He kept running.
He didn't know how long it had been—seconds, minutes? The sun still blazed overhead, the strange sky stretching endlessly forward. But behind him, something had changed.
His foot caught on another ridge. He crashed to the ground—elbow first, then knee, then his whole side. He hissed, rolled, and pushed himself up with scraped palms.
Small rocks dug into the raw skin of his hands. Dirt clung to the blood on his legs. His knees were torn open. His forearms bled, gravel embedded in the wounds. His ribs ached. Everything hurt.
His clothes were a wreck—sleeves torn, knees ripped out, dust caked into his collar and the back of his neck.
Still, he moved.
The terrain fought him at every step. Jagged ridges cut his ankles. Sudden drops caught him off guard. Sharp inclines tested his balance. One misstep could send him tumbling into twisted stone. He leapt over some, scrambled up others. His body was raw, bruised, bleeding.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He was alone. That much was clear.
Whatever trial this was, they hadn't been dropped together. No sign of the other twenty-nine. No movement in the distance. Just the sound behind him—those heavy, echoing thuds.
They'd all been sent somewhere else.
His place had monsters.
Big ones.
His heart pounded. Blood roared in his ears, almost drowning out the sounds behind him.
Thud.
Thud.
It was getting closer.
He didn't look back.
Every step was a risk.
Where was he running?
There was no path. No markers. No goal.
The proctor had said they wouldn't die here.
He hadn't said they wouldn't wish they were dead.
Ahead, far in the distance—the only landmark—stood the mountain.
If anywhere was safe, it had to be there.
He gritted his teeth and ran.
Sweat poured down his back, soaked into torn fabric clinging to his ribs, stung his eyes. It seeped into his cuts, ground in with the dirt.
Then, the world began to shift.
Not for the better.
The sun dimmed. Clouds dragged in—thick, grey sheets blotting the light. Wind picked up, brushing through the terrain like a warning. Cold air followed. He shivered.
Then—rain.
It came hard. Sharp. Cold. Each drop a needle against his skin. It soaked through the remains of his clothes, dragging at him like heavy rags.
He couldn't keep them on.
He tore them off. First the shirt. Then what was left of his pants. Only his underwear stayed—soaked, freezing, clinging to him—but at least it didn't weigh him down.
"Shit," he muttered, teeth clenched against the wind.
His breath came fast, shallow. His heart thundered. His mind was chaos—fear and pain. Then, for a brief moment, he noticed something else.
Warmth.
A hot, damp spread between his legs.
He'd pissed himself.
Fear and exhaustion had finally taken hold. He could smell it.
His face flushed. The last of his pride slipped away. But it didn't matter. The rain came harder, washing everything down. His body was breaking piece by piece. His mind was locked on survival, but shame still simmered underneath.
He was nothing now. Just a bloodied figure running while the world tried to kill him.
The wind howled louder.
It no longer whispered—it shoved. Gusts slammed into him, forcing him forward, nearly knocking him over. Dirt blasted into his eyes. Hair whipped across his face. Stones clattered as the ground shifted beneath his feet.
Then thunder.
Low at first. A distant growl under the wind.
Again—closer. Sharper. Cracking.
Lightning tore across the sky—brief and white. It lit the mountainside in stark flashes. For a second, he saw everything—every rock, root, and ledge.
And he felt it.
The ground shook.
They were getting closer. The things behind him. Beasts—or whatever passed for them here.
Then, finally, the mountain loomed.
He reached it.
No time to rest—he climbed.
His shoes gave out. Soaked and worn soles shredded on jagged stone.
Barefoot now. Every step was agony. Sharp edges sliced into his feet.
His hands fared no better. Skin tore on wet stone. Blood mixed with mud, dripping from his fingers.
His whole body was a wreck—gashed, bruised, raw.
Thunder crashed overhead. Tremors shook the stone beneath him. Rocks tumbled. Some struck. Others missed.
Then his grip slipped. His stomach dropped. He dangled for a moment—until his fingers found a hold again.
His hands screamed. But he climbed on.
...
Takeshi sat in silence, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed ahead.
Before him, thirty scenes played in the air—each one showing a different child.
The children were scattered—some crawling through narrow spaces, others soaked in mud or stumbling through darkness. Each trial was different. Each one hard to watch.
The old man stood beside him, hands behind his back, walking slowly along the front of the stage. His expression was calm, but his eyes lit up with each new voice that came through.
And then—the old man laughed.
Laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.
Not loud at first, but it grew—infectious, perverse.
"Would you look at this one..." he said, glancing at a screen where a boy clawed at his own arms. "What a masterpiece."
He leaned closer, tracing the air with a crooked finger as if admiring brushwork.
"A painting of agony," he said. "Every one of them—so unique. So raw. Do you see it, Takeshi?"
The old man didn't need him to. He was too lost in it now, stepping joyously from one scene to the next like a man touring a private exhibit.
"Listen to them," he whispered. "Each one learning new words. The tongue of suffering. And oh—" he chuckled again, "—such poetry in their curses."