Jennie's eyes flickered open.
The world was silent.
She was no longer in the training chamber—no longer surrounded by her teammates. Instead, she was lying on a cold wooden floor inside a dimly lit room. Her breath trembled as she sat up, her fingers brushing against the rough floorboards.
A faint chime sounded in the air, and before her, a transparent screen materialized, glowing faint blue.
The setting:You are a medic who has arrived after a Remnant attack. Your job is to confront the children while trying to find the way to the next level.
Beneath it, a single line pulsed ominously:
Hint: The children are the key.
Jennie's lips parted slightly.
"…Confront the children?"
The word children unsettled her more than the rest. She pressed her palm to her chest, steadying her racing heart, and stood.
When she pushed the door open, her breath caught in her throat.
The town outside was in ruins.
Everywhere she looked, there were collapsed houses, shattered walls, broken carts lying in the mud. Fires still smoldered between piles of rubble. The stench of smoke and iron filled the air—so thick it clung to her lungs.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"This is… this is too much… too real."
Her voice shook as she whispered to herself.
"…This is scary."
Then—
A sound.
A fragile, high-pitched crying.
Jennie flinched, spinning around, her pulse spiking. The sound came from behind a toppled cart. She forced herself to breathe slowly, whispering to herself like a mantra:
"It's just a game. They're not real. This is a simulation. It's not real, it's not real…"
She crouched low, moving toward the sound. Her lips stretched into a small, forced smile as she peeked around the rubble.
There—sitting in the dirt—was a child.
Her shoulders relaxed a little.
"…Hey. Everything alright?"
The little girl slowly raised her head.
Jennie froze.
The child's face was smeared with dried blood. Her eyes were hollow, her cheeks pale, streaked with dirt and red. Her dress was torn, soaked crimson around her stomach.
Jennie's breath hitched violently.
"…!"
Her body shook, her hands trembling uncontrollably. Her smile faltered, breaking into a horrified gape.
"This isn't real… this isn't real… it's just a game, Jennie…" she whispered rapidly, clutching her wrist to stop the shaking.
But when the child let out a weak sob, Jennie's heart wrenched. She forced herself forward, kneeling down.
"It's okay, don't worry. I'll… I'll help you."
Her voice cracked. She scooped the child gently into her arms, nearly gagging at the sticky wetness that spread onto her hands and uniform.
She carried the girl back into the room she woke up in. Inside were shelves of scattered supplies—bandages, cloth, a small basin of water. She laid the child down carefully.
Her hands still trembled violently as she tried to roll out bandages.
"Okay, just… just hold still. You'll be okay. It's not real. It's not real, Jennie. They're not real…"
She repeated the words as she wrapped the girl's wounds, but the sight of the blood soaking through the cloth made her hands shake harder. Her breath quickened until she was almost hyperventilating.
The child whimpered softly.
Jennie clenched her teeth, forcing the trembling in her hands to still just enough to tie the bandage. Her eyes blurred with tears.
"…There. All done. You'll be fine."
But deep inside, she didn't believe it.
---
Meanwhile – Nova
Nova trudged through the ruined streets. His sharp eyes scanned the devastation, but even he couldn't hide the unease twisting his stomach. Every shattered wall, every burned husk of a house—it all looked too real.
His boots crunched on broken wood and stone. He muttered to himself, voice low:
"…This is horrifying. So this… is what war does, huh."
A piercing scream ripped through the air.
Nova's head snapped to the left. He sprinted, weaving past collapsed beams until he found the source.
A woman lay pinned beneath rubble. Only her head and one arm were free. Her hair was matted with blood, her eyes wide and frantic. Beside her, a little boy was tugging uselessly at the stones, crying hysterically.
"Please! Someone help my mom!" the boy wailed.
Nova's chest tightened. He knelt beside the rubble, bracing his hands against it, straining to lift. His muscles flexed, veins bulging—yet the stone didn't budge.
The woman cried out.
"Save him! Forget me—just take my son and run!"
But Nova gritted his teeth, ignoring her.
"No. I'm not leaving you behind."
He dug his heels into the dirt, pulling harder, sweat beading on his brow.
A creak above.
Nova glanced up. Another slab of rubble cracked loose—falling straight down toward him.
His eyes widened.
"…!"
The boulder smashed into him—yet passed through his body like smoke.
Nova froze. Then he exhaled shakily.
"…Right. It's virtual. I forgot."
Relief barely had time to sink in before—
A sickening crack.
He whipped his head around. The falling rubble hadn't hit him.
It had crushed the boy.
The child's scream cut off instantly. Blood seeped across the dirt.
Nova stumbled back, his face pale, his breath coming in short bursts.
"…Wh—what…?"
The mother's eyes bulged. She watched her son's crushed body, her hope shattering. Her lips trembled, then her face went slack.
Her chest stilled.
Dead.
Nova's knees buckled. He fell forward, his hands gripping the dirt as he stared blankly at the two lifeless bodies. A broken laugh slipped from his lips.
"Heh… heh… Isn't this too realistic…?"
His voice cracked into a whisper.
"…So I need to be aware of my surroundings too, huh."
He dragged in a shaky breath, pushing himself back to his feet. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. He swallowed the rising nausea and forced himself to keep moving.
A cry echoed again.
Nova ran toward it, this time his heart pounding with dread. He reached another pile of rubble and shoved debris aside until small hands emerged. He pulled, and three children—dirty but alive—stumbled free, coughing.
His chest loosened slightly. He knelt, smiling faintly despite the quiver in his lips.
"You're safe now. Don't worry. I've got you."
He held their tiny hands, guiding them forward.
But then—
A shout cut through the air.
"Help me! Please!"
Nova turned. A man was pinned under a collapsed beam, struggling desperately.
Nova's gaze shot upward. The rocks above trembled ominously, ready to collapse.
His jaw clenched. If this were real—trying to save him would kill them all.
He looked down at the terrified children clinging to him. Then back at the desperate man.
His hands shook. His breath came ragged.
"…Damn it…"
He turned away.
The man's screams followed him as he ran, clutching the children tighter.
"Please! Don't leave me! Don't—!"
The voice cut off into silence behind him.
Nova's teeth ground together. His chest ached as though something inside him had cracked.
He didn't look back.
Miwa's breath came quick and shallow.
The air reeked of ash, smoke, and scorched wood. Each time she stepped outside the house, the heat of the flames made her skin prickle. The cries of children echoed from every direction, voices that tore into her heart.
She had no idea what to do—none of the training prepared her for this. She wasn't like Jennie who knew where to press, what to bind, what to say. Her hands shook violently as she led another crying boy inside the building she had claimed as a shelter.
The room was already crowded. Five children sat against the walls—injured, burned, pale. Their eyes followed her every move. Their whimpers filled the silence.
Miwa pressed her palms to her head, panic building.
"…What can I do?"
Her eyes darted around the room, desperate for an answer. Supplies sat on a shelf—rolls of bandages, bottles of medicine. Her fingers fumbled to pick them up.
She flipped a bottle in her hands, squinting at the label.
"Pain relief… disinfectant… okay, okay…"
Her lips trembled but she forced a smile, kneeling beside the nearest child.
"Don't worry, I'll… I'll manage. I promise."
She wasn't sure who she was convincing—the child or herself.
Her bandaging was clumsy. The wraps slipped loose, knots tied too tight, gauze placed in the wrong spots. One boy cried out when she pressed too hard, and she nearly broke down right there.
But she kept going.
Sloppy, shaking, whispering apologies under her breath—until every child had at least something over their wounds. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even good. But it was something.
Finally, she slumped against the wall, her chest heaving.
The children watched her with wide, fearful eyes. One of the little girls slowly shuffled closer and tugged at Miwa's sleeve, whispering,
"…Don't leave us."
Miwa's throat tightened. Tears blurred her vision. She forced a smile—fragile, broken, but still a smile.
"I won't. I'll stay right here."
Outside, the town burned. Screams of the dying carried through the smoke.
---
Kiyomasa – The Trial of Choice
Kiyomasa's lungs burned as he dashed through the inferno. The child clung to his back, another held tightly in his arm, and a third ran beside him, coughing through the smoke.
"It'll be fine," he muttered, more to himself than them. "It'll be fine. Just a little more—"
Then he froze.
Two neighboring houses—both ablaze. From the first, a girl's voice shrieked. From the second, a boy's desperate cries.
Kiyomasa's eyes widened. He rushed closer, but the flames roared higher, smoke choking the air.
"Who should I save first?"
The fire was spreading. He realized in horror—he couldn't save both.
His entire body shook. His breath faltered.
"I can only save one… the fire won't hold out."
He clenched his fists, heart pounding. He needed to think—fast.
But then—
A memory surfaced.
[Flashback]
The dining room was bathed in a soft golden light. The faint crackle of oil came from the stove, the smell of garlic and herbs curling into the air. Zazm stood over the pan, humming a tune that seemed far too casual for the weight hanging between them.
At the table, Kiyomasa sat stiffly, hands balled into fists in his lap. He stared at Zazm's back, unable to hold the words any longer.
"…You killed so many people, Zazm."
The humming stopped.
For a moment, the only sound was the gentle sizzle of the pan. Then Zazm let out a quiet chuckle—light, but strangely hollow. He stirred the food one last time, turned off the flame, and finally spoke.
"I did."
Kiyomasa lowered his eyes to the table, throat tight.
"…How do you feel about that?"
Zazm wiped his hands slowly on a rag, then walked over and sat across from him. His movements were calm, deliberate, as though he was pacing his own words. When he met Kiyomasa's gaze, his eyes gleamed—not with pride, but with something unreadable, fractured between menace and guilt.
"The first person I killed," Zazm said, tapping two fingers against his temple, "was myself. The part that kept whispering, 'Find another way.' The one that wanted peace."
His lips twisted into a crooked smile, but his voice was heavy.
"And the last one I wanted to kill… was myself too. The me who couldn't carry what I'd done."
Kiyomasa's breath caught. He looked away, whispering.
"I… I can't imagine. I'm not like you. I'm weak, Zazm. I can't do anything for anyone."
Zazm tilted his head slightly. He lifted his hand, shaping his fingers into a gun again—an old habit, a mock weapon. He aimed it at Kiyomasa's forehead.
Kiyomasa froze. Even though he knew it was only fingers, something about Zazm's presence made it feel real.
"You call that weakness?" Zazm said softly, his voice sharpening. "No. That's strength. You still hesitate. You still care. That makes you human."
He lowered the finger-gun, pressing it into the wooden table with a soft thud. His eyes never left Kiyomasa's.
"Me? I killed because I had no choice. That day… I went too far. Over a hundred people. Gone."
Kiyomasa's eyes widened.
"…How? Why would you—"
Zazm cut him off, his voice low, menacing in its calm.
"Because they had you. Jennie. Jahanox. Everyone I swore to protect. They cornered us. And in that moment, hesitation meant your lives. So I stopped hesitating."
His hand clenched into a fist against the table. The smile on his lips didn't fade, but it twisted, broken.
"I used everything I had. Time, space, power—I burned it all. And when it was over… the battlefield was silent. Over a hundred bodies, and I was still standing."
Kiyomasa's hands trembled. He whispered,
"…And how did you feel?"
Zazm leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. When he looked back at Kiyomasa, his expression was almost playful—but his eyes were tired, ancient.
"Like a monster. Like nothing at all. All at once."
He raised his hand again, pointing the finger-gun at his own temple now.
"You think tearing them apart with power—makes me strong? No. It makes me damned. Every face, every scream, every plea… they don't vanish. They live here." He tapped his head. "They won't leave."
Kiyomasa's voice cracked.
"…But if I'd acted faster—if I'd just attacked Caspian—none of that would've happened. I failed."
Zazm's gaze softened, but his tone stayed firm.
"No, Kiyo. You failed to be a monster. You failed to throw away your soul. And that's why you're still better than me."
He leaned forward now, voice quiet, almost conspiratorial.
"Let me show you something."
His eyes sharpened as he spoke.
"Picture a man. A murderer. Twenty bodies to his name. You've got him in your grasp. If you kill him, the world calls it justice."
Kiyomasa nodded instantly.
"Yes. That would be right."
Zazm's smile curved—not with pride, but with something darker.
"Now… picture his daughter running in. She clings to him, begging you to let him live. She's innocent. Pure. And last time… you hesitated. You let him go. Do you remember what happened?"
Kiyomasa's fists shook, shame tightening his chest.
Zazm's voice lowered, almost a growl.
"He killed again. Another life, because of you."
Kiyomasa's breath came shaky.
"…I don't know what the right choice is."
Zazm exhaled slowly, leaning back. He looked at his hand—the same hand that shaped the finger-gun, the same hand that had torn through hundreds of lives with his power. His voice was soft, heavy with guilt.
"You kill the man, you leave his daughter an orphan. You kill them both, you end it clean. No half-measures."
Kiyomasa's eyes widened in horror.
"But the girl… she did nothing!"
Zazm's laugh was quiet, hollow, stripped of humor.
"That's the tragedy, Kiyo. Kill her father in front of her, and her life ends anyway. Maybe she breathes. Maybe she eats. But inside, she's already dead. And all you've given her is a corpse pretending to live."
His smile faded into something weary, almost human again. He lowered his hand to the table and stared at Kiyomasa, unblinking.
"The only question is this: can you carry that weight? Because once you cross that line… there's no going back."
The food on the stove was still warm. The room still smelled of garlic and herbs. But the dinner felt poisoned, the air thick with blood that wasn't there.
And Kiyomasa realized—Zazm wasn't just telling him a lesson. He was confessing.,
---
Kiyomasa's eyes widened in the firelight, the memory crushing him. A slight smile appeared on his face.
He stared at the two burning houses—the girl in one, the boy in the other—both screaming for help.
His whole body shook violently. His breath tore from his throat.
"…I can't… I can't save them both."
The weight of Zazm's words pressed down on him. His heart felt like it was being ripped apart.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to move.
And made his choice.
"No matter who I choose, I would be leaving a life to die.....right now it's a game but I'll prepare myself."
---
Ai found herself standing in a room that smelled faintly of ash and medicine. The air was heavy, and the walls were dimly lit, casting long shadows across the floor. In front of her were eight children wrapped in bandages, sitting silently like fragile dolls. Some stared blankly, others twitched at unseen memories, and a few trembled in fear.
Ai turned around instinctively, scanning for exits, when suddenly a glowing screen blinked into existence in front of her.
Objective: Take the children to the carriage outside. Escort them safely to the town.
Ai leaned back against the wall, arms folded. "Why am I always dealing with kids…?" she muttered. Then the realization struck. Her lips curved into a small smirk.
"Ah… it's because they're the hardest to deal with. This test is clever. Fighting? Easy. Carrying traumatized kids? That's hell."
She pushed herself off the wall and crouched in front of the nearest boy. He clutched his knees, eyes wide. Ai smiled softly and reached out a hand.
"Come on. Let's go."
But as soon as she tugged, the boy burst into tears. His little body shook violently as he pointed toward the door.
"E-everything's burning! Everyone's dying! I won't—I WON'T go out there!"
He shoved himself back against the wall, his voice breaking. Ai blinked in surprise, then sighed.
