The world roared like a cracked war horn as Lysander moved through the broken ruins, each step pounding against rain-slick stone. Claws scraped nearby, echoing through the mist, and the air carried that thick, sour scent of blood and something older than rot.
He didn't have time to think.
A serpent-like creature lunged, its segmented tail slicing through the haze. Lysander rolled beneath it, bones crunching beneath his weight as he came up into a crouch. His rust-bitten dagger slashed into the soft gap beneath its scaled neck. It wasn't clean, wasn't deep—but it was enough to make the thing scream and falter.
He leapt forward before it could recover, driving his knee into its back, then slamming the blade again through pulsing cartilage. The system didn't log the kill. He didn't care.
More shapes emerged from the fog—two wolf-like beasts with slime-caked fur and ribcages split open like warped cages. Their yellow eyes gleamed through the mist, unnatural and hungry.
He didn't wait to be surrounded.
Instead, he sprinted straight into the shallows of the lake, water biting at his legs, thick with algae and filth. The beasts followed, claws splashing and skidding. One slipped, crashing into a submerged pillar; the other slowed, unsure.
Lysander turned quickly. He struck. His dagger pierced the underside of the second beast's jaw, and he pulled, ripping the edge free in one brutal motion. Blood frothed across his arm as the creature dropped.
He kept moving, stepping over a shattered tile ridge where others had started gathering—fighters from all over the trial zone. Some screamed orders. Others simply screamed.
Someone hurled a spear that whistled past his ear, not aimed at him, probably. He didn't check. Instead, he focused on the warped silhouette lumbering through the fog: a malformed quadruped with twisted limbs for forelegs and jagged antlers sprouting like skeletal roots.
The system hadn't identified this one. It didn't matter.
No pop-ups. No Veil Frame diagnostics. No warnings. Just survival.
The beast lunged.
He ducked too early, catching the rake of a claw across his shoulder. The flesh hissed where it split open, pain blooming hot and sharp. Still, he moved. He struck upward, but the blade barely grazed.
Dropping the dagger, he reached for a stone shard lashed to his belt. Then, snarling, he stabbed into the beast's eye, driving it deep. The creature reeled. Lysander climbed its back, gripped its antlers, and slammed the dagger down—again and again—until it stopped moving.
Its corpse dropped with him still on top.
Breathing hard, he rolled off and wiped his weapon against his leg—not that it made much difference. His pants were already soaked with blood, sweat, and something that stung worse than either.
Another rustle behind him.
He turned too late.
A blunt tail caught his ribs and flung him across the ruins. He hit a broken brazier, stone cracking under the impact. Pain bloomed through his back and ribs, real and deep. He spat blood and staggered upright, every part of him aching.
But he was still alive.
And the Trial hadn't even begun.
This wasn't the tide. This was the whisper before the scream.
---
Elsewhere, the factions moved.
From above, it might've resembled coordination—tight formations, sharp flanks, tactical rotations—but on the ground, it was chaos dressed in formal armor.
Colonel of the Red Fangs stood atop the collapsed tower, bellowing orders through his Veil Frame. His voice cut through the noise, commanding despite the half-missing pauldron and the fresh gash across his cheek.
"Hold the flank," he ordered. "Don't let them circle the embankment. If they breach that bend, we lose the southern push."
Below him, lieutenants scrambled to obey. Trained, brutal, loyal—for now. But many of them kept looking toward the lake's western edge, where the Aristocratic Front had built a temporary bulwark of shattered walls and makeshift barricades.
Jason stood among them, quiet, untouched.
His coat remained spotless even as others bled around him. He hadn't drawn a weapon yet, hadn't needed to. His followers fought harder just to be seen.
Some said he'd made a deal with something beyond the Veil. A Whisperer. Others claimed he could see breaches seconds before they opened.
Gwen wasn't buying any of it.
She crouched atop a broken archway, her rifle braced against rusted stone. Smoke coiled from its muzzle as she fired again, dropping a beast that had pinned an Aristocrat scout.
She exhaled sharply, already reloading.
She wasn't fighting for a faction, not really. Just for those she could still protect.
Her eyes scanned the fog, searching for him.
She caught only flashes—Lysander, bloodied and hunched, but alive. Moving. Always moving.
Someone yelled his name from a distance—maybe her, maybe not—but he didn't turn.
Not because he didn't want to. Because he couldn't.
The last time he looked back, someone died.
She fired again.
Farther north, the Butchers emerged—lone survivors stitched into a pack of necessity. They didn't fly flags or answer to commanders. One was wrapped in beast-hide armor, still wet and steaming. Another wore bone bracelets, each marked with a name.
They didn't speak. Just took what they wanted and left corpses behind.
Behind the temple ruins, near the old statue of the drowned maiden, someone else watched.
A figure in a tattered robe, mask polished like a mirror, head cocked slightly to one side.
No Frame signature. No name.
Just stillness.
And then he vanished into the fog.
Only one girl seemed to notice—a child, scavenging arrows from corpses. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and said nothing.
Some things were safer when left unnamed.
---
A dead silence settled across the ruins once the last wave withdrew. Blood soaked the stone. Bodies floated in shallow pools. Even the mist seemed to hesitate.
Then, without warning—
[System Announcement: Scroll Identified — Classification: Water]
A second pulse followed.
[Trial Access Key Detected — Location Broadcasