The exam began brutally.
The very first question asked how many purge injectors a riftborn was expected to carry during the awakening. Straightforward… but the next shifted to general facts and historical footnotes, then to obscure information buried deep within the booklet's later sections.
After that came analysis problems, pages of situational breakdowns, tactical decisions, probability assessments, and risk evaluation inside hypothetical Arkael scenarios. Each question demanded not just knowledge but judgment.
And then the last sections…
Logical traps. Moral dilemmas. Questions asking what a riftborn should do if forced to choose between saving a team or securing an oathmark. Situations where survival and ethics pulled in opposite directions.
The test felt less like a written exam and more like Arkael itself pressing against my mind—measuring, weighing, judging if I was fit to step into its realm.
I gripped my pen tighter and kept writing.
I could hear whispered curses drifting through the room, sharp and shaky, followed by the soft sound of someone breaking into tears. If I kept listening, I knew I'd start crying too.
Somewhere behind me, a girl clenched her jaw so hard it sounded like her teeth might crack. Pens clicked in rapid, desperate rhythm, each one echoing the panic of a mind scrambling for answers. Feet tapped against the floor, restless and frantic, as if fighting the urge to scream just to let the pressure out.
The relentless ticking of the clock hammered through the hall, each sharp click sinking deeper into everyone's nerves. With every second that passed, the atmosphere grew heavier, an almost tangible wave of dread settling over the recruits.
There were only two hours left.
Yet I was still stuck on question three hundred.
My stomach twisted.
Why did every question have to be so long… so cruelly detailed… as if each one was designed not to test us, but to break us slowly?
Someone suddenly shot up from their seat and sprinted toward the restroom like their life depended on it. A few recruits were already breaking down, sweating buckets or crying like they were at a dramatic telenovela finale.
From the corner of my eye, I even saw someone faint, just straight-up accepted defeat and let gravity take them.
Ha… Aunt Jeya…
If you were here, you'd probably say something like, "Good! Pressure builds diamonds!" Meanwhile, I'm over here turning into powdered sugar.
The clock finally chimed and the proctor's voice cut through the room, commanding us to hand over our exam papers. I scribbled the last line of my final answer with the desperation of someone clinging to life.
The last question stared back at me. "Are you ready to face even the demigods and dragons?"
Ready? At that point I wasn't even sure I was ready to face my own reflection.
We were instructed to form into lines and follow the instructor, our footsteps shuffling in uneven rhythm. No one spoke. The tension clung to the air like a second skin. When the first gate opened, a cold shiver went through the entire line.
Inside lay a vast chamber filled with weapons from Arkael.
Rows of them stretched across the room. Swords with edges chipped and dulled from too many strikes. Spears leaning against the walls, their tips darkened by dried stains no one wanted to identify. Axes with handles splintered as if they had been forced through bone instead of air. Some weapons looked almost new, as though they had been dropped just moments ago. Others were worn down into crooked shadows of their former forms. A few were snapped clean in half and left scattered like remnants of a lost battle.
The recruits around me took sharp breaths. Someone whispered, "No way…"Another muttered, "These… all belonged to riftborns?"One girl clasped her hands together, knuckles turning white as she tried not to stare at the broken blades. A boy near the back swallowed audibly, the sound loud in the silence.
Then we were led through the next gate.
The air grew heavier as the second chamber came into view. This one held armors. Breastplates dented inward as if crushed by colossal force. Helms split down the middle. Gauntlets warped into shapes that hands could no longer fit. Some pieces still carried scorch marks, others were soaked in an old, rusted dark.
A recruit beside me whispered a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Great… so cheerful," he said under his breath. Another girl covered her mouth and stepped back, her eyes glistening. Some tried to act brave, puffing out their chests, but their trembling fingers gave them away.
The whole place felt like a silent graveyard honoring those who failed before us.
It was impossible to ignore the message staring us in the face.
These were the weapons and armors left by fallen riftborns. Not a warning carved on stone. Not a lecture in a booklet. Just the cold evidence of what awaited anyone who wasn't strong enough.
The third gate swung open, revealing a vast, empty expanse that stretched farther than my eyes could track. The cold air hit us immediately, carrying a faint metallic tang that made my stomach twist.
We were ordered to stand in formation, rows perfectly straight, shoulders squared, every recruit holding their breath. The silence pressed against us, heavy and suffocating.
In front of us, a horrifying scene unfolded. A number of people were bound, a thick metal bar clamped cruelly between their mouths. They knelt on the ground, heads bowed under the weight of their restraints.