"…That bad, huh?"
She tried the next child, then another, but the reactions were the same—screams, tears, desperate refusals. Ai leaned back, chuckling under her breath.
"Of course. I didn't expect it to be easy anyway."
Her eyes roamed the room, sharp and observant, until she noticed a small boy curled up in the corner. He was fast asleep, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit to his chest.
Ai walked over quietly, scooped him into her arms, and carried him outside. The boy stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but didn't wake.
At the carriage, she laid him gently onto the wooden bench and exhaled.
"One down, seven more to go… So this is what I have to do."
---
Meanwhile, Minos's scene unfolded.
Minos stood in the same room, tugging at his messy hair.
"Why aren't these damn kids MOVING?!" he roared.
He tried coaxing, shouting, even promising candy, but nothing worked. His patience snapped. He stomped outside, muttering,
"Fine, if they won't move, I'll make this SIMPLE. Bring the carriage to them."
But when he reached the carriage, his smile faltered.
It was massive. Not some small wagon—this was a hulking wooden war-carriage, built for armies, its wheels taller than he was, iron rims gleaming dully.
"Where are the horses?" He looked around in shock.
"Oh… you've GOT to be kidding me."
Still, he cracked his knuckles, spat in his palms, and grabbed the front. "Alright, just a little tug."
The carriage didn't budge.
He strained harder, his face turning red. A vein popped in his forehead. The carriage creaked. Moved an inch.
"YES! SEE? Progress!" he shouted triumphantly—before falling on his backside.
The carriage started moving at an amazing speed of one centimeters a second.
Growling, he braced his feet against the dirt, grabbed the hitch, and heaved with all his strength. The wheels groaned, the wood rattled, and slowly, painfully, the colossal thing began to roll.
It was torture. Every step was like dragging a mountain. His arms shook, sweat poured down his face, and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt.
Hours—or what felt like them—passed. When he finally slumped against the wheel, gasping, he croaked,
"Two… TWO damn hours… but… finally… here."
The carriage now loomed before the shelter. All he had to do was back it up against the door.
"Alright… last push!"
He shoved the massive rear end of the carriage into place. But as he did, a sharp pain shot up his arm.
"GAH! My arm—MY ARM!"
He hopped in circles, clutching his wrist. "Pulled a muscle! WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?!"
But then he looked up. The carriage was perfectly wedged against the doorway. A smug grin spread across his sweaty face.
"At least now the kids can just climb in."
Then his expression froze. Slowly, realization dawned on our genius.
"…Wait."
The carriage was jammed flush against the door. The space was completely blocked.
There was no way inside.
Minos's grin melted into horror. He screamed, flailing his arms.
"ARE YOU KIDDING MEEEEE?!"
He stomped, punched the wheel, and then sat down in utter defeat, muttering curses at the "Fuckass wagon fuckass kids....go to hell."
---
The scene then shifted to Lisa.
Unlike the others, Lisa didn't look rattled at all when she entered her room of children. Her eyes swept calmly across the eight little ones wrapped in bandages. Some cried softly, others stared into nothing, and a few whimpered at shadows only they could see.
Lisa's lips pressed into a thin line. She had seen this before. War camps. Refugees. Children broken by fire and steel.
She knelt down, lowering herself to their level. Her voice was steady, almost motherly.
"You're safe now. I promise."
One child flinched at her touch, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she sat patiently, letting the silence breathe.
Then, gently, she began humming. A soft melody—something she'd learned long ago from the women in her village who sang to quiet frightened orphans. The sound wrapped around the children like a blanket.
Their sobs lessened. Their breathing steadied.
Lisa spoke, her words slow, deliberate, each carrying weight.
"I know it's scary. But the fire isn't here anymore. You're alive. You're strong. And I'll take you to safety."
She reached for the closest boy, who trembled but didn't resist when she guided him up. She brushed his hair back, gave him a reassuring nod, and walked him outside.
