The sky above the city of Myrkwell had turned an ominous gray.
Clouds hung low like a shroud, swallowing the last vestiges of daylight. Beneath their brooding presence, the Trial Grounds loomed—an ancient colosseum of blackened stone, hidden from the public eye by illusion spells and guarded by elite Drazers. Here, fate was forged. Or broken.
Inside its shadowed walls, dozens of candidates stood in silence, each one waiting for their turn to step through the [Gate of Judgement].
Haron Velric stood among them, stiff in his secondhand boots, the soles thin enough to feel the cold, cursed stone beneath. His coat was patched, and his breathing uneven. Not from fear—he had learned to tame that—but from the fever eating at him since dawn. The long hours at the iron foundry had stolen too much sleep.
But he couldn't delay. His mother's coughing had worsened. The healer demanded Seering Dust, a rare material harvested from Rank-C dungeons. He couldn't afford it. But passing the trial meant entry into the Drazer registry—and that meant missions, pay, and status. A future.
A way out.
The air shimmered as the Gate opened with a low, ancient groan.
It wasn't a door. Not really. More like a tear in the fabric of space, stitched with runes, exhaling the scent of blood and smoke. One by one, the candidates were swallowed.
When Haron's turn came, his name echoed unnaturally through the colosseum:
> [Candidate #451: Haron Velric]
[Initializing Trial: Fragment of Eternal Night]
A sudden rush of vertigo pulled him through.
---
The world he entered was wrong.
Pitch black. Silent. The kind of silence that pressed against the skull.
Then the system voice returned—this time, colder:
> [Welcome to the Trial of Shadow.]
[Objective: Survive for 15 Minutes.]
[Warning: Death is permanent.]
[Trial begins in: 10... 9...]
Haron's heart pounded. There were no weapons, no allies. Just endless darkness. But as the countdown reached zero, he realized: this trial wasn't meant to be survived. It was meant to kill.
The first monster appeared without warning.
It was like the darkness had formed a body—shadowy limbs and burning white eyes. It lunged. Haron rolled to the side, barely dodging. His instincts—sharpened from street fights and factory brawls—kicked in. He grabbed a broken bone shard on the ground and jammed it into the creature's neck.
It screamed. But not in pain. In hunger.
More followed.
Three… five… ten.
They clawed at him. He ran. A narrow ravine offered shelter, but one slip meant a broken leg or worse. Still, he leapt. Scraped his knee. Kept moving.
Minute by minute, he fought. Improvised. Screamed.
But it wasn't enough.
As the eleventh minute passed, a larger creature emerged—this one wearing armor made of fused skulls, carrying a cleaver of shadows. Haron stared at it, blood dripping from his hands, his legs failing beneath him.
> [Vitality: Critical.]
[No Skills Detected.]
[No System Detected.]
He laughed bitterly.
Everyone else awakened with something—[Flame Wielder], [Beast Tongue], [Iron Body]... even the weakest had at least one. But Haron? He had nothing.
The creature raised its cleaver. Time slowed. He closed his eyes.
And died.
---