Muffled cries reached us, desperate calls for help strangled by the iron in their mouths. Tears streaked their faces, and the rawness of their sobs cut through the hall like jagged glass.
Chains wrapped around their arms and legs, glowing faintly in a sickly grey hue. Smoke drifted up from beneath them, curling and twisting like living shadows, making the scene even more surreal and terrifying.
I could feel my chest tighten. Every recruit shifted slightly, some gripping their uniforms, some staring with wide, frozen eyes. A few whispered, half in horror, half in disbelief.
It was a silent, brutal message: this was what awaited those who done something evil, who failed to survive the trials, or who underestimated the power of Arkael.
And I realized, with a cold clarity, that we were only at the beginning.
It was impossible to ignore the grim message in front of us.
Why were humans subjected to such a terrifying fate? Kneeling, bound, with iron bars tearing at their mouths, chains glowing a cruel grey, smoke rising like a living curse around them.
I glanced at the guild instructors, wondering if this was some sort of lesson or warning. Did the guildmaster have a reason for displaying them this way? Or was it simply a demonstration of what awaited those who done something ill-fated in Arkael?
The questions pressed into my mind, heavy and suffocating, as the muffled cries of the bound filled the vast space. Every sob, every strained grunt, seemed to echo a truth too harsh to ignore: survival in Arkael was not guaranteed, and mercy was something earned, not given.
I swallowed hard and tightened my grip on my sleeves. Whatever lessons awaited us beyond this, they were only the beginning.
"Now, new recruits," Garrenya's voice cut through the hall, sharp and unyielding. "What happens to those who act with ill intentions inside Arkael? They are hunted down. No exceptions."
I felt my chest tighten. My palms itched. The thought of being hunted down no matter what made my stomach churn.
She walked to the top of the stage, her cloak flowing behind her. "These were riftborns before you who committed the greatest sin possible inside Arkael. Not murder. Not abandonment. But to accept their fate and fulfill the ambitions of the dark demigods."
A chill ran down my spine. The words sounded almost unreal, but the bound figures before us made it painfully real. Kneeling, metal bars in their mouths, chains glowing grey and smoke curling around them, they were fakes, Garrenya said. But my gut twisted. I could feel the weight of every failure they represented.
"Light or dark, it does not matter," she continued. "Remember, you are here to close Arkael, not become a slave of the gods, no matter how treacherous they may seem."
Her hand lifted toward the nearest figure. "Each riftborn has an ember. And within that ember lies a runic language, a code that protects your will, keeping you unchained by the hands of deities and devils alike. Mastering it is one of the conditions for being a riftborn. Without it, you are merely a tool in the hands of Arkael's powers."
I blinked, trying to process. A language inside my very ember? A code that could protect me from gods and devils? My head spun. How was that even possible?
"Think of the runes as a code embedded into your very soul," Garrenya explained. "Only those who understand it, who can inscribe it onto themselves, can resist the compulsion of the gods, the temptations of dark demigods, and the manipulations of devils. Fail to grasp it, and you lose everything from your mind, your body, your ember."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. The bound figures seemed to loom closer in my vision, as if their silent cries whispered to me: This could be you.
The weight of the lesson pressed down on me like the chains around those kneeling riftborns. Survival in Arkael wasn't just about strength. It was about understanding, control, and the will to resist everything that wanted to consume you.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, stubborn part of me vowed I would not fail.
"There is a reason why a corruption gauge is implemented for all of you," Garrenya said, her voice echoing through the hall. "It exists to prevent your ember from being extinguished by corruption. Once corrupted, you can no longer be brought back to yourself. These men in front of you are already close to that point."
My stomach knotted. The bound figures trembled, smoke still curling beneath their knees. Their muffled breathing sounded ragged… hollow… empty.
"Then what is the use of a purge injector if you can't bring your corruption down with it?" someone dared to ask.
"You can," Garrenya replied. "However, once your corruption gauge hits ninety percent, you are no longer affected by the injectors. At that point, nothing can save you."
A wave of cold swept over the recruits. Ninety percent. One bad mistake. One death too many. That was all it took to fall off the edge.
"Each of you," Garrenya commanded, "stand in front of the men."
A numb silence washed over us as we complied. Hesitation weighed on every step I took. I stopped in front of one of the kneeling figures. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, barely even human anymore. His breath came out in short, frantic bursts behind the metal gag.
"The only mercy given to those who have fallen this far… is death."
My hand shook as they handed each of us a sword. Cold metal. Heavy. Unforgiving.