The others watched.
Lisa returned, crouched again, and this time she placed her hands on two little girls' shoulders. "Hold hands. Together, okay?"
They clung to each other, and she led them out.
Step by step, trip by trip, Lisa worked. She told stories as she walked—short tales of brave children who survived, who found towns where laughter still existed. She wiped tears, adjusted bandages, even carried the smallest ones in her arms when they refused to walk.
Her movements were never rushed, never harsh. She radiated calm. The children mirrored her composure, their fear melting as they trusted her completely.
By the time she placed the last child into the carriage, Lisa exhaled deeply, her eyes heavy with memories. She touched the side of the carriage and whispered,
"You'll make it. I swear."
Unlike Ai's struggle or Minos's comical disaster, Lisa's part was quiet, steady, and deeply human—like someone who had lived in war and knew how to bring peace, even in fragments, to those who had suffered the most.
---
The children shuffled into the carriage, their frightened eyes darting to Nirin as if she were the only anchor of safety left in the forest. She gave them a smile—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile that steadied their trembling hearts even as her own pulse raced. She waited until the last small figure climbed inside before following after, tugging the door shut.
The wheels creaked, the horses snorted, and the carriage lurched forward. Nirin exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding—until something stirred in the trees.
Her gaze slid sideways. Branches shifted where no wind stirred. Her hand instinctively went to her hip, but she had no blade, no weapon.
Then—
A flash.
A translucent screen blinked to life before her eyes.
DANGER. DANGER.
The letters pulsed red. Nirin narrowed her eyes.
"Great. Just what I needed," she muttered.
Another message appeared, this one glimmering with options:
CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON.
Below it, shimmering images rotated slowly:
– Long sword
– Dual long swords
– A staff
– Two daggers
– Bow and arrows
– A mace on a chain
– …a frying pan?
Nirin blinked, tilting her head. "A frying pan? Really?"
She almost laughed—almost—but then she shook herself. "No time for this. Focus."
Her finger hovered, then slammed down on two daggers.
They materialized instantly in her hands, cold steel, balanced and sharp. The weight felt right, familiar. She twirled one once between her fingers, lips tightening.
The sound of rustling leaves was replaced by something heavier—footsteps pounding across branches, swift and deliberate. Then the shadow burst from the treeline, a man cloaked in darkness, eyes burning with hostile intent, a jagged blade in his grip.
"hmm." Nirin clicked her tongue, sliding into stance. "Time to put training to the test."
The man lunged. Steel met steel with a sharp clang as Nirin parried, her wrist rolling fluidly to redirect the strike. She ducked low, daggers flashing, aiming to slice his ribs. He twisted away, boots slamming against the carriage wall, rebounding toward her with a vicious overhead slash.
Nirin spun sideways, her daggers crossing in an "X" to block. Sparks scattered. The force rattled her arms, but she used the momentum, shoving him off and countering with a flurry of rapid thrusts. Each strike was precise, shallow but targeted, testing for weakness.
The man snarled, blocking two, dodging one—then Nirin caught his thigh. Blood sprayed.
He hissed and retaliated savagely, blade slashing in a wide arc. Nirin dropped low, daggers flashing upward to slice across his arm. He staggered, stumbling back into the tree's shadow.
But she didn't relent. She darted forward, swift and graceful, one dagger feinting high while the other buried itself into his side. He howled.
"Not bad," Nirin muttered, breathing steady.
The man's movements grew more desperate. He hacked wildly, strength over precision. Nirin dodged, weaving in and out, her daggers dancing, cutting shallow lines across his body. By the time he tried one final reckless charge, she was already behind him.
A clean slash across the back of his neck.
He dropped without another sound.
Nirin exhaled, flicked blood from her blades, and looked back at the carriage. The children hadn't seen—thank the gods. She sheathed the daggers and muttered under her breath, "One down. Who knows how many more."
