Calm down.

Breathe.

Raging won’t help. Panicking won’t help. Both get you killed faster.

First, I need intel.

My eyes settle on the easiest source—a boy bowing low, shoulders shaking, sobs barely contained.

Fragile types break quickly.

He speaks my language too.

Perfect.

I crouch in front of him, careful to keep my posture loose, nonthreatening.

“Are you alright, brother?”

He hiccups and looks up.

Black eyes swollen with tears. Hair matted to his forehead. The faint sting of salt clinging to rags that used to be clothes.

A starving orphan.

“Wh–who are you?” he asks. “What do you want?”

I force my lips into something resembling a smile.

“Relax,” I say softly. “Just checking if you’re still alive.”

That does it.

He breaks again, shoulders collapsing inward. “This is wrong… I’m scared.”

“Shh.” I grip his shoulders—not hard, just enough to anchor him. “Talk to me. It helps sometimes.”

Slowly, he nods.

“My name’s Korus,” he says. “From Islenar… a Marhavan isle. Far from here.” He sniffs. “Where are you from?”

Rayan is dead. That name belongs to a life already counted.

“…Ashan,” I say. “From the Ogefil islands.”

“Ogefil…” His eyes flicker. “I’ve heard of it. That’s far.”

Good.

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“Now tell me,” I say, lowering my voice, “what the hell is going on?”

His gaze darts sideways—toward the other children. Toward the shadows. Toward the bodies.

But my steady expression convinces him.

“I woke up in a cave,” he whispers. “No idea how I got there. I was begging on the streets before. Then I fell asleep and… it came.”

His whole body shudders.

“Your clone,” I say.

He nods hard. “It counted my faults. Said I was lazy. Weak. Listed my sins.”

“How many?”

“One hundred and eight.” His voice cracks. “It felt like… like I shouldn’t exist.”

He swallows. “I cried. Covered my ears. Then it vanished. The door opened. I saw… dead children.”

So it wasn’t just me.

The others saw theirs too.

Not hallucinations. Not a coincidence.

A mechanism.

Force children to confront their sins until the weak collapse.

A spiritual execution.

And one hundred eight must be the limit.

Not everyone survives judgment.

Before I can ask more, a rough-looking boy with tan skin grabs another child and starts shouting in a foreign tongue.

Chaos ripples outward.

“What happens now?” Korus whispers.

Around us, the air vibrates with trauma—sobbing, screaming, and blank stares emptied of thought.

If this were a story, someone here would be chosen.

The fact that no one told me everything.

Then a voice tears through my skull.

“HA HA HA! Congratulations, splendid little boys and girls, for completing the first trial—Facing Your Sins.”

The voice is sharp. Cold. Inhuman.

“Out of one thousand participants, only seven hundred survived.”

My stomach tightens.

So this hall isn’t alone. There are others. Many others.

“How many trials?” I mutter.

The children freeze. Some cry harder. Some flinch like beaten dogs.

“For the second trial,” the voice continues, “move forward.”

A tan-skinned boy shouts back—angry, defiant, and brave.

It doesn’t matter.

Burst.

His body explodes like a balloon.

Blood splashes across my face—warm, sticky.

I wipe my cheek slowly, staring at the red smear on my fingers.

Korus retches beside me.

Children scream.

“Six hundred ninety-nine remain,” the voice says flatly. “Proceed.”

Panic spreads like a disease—vomit, sobs, silence.

And me?

Respect. Fear.

My hands are steady. My stomach is not.

Whoever controls this place kills without hesitation.

Gods play with ants.

I don’t intend to be stepped on.

The torchlit path stretches ahead, disappearing into darkness.

Korus clutches my arm. “Ashan… I don’t want to die.”

Miserable lamb.

I keep my voice calm. “If we clear their trials, they might let us live.”

He nods, breathing easier. Good enough.

“On your feet,” I say. “Stay close.”

We move.

Ten minutes pass in silence.

Only dripping water. Ragged breaths. The sour stench of corpses seeps from side tunnels.

Then the voice returns.

“Welcome, children… to the second trial.”

Light crashes down.

Groans ripple through the hall as hands rise to shield eyes.

“Not this again,” I mutter.

When my vision clears, my heart drops.

A wide chamber spreads before us. Torches blaze along stone walls.

Tables fill the space.

Seven chairs at each.

Baskets piled high with food.

The voice smiles.

“The second trial is named… the Trial of Feast.”

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