(Skyro's Voice)
The guard pushed us out the gate of the Fourth Section. We weren't alone. As soon as our feet stepped into the main corridor, my eyes locked onto the scene; other corridors were opening their doors at the exact same moment, pouring out queues of children in identical white clothes. Pale faces, wandering eyes, and bodies trembling under the weight of terror.
We were like herds of livestock being driven to the slaughterhouse. Our gazes met theirs; there was no sympathy, only a bitter question in everyone's eyes: Who among you will die first?
A massive guard stood at the intersection of the corridors, wearing a black metallic mask that revealed nothing but the gleam of his cold eyes. He scanned the crowd with a quick glance, then tapped a device on his wrist.
"Forty children then... a good cargo for this cycle," the guard said in a tone devoid of any human emotion, as if he were counting spare parts in a warehouse. "Follow me in silence. Any sound, any hesitation, will mean your elimination right here, saving us the trouble of the test."
The guard walked ahead, and we followed behind him in a long line. I walked with Number (42) beside me. In this crowd, he was the only one who stood out with a different aura. Even though everyone wore the same white shirt, his was stretched tight across his broad shoulders, hinting at an unnatural physical strength. The scars I had seen earlier now looked, under the corridor lights, like protruding veins of steel. He walked with a terrifying calmness, his eyes looking neither at the guards nor the children; he stared into the void as if seeing something we couldn't.
We reached the end of the corridor. A giant hydraulic door opened with a screech that shook the ground beneath our feet, revealing a massive hall, vaster than any I had ever seen.
The Sorting Hall: The Corridor of Numbers
We entered the hall. The floor was an endless grid of square metallic tiles. Each tile had a number engraved on it, glowing with a pale blue light. The numbers were scattered, following no logical order. The moment the last child entered, the door slammed shut behind us, and a sharp siren pierced the silence of the place.
"Phase One: The Corridor of Numbers." The automated voice echoed from the ceiling, a mechanical sound like shattering glass. "The Rule: You have 5 seconds to stand on the tile bearing your assigned number." "Warning: Choosing the wrong tile, or running out of time, means falling into the 'End'."
The countdown began appearing on massive screens hanging in the corners.
5...
The place exploded into madness. Forty children began sprinting in every direction. Screams echoed, and bodies collided. I saw a child fall and get trampled under the feet of others who thought of nothing but survival. Chaos was the master of the situation, but my mind worked differently.
While everyone ran blindly, I stood my ground for a fraction of a second. I looked at the floor. My eyes scanned the squares rapidly. I noticed something no one else did; some tiles emitted a very faint electrical buzz, meaning they were "hollow" underneath and freezing cold. The other tiles looked dull but solid.
4...
I spotted the number (41) a few meters away. It lay behind a group of brawling children. I had no time to go around. I leaped over their heads, using only the edges of the "solid" tiles as footholds. I moved with the agility I had acquired from escaping through the dark alleys of the cities.
3...
At that moment, I saw Number (42). He was acting with savage brilliance. He wasn't just looking for his number; he was carving a path by force. I saw him grab a child standing in his way and, without a shred of hesitation, hurl him onto a suspicious tile.
The moment the child touched the tile, it opened like a predator's jaw, swallowing the boy in the blink of an eye. Number (42) used that child's body as a "bridge" to confirm his path. The sight of him doing that with absolute coldness was more terrifying than the test itself.
2...
I reached my target. I landed with both feet on tile number (41). I felt the texture of solid metal stable beneath my feet. I was the first to arrive and settle in the correct spot among all the children still scrambling.
1...
Number (42) reached the tile right next to mine. He was panting slightly, his eyes ablaze with a wild desire to destroy.
0.
Everything stopped. Suddenly, without warning, all the unoccupied tiles, along with the fake tiles stood upon by mistaken children, vanished. More than half the children plummeted into the bottomless abyss beneath the hall. The screaming that had filled the place was abruptly cut off, replaced by the sound of a cold wind blowing from below.
A deadly silence reigned. Only 12 children out of the original forty remained standing in that vast hall.
The Language of Eyes
I stood firmly, my breathing steady, my eyes fixed on the door that would lead to the next phase. I didn't turn around, but I felt a gaze piercing my side.
Number (42) was staring at me.
I turned to him slowly. He stood on his tile, his massive body exuding a suppressed energy. He didn't speak, but his facial features carried a strange expression; a mix of maniacal excitement and mockery. He looked at me as if he had discovered an interesting "toy."
He noticed that I had arrived before him, and that I had done so without touching anyone, without sustaining a single scratch. A mocking smile crept onto his lips, and he looked at me with clear defiance, then said: "You're fast, weakling... Let's see how long you last against true strength."
I gave him no reaction. I kept my face as a mask of ice. My curiosity was boiling inside: Why was he smiling in this slaughterhouse? And how could a body shattered by those scars move with such speed?
The front door opened, releasing hot red steam.
"Phase One is over," the automated voice stated coldly. "Survivors: 12. Proceed immediately to Phase Two: The Pressurized Room Test."
The tiles we stood on moved like conveyor belts, dragging us toward the dark opening of the next door. Number (42) walked ahead of me, cracking his knuckles forcefully, his back to me, but I knew his eyes were still tracking my every move.
In that moment, I realized the factory wasn't the only enemy here. This Number (42) represented a different kind of danger... a danger that enjoyed death as much as it enjoyed survival.
We entered the darkness, and the sound of massive gears began turning behind the walls, announcing the start of the second phase.
The metal belt transporting us halted, and the hydraulic door opened to spit us into a vast hall, its walls made of polished dark steel. There was no natural light, only the room bathed in a cold blue glimmer emitting from lamps mounted in the corners, casting distorted shadows of our pale bodies.