---
Meanwhile,
Zazm stood among the children. Their wide eyes darted to him, pleading silently, but his own gaze was empty, his expression carved from ice.
He scanned their faces, then the trees, then murmured a single word:
"…Zephyra?"
For a moment, his eyes softened—but then the objective scrolled across the screen in front of him. He raised a hand, snapped his fingers.
Nothing.
Another flash:
You can't use any abilities here.
Zazm's eyes dulled further, expression unreadable. The children whimpered under his gaze—because there was no warmth in it, no comfort, only something sharp and unyielding.
Without a word, he bent down, grabbed a child by the collar, and hurled him into the carriage. The boy screamed, crying, but Zazm didn't flinch. One by one, methodically, he threw each child inside. No gentleness. Just necessity.
When the last door shut, he turned away, silent, as the carriage creaked forward into the woods.
That was when the shadow appeared—just like with Nirin, but darker, heavier, stalking the path behind him.
Zazm didn't so much as glance at it.
Another screen blinked into place.
CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON.
The same list appeared, cycling through. The timer ticked down.
Zazm didn't move. Didn't even blink.
The timer struck zero.
You didn't select a weapon. Proceeding to give penalty.
His voice was quiet, flat. "…What?"
Something dropped into his hand with a metallic clunk.
A frying pan.
The shadowed man leapt from the trees, blade descending in a killing strike.
Zazm raised the pan.
CLANG!
The impact rang like a bell. The man's blade stopped cold, sparks bouncing off the blackened iron. Zazm's arm didn't even tremble. His other foot shot forward, boot crashing into the man's stomach.
The attacker stumbled, coughing, then laughed through blood. "That's… a sturdy weapon."
He rushed again, blade flashing. Zazm tilted his head slightly, just enough to let the strike slice air. His hand whipped around—frying pan smashing across the man's skull with a hollow, bone-jarring THWACK.
The man reeled, dazed.
Zazm stepped forward, movements precise, calm, almost lazy. The frying pan's edge slammed into the side of the man's jaw, breaking bone. Blood sprayed.
The man roared, swinging again in desperation.
Zazm sidestepped. The pan reversed in his grip, the back end hooking the man's sword aside. And then, without pause, Zazm drove the pan forward—straight through his throat.
The iron punched a ragged hole into the man's neck.
He choked, gurgling, clutching at the wound.
Zazm watched, face blank, eyes cold. He twisted the pan free, letting the man collapse in the dirt, twitching.
Not a word. Not a flicker of emotion.
Just silence.
He let the blood drip from the pan's edge, wiped it once against his coat, and turned back toward the carriage. His expression didn't change. His eyes didn't soften.
It was as though he had crushed an insect—nothing more.
And with that, he walked on.
---
The wooden cabin creaked faintly, as though the forest itself was pressing in. Zephyra blinked, realizing with a jolt that she was no longer with the others. The warm flicker of lantern light painted the walls, and a dozen pairs of wide, frightened eyes stared back at her.
Children.
"…Ah," she whispered, then slapped her forehead with a groan. "Of course. I'm also a consciousness. This test just threw me in as the last one."
The realization carried no surprise, only exasperation. She let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing in defeat. "Figures. And the only way out…" She glanced at the glowing text hanging faintly in the air before her. "…is to do what it says."
She closed the message with a flick of her hand and looked around. Her eyes caught on the carriage parked outside through the half-open door. The objective was clear. She was supposed to lead the children into it.
Simple, in theory.
She brushed down her dress, composed herself, and walked toward the group. The children huddled tighter, shrinking away as she approached. Zephyra softened her expression, voice warm, melodic, reassuring.
"Alright, little ones," she said gently, clasping her hands together. "It's time to leave this place. Come with me."
Her smile was bright, patient. But the children didn't budge. They clutched each other's arms, tiny hands gripping whatever they could hold, eyes trembling with suspicion.
