute remedy."
I leaned back on the futon, the weight of those rules settling into my chest.
So every death is a reset. A punishment. A tightening noose.
It's no wonder Aunt Jeya always kept purge needles close.
Inside the veil, carelessness wasn't just deadly.
It was irreversible.
I stared at the page, the ink swimming for a moment as the meaning settled deeper.
To outsiders, this might look less punishing. Infinite death? Infinite chances? Almost merciful.
But it's the opposite.
If death is infinite… why are the records filled with so many riftborn who never came back? Why do thousands of embers go dark every year?How can something "infinite" still lead to extinction?
The booklet had an answer, one I didn't want to read twice.
A riftborn can kill another riftborn inside Arkael… and the rules remain the same. But if one does the victor gains a portion of the defeated riftborn's ember.
My stomach twisted.
So we are our most dangerous enemy.
It wasn't just the demigods, the monsters, or the gods themselves. It was us...humans who carry corrupted embers, trapped in a world built on desire and power.
Why would a riftborn attack their own?
Greed. Desperation. Survival. Power.
Because in a realm where everything tries to kill you, sometimes the easiest thing to kill is the person standing beside you.
And maybe… because something inside Arkael whispers to them. Pushes them. Tempts them.
I swallowed hard, the pages feeling heavier than before.
We aren't just fighting Arkael.
We're fighting ourselves.
The bell rang sharply through the walls, followed by the echo of a speaker crackling to life.
"To all recruits, head to the main center hall to undergo the exam. I repeat, all recruits proceed to the main center hall."
I let out a slow exhale, closed the booklet, and placed it gently on the small table. My mind was still buzzing with all the rules, dangers, and twisted logic of Arkael, but there was no time to ponder it now.
I pulled on the uniform jacket, thick, padded, and surprisingly cold at first touch. The moment the fabric brushed my skin, a chill shot across my shoulders.
"Ugh… cold…" I muttered under my breath. The morning air outside seeped through the walls and bit at my face the moment I opened the door. It was still dark, with only the faintest glow of dawn lingering somewhere beyond the horizon.
I zipped the jacket up to my neck.
Time for the exam. Ready or not.
The center hall was already alive when I stepped inside, alive in a chaotic, nervous way. Voices overlapped in uneven waves, the mix of groggy mumbling and restless chatter creating a kind of muffled storm. Some recruits shuffled in half-asleep, hair messy, eyes barely open. Others sat stiffly upright, their uniforms too neat, dark circles under their eyes betraying an all-nighter spent hunched over the booklet.
Rows of seats filled the hall in precise rectangular formations, long benches polished to a dark sheen, each fitted with a narrow desk that folded down from the side. The wood felt cool and smooth under my fingers as I slid into place, its lacquer reflecting the overhead lantern lights with a faint amber glow.
The scent of morning was etched into everything: old paper, the faint bitterness of coffee from a group in the back, and a subtle metallic tinge from the ventilation system humming above. Even the air felt charged, as if every inhale carried someone's anxious breath.
There must have been at least two hundred recruits packed into the hall, uniforms of black, gray, and gold forming a sea of shifting silhouettes. Some tapped their pens rhythmically. Some whispered last-minute notes. Others sat still, staring blankly ahead, mentally bracing for whatever the exam held.
The atmosphere wasn't suffocating, but it pressed gently on the skin, a reminder that all of us were about to be judged, measured not by strength this time, but by understanding. Knowledge of the rules, the dangers, the world we were about to enter.
I took a slow breath, feeling the bench creak softly beneath me.
A senior walked down the rows, handing out thick stacks of paper to each of us. As soon as I received mine and borrowed a pen from my row mate, a wave of nerves hit me.
The test paper felt heavy in my hands. The answer sheets were numerous, neatly stacked, and crisp under my fingers. I flipped slightly to get a better look and froze.
Five hundred pages.
Five hundred pages of rules, scenarios, and questions waiting to be answered.
Five hundred pages of torture.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing thoughts. This wasn't just an exam. It was a trial—a relentless test of knowledge, memory, and mental endurance. Every page felt like a mountain I would have to climb before the veil opened.
I took a deep breath and opened the first page.