We were twelve children. We didn't know each other, but we knew the single truth that bound us: We are here to be sorted, and the factory only accepts "parts" that operate efficiently.
In the center of the hall, twelve metallic bracelets lay on the floor in a strange circle. The bracelets gleamed with a pulsing blue light, emitting a low hum like buzzing electricity. I stood my ground, my eyes scanning the room coldly. I didn't run forward, nor did I step back. My years in the filthy city alleys had taught me that the first to move is the first to be exposed, and the first to be exposed is the first to die.
Beside me, Number (42) stood firmly. He was cracking his neck joints, his eyes still burning with that same gleam I saw in the corridor of numbers. He wasn't looking at the guards; he was looking at us... evaluating the "meat" surrounding him.
The automated voice rang out from the ceiling, sharp as a rusted knife:
"Phase Two: Only 7 Hounds." "The Rule: The door will not open unless only 7 bracelets remain active."
A suffocating silence fell. I quickly did the math in my head. We are 12, and the door won't open unless 5 of us are taken out of the equation. I looked at the bracelets; they measured pulse. This meant you didn't have to kill to succeed; it was enough to make your opponent's heart stop functioning normally—whether through unconsciousness, choking, or breaking their ability to resist.
The factory wanted us to tear each other apart.
Everyone backed up against the walls, eyes darting in their sockets in a desperate search for an ally or an exit. No one moved for several seconds; breathing was the only sound heard in the hall. Suddenly, two children approached me, Number (48) and Number (53). They were trembling, their eyes overflowing with a plea for help.
I didn't want allies; friends on the street are "dead weight" that keeps you from running. But I knew that having two people watching my back would prevent anyone from ambushing me from behind.
"Stay behind me," I told them in a low, cold voice. "Do nothing. Just watch who approaches and act as a shield for my back. I will take care of the rest."
They nodded quickly and pressed against my back. I was watching Number (42). He was smiling. It wasn't the smile of a child, but the smile of a predator that found itself in a forest full of rabbits.
The first spark ignited when one of the children screamed and lunged blindly at another. In a second, the hall turned into a savage brawl. There were no martial arts here; it was just biting, punching, and desperate kicking for life.
While everyone flailed, I waited. The experience I gained fighting for a piece of bread in the city alleys surpassed any training. In the streets, you learn where to strike to drop your opponent quickly without exhausting your energy.
A massive boy (Number 50) charged at me, thinking his size would intimidate me. He roared, throwing a heavy punch at my head. I didn't retreat; I ducked beneath his fist and, with a swift motion, delivered a hard palm strike right to the center of his throat. He coughed violently, his breath cutting off. Before he could process what happened, I grabbed his head, drove my knee hard into him, and then choked him from behind with all my strength.
It wasn't a technical chokehold; it was a dirty street choke. I pressed on his neck until I felt his body go limp in my hands. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious. His blue bracelet immediately turned off. One down.
I turned to Number (66), who was trying to attack the boy taking cover behind me. I pounced on him, grabbed his arm, and twisted it violently behind his back until I heard the "pop" of the joint dislocating. He screamed in pain, but I didn't stop. I struck him hard on the side of his neck, making him stagger and drop unconscious from the sheer pain and shock.
Two down... three left.
I moved coldly, my eyes never leaving the battlefield. I wasn't striking to kill; I was striking to "disable." A blow to the neck, a kick to the knee, a choke to unconsciousness. My white clothes were still clean, and that was what terrified the rest.
The Savagery of Number 42
In the center of the hall, Number (42) represented a different kind of horror. He didn't care about neutralizing; he cared about shattering.
I saw him grab a child and smash him against the iron wall repeatedly until blood covered the little one's face. Then he made a move that sent a strange chill through my body; he grabbed another child's hand and began crushing it slowly, chuckling softly, until the bones snapped under his grip.
He didn't kill them; he left them alive, agonizing with ear-piercing screams. This kind of pain caused their heart rates to spike so erratically that the bracelets eliminated them biologically due to "physical trauma."
He had taken out three on his own. Not with intellect, but with pure savagery that paralyzed the others.
CLAAAANG!
The iron door at the end of the hall swung open. The blue lights on the six remaining bracelets stabilized.
I stood in the middle of the room, my breathing steady. I looked at the two children behind me; they were staring at me in terror and immediately backed away, as if I were a burning coal.
I turned toward Number (42). He was standing over one of his victims, his face splattered with drops of blood that weren't his. He didn't speak. He raised his hand slowly and, with absolute coldness, wiped a bloodstain from his cheek using his white sleeve, then looked at me.
His eyes gleamed with a feverish ecstasy, the look of someone who had finally found an "equal," or perhaps a "toy" worth the effort. It wasn't a look of hatred, but a silent challenge, an acknowledgment that I wasn't just another weak child like the rest. He flashed a wide smile, revealing bloodstained teeth, and nodded toward the open door as if inviting me to the next stage.
I didn't utter a single word. I averted my gaze and headed toward the door.
I walked past the children I had taken down; they were breathing heavily, but they were alive. I looked at my hands; they were clean, but I could feel the weight of the spirits I had broken to cross.
Beyond the door, there was no straight corridor. There was a light mist, and overlapping metallic walls forming endless winding paths.
"Phase Three: The Scales," the automated voice announced coldly.
I walked into the darkness, feeling the footsteps of Number (42) behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know he was watching my back, waiting for the moment I would lose my composure so he could tear into me. The Scales phase wasn't just about walls; it was a test to see what would get lost first... my mind, or his savagery.