Zephyra tilted her head. "Oh? Nothing? …Come on now, don't make this difficult."
Still silence.
Her lips pressed together. She exhaled slowly, then crouched down to eye level with one boy. She reached out and gently took his wrist, guiding him toward the door.
The boy's reaction was immediate and violent—he twisted, planting his feet against the floorboards, his other hand clutching the leg of a desk.
"What—?" Zephyra blinked, tugging lightly. He didn't move. She pulled harder. His small arms bulged with surprising strength.
"…You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
The boy pushed back, and for a moment it was like wrestling a stubborn ox. Zephyra released him with a frustrated sigh, stood, and rubbed her temple.
"You know what? I forgot this was a game."
Her eyes scanned the room. In the corner leaned a thick, splintered piece of wood, heavy enough to wield with one hand. She strode over, grabbed it, and turned back toward the children.
The weight settled nicely in her grip. She tapped it against the floorboards once, the sound sharp, echoing through the cabin.
Her voice cut cold and sharp:
"Start moving, a-holes."
The children froze. Their wide eyes grew wider, lips trembling, bodies beginning to shake.
Zephyra's smile was gone. Her eyes had darkened, shadows swallowing the warmth that had been there only a moment ago. She tapped the wood against the ground again, each beat like a drum of warning.
"I said move."
But none of them did.
Instead, one small boy took a hesitant step toward her. He tugged lightly at her dress, gaze tilted upward. His lips trembled as he whispered to the others—loud enough for her to hear.
"She's scary. I don't wanna go with her…"
Zephyra froze. For a heartbeat, she said nothing. Then she smiled—slow, sharp, wrong.
"Oh?"
Her hand snapped up. The wooden beam cracked across the boy's arm with a bone-jarring impact. The force lifted him from his feet, sent him flying across the room until he slammed against the wall with a cry.
The cabin went silent.
The other children shrieked, tears spilling.
Zephyra raised the wooden piece again, eyes gleaming with fury. Her voice was cold as steel:
"Fine. Stay here then. I'll just send you all to a better place than this hellish world."
Her arm lifted higher.
The children broke. Screams filled the cabin. Panic erupted as they scattered, running in every direction, desperate to escape the monster who had once smiled at them.
Zephyra's lips curled upward in a grin. "Now we're getting somewhere."
One by one the children ran into the carriage afraid of the monster behind.
Zephyra shut the door behind them, climbed onto the driver's bench, and snapped the reins.
The horses lurched forward, the carriage rattling as it rolled into the forest path.
The trees thickened around them, shadows pressing close. The sound of hooves echoed in the stillness. For a while, only the rhythm of the ride filled the silence.
Until—
Rustling. Heavy, deliberate.
Zephyra's eyes narrowed. Her screen blinked alive.
INTRUDER APPROACHING.
CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON.
The list spun before her eyes. Daggers, bows, staves. She didn't hesitate.
Her finger tapped longsword.
The wooden piece in her hand shimmered, melting into silver light. It stretched, reshaped, until cold steel gleamed in her grip. The weight felt perfect. Balanced. Deadly.
The forest burst open. A man cloaked in darkness leapt from the trees, blade raised high.
Zephyra didn't flinch. She didn't pause. She stepped down from the carriage, longsword in hand.
Her eyes locked on him. For a heartbeat, the forest went still.
Then—she moved.
A single, fluid step forward. The sword whispered through the air in one flawless arc.
The man froze, his charge arrested mid-motion.
Blood bloomed across his torso. His blade slipped from his fingers.
And then he collapsed, cut clean in half before he even understood he had lost.
Zephyra stood over the body, the tip of her sword dripping crimson onto the forest floor. Her chest rose with slow, steady breaths.
"What, is this all now...?"
She sighed as she sat back on. She leaned back, "I would have to ask Zazm what we're eating tonight."
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