"Do not worry," Garrenya continued. "They can no longer regress. They are corrupted enough that they are no longer riftborns. As I said once corruption reaches that ninety percent mark, you lose your privilege as a riftborn and become a corrupted being. It is better to die than become one."
My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.
I knew where this was going.
"Remember," she said, her crimson eyes sweeping over us, "this is the only mercy you can offer them. Now… face your first kill. Even if the act is done out of compassion."
The hall fell into a suffocating quiet.
My fingers tightened around the hilt.
My breath caught in my throat.
As I realized in Arkael, mercy was just another word for survival.
My hands shook violently as I gripped the hilt. The sword felt impossibly heavy, every fiber of its weight pressing down on me, reminding me that what I was about to do was not a game. My stomach twisted. My chest heaved. I could feel my pulse hammering in my ears, matching the thud of my own heartbeat like a warning.
I looked down at him, the bound riftborn. His body was contorted, trembling with the limited movement the chains allowed. Smoke from the floor curled around his knees like it was alive, the faint scent of scorched metal and charred grime stinging my nose. His muffled whimpers pierced the quiet, soft, but insistent, tugging at something deep inside me.
I raised the sword. My arms ached before the first swing even left them. My grip slipped once, twice, the hilt slick with sweat. He twisted beneath me, chains rattling like dry bones, his body jerking violently, a grotesque dance of desperation. Every movement forced me to adjust, to rethink, to anticipate the next flinch, the next thrash.
The first strike barely cut him. A thin line of blood glimmered along his shoulder, his body lurching, muscles straining against the restraints. His muffled scream scraped my ears raw, sending a shiver down my spine. I stumbled back, the reality of it pressing in. This was not just a drill. This was life and death. My hands screamed for release.
I struck again. The blade met resistance as his body twisted under the chains, and I felt it bite deeper this time, drawing a darker red, warm and sticky, clinging to my palms. He thrashed harder, and I staggered, my muscles screaming. Every movement he made pressed into my chest, making me recoil, making me question whether I could keep going.
My mind screamed to stop, to drop the sword, to turn away, but the memory of the corruption gauge, the lessons from Aunt Jeya and Garrenya, and the grim reality of Arkael forced my body to obey. Another swing. A grunt escaped my throat as I twisted my body to leverage my weight against his struggle. The chains clinked sharply, the sound harsh, echoing in my ears, mingling with his choking, muffled cries.
Minutes or maybe seconds passed in a blur of pain, sweat, and panic. Finally, his thrashing slowed. His body sagged, the chains rattling one last time as the smoke rose quietly from beneath him. His eyes, once flickering with faint recognition, now stared blankly, unseeing.
I sank to my knees, the sword clattering beside me. My hands were slick with his blood, warm and sticky, clinging to me in a way that made my stomach churn. My chest heaved uncontrollably, sweat and tears stinging my eyes, and for the first time, I truly understood the brutality of Arkael.
I whispered, barely audible, "I… I did what I had to… right?"
Arkael had claimed its first lesson from me and it was brutal, intimate, and undeniable.
Around me, the hall was chaos restrained only by the rigid formations of the instructors. Some recruits froze completely, their faces pale, hands trembling as they raised their swords. Whimpers and stifled sobs echoed through the space as others swung blindly, missing entirely, their frustration turning into desperate cries. A few let out piercing screams, the sound of terror raw and unpolished, as if the weight of the act crushed their very lungs.
I could feel their fear like a pulse in the air, each hesitation amplifying my own. Every glance to the sides reminded me that we were not alone in this brutal lesson. Some recruits simply dropped their swords and sank to their knees, shaking, tears streaking their cheeks. Others clutched their hilts so tightly it was a wonder they did not snap their own hands.
The instructors watched with unyielding eyes, scanning each movement, each falter, each hesitation. Their expressions were neutral, but there was a weight behind the gaze, a silent insistence that no mistake would go unnoticed. One instructor in particular focused on me, his sharp eyes tracking every micro-movement, every tremble of my arms, every quickening of my breathing.
It was not a lesson in mercy. It was a lesson in execution. And in the silence between the chains' rattles and the muffled cries, I realized how much was being demanded of me. Each strike had to be deliberate, controlled, and final. There was no room for hesitation.
Garrenya, perched on the side, observed quietly. Her brows furrowed slightly as she watched me. She could see my struggle, the almost imperceptible shake in my arms, the brief falter in my stance. A shadow of concern passed over her expression. She knew the first kill was the hardest, the one that often decided whether a recruit would endure or crumble. She was thinking fast, weighing how to let me survive this ordeal without breaking under its weight.