I walked down a narrow, well-lit path as the cave around me widened into a cavernous hollow. The stone walls seemed to breathe—cold, damp, and slick with moisture. With each step, the light ahead dimmed, swallowed by the growing darkness behind me. The silence was unsettling; even my footsteps sounded muted, swallowed by the stone.
Then I saw it—blood smeared across the walls. Thick streaks, some dried to a flaky brown, others still dark and wet, slowly crawling down like tears. The smell of iron hit me, sharp and metallic, burning the back of my throat. As I moved closer, the cave revealed its true horror: skulls were arranged beneath the blood, each positioned neatly as if part of some ritualistic display. Above every skull, numbers were carved into the rock—uneven scratches, desperate marks made by an unsteady hand.
Random numbers. No pattern. No explanation. I stared at them, nauseated by the implication. They had to mean something, and the only thing that made sense was the worst possible one: how many people had failed here. How many had died.
My pulse quickened. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating me with the weight of all those failures, all those deaths. I swallowed hard and tore my eyes away from the skulls. No point staring at what I couldn't help. Not unless I wanted to join them.
But then—light. A soft, natural glow ahead. An exit.
My feet moved before my brain could catch up. I sprinted, weaving past stalagmites, pushing through the stale air. The idea of breathing real wind again, of leaving the stench of death behind, fueled me. I burst through the narrow opening and staggered outside, gulping air like a drowning man surfaces for the first time.
But the relief ended instantly.
I froze where I stood. In front of me stretched a vast clearing layered in dust and dried blood. Rows of armored soldiers—close to a hundred by my quick count—stood perfectly still, swords drawn, shields poised. There was no chatter, no tension between them; just silent obedience. At their head stood a general, observing with his hands clasped behind his back. Unlike his men, his armor was clean—beautifully plated steel marked with runes and symbols I didn't recognize. His sword gleamed at his hip, and strapped to his legs were pieces of armor I recognized immediately: the sword and leg guards I needed to complete the trial.
My heart hammered against my ribs. After everything in the cave, I had hoped the exit meant survival. But all I had done was pass into another form of hell.
The general's eyes locked onto mine, and for a second neither of us moved. I didn't know what expression I had on my face—fear? desperation?—but his was carved from stone. Cold. Indifferent. Without warning he lifted one hand, pointed at me, and barked an order in a language I didn't know.
The formation erupted into movement.
The soldiers rushed forward like a tidal wave of metal. The ground vibrated beneath their collective charge. I took a step back, panic clawing at my throat—and then the gauntlets fused to my arms began to hum, warming as if awakening. Metal tendrils curled upward, extending from my wrists to my elbows, locking into place. It felt like another creature wrapping itself around me.
There was no escape. No running. If I tried, they'd cut me down in seconds. Something inside me hardened. My fear twisted into rage—rage at the cave, at the trial, at whoever decided this nightmare was a test.
I screamed and charged.
The first soldier's sword came down in a silver arc. I raised my left arm and metal screeched against metal, sparks flying. My right fist flew upward, connecting with his jaw. I felt bone crack beneath my knuckles and blood sprayed from his mouth as he toppled backwards.
The next two soldiers came from either side. I pivoted, slamming my elbow into the first man's ribcage. Something crunched beneath my strike—ribs collapsing inward—and he dropped, choking on blood. The other swung wildly. I caught his wrist, twisted until tendons snapped and he screamed, then smashed my knee into his face. His nose flattened, blood bursting outward like a struck fruit.
More came. They swarmed around me, blades slicing through air, screams and grunts filling my ears. I parried, ducked, and countered. My fists became hammers, my elbows became blades. I felt bones break beneath every hit, heard wet gurgles as men choked on their own blood. Blood sprayed across my chest, dripping down my arms, coating the earth beneath us.
Minutes passed like seconds. Eventually the screaming faded. The field around me was a butchered landscape—bodies split open, limbs twisted unnaturally, teeth scattered on crimson-soaked dirt. The air stank of death and iron.
Only one soldier remained. He ran at me, splashing through pools of blood. As he approached, the gauntlets pulsed and drank the blood around my feet. I felt the metal shift, splitting open to form a serrated blade along my elbow.
He swung. I stepped inside his reach and drove my fist into his stomach. His breath exploded out in a strangled grunt. Before he could collapse, I rammed the elbow-blade into the back of his neck. Hot blood sprayed up my arm as he fell twitching to the ground.
Silence settled—heavy, suffocating, absolute.
Slowly, the general stepped forward, eyes burning with controlled fury as he drew his sword. His voice was low, unreadable—but I understood the intent as he charged.
He was coming for me. And there was no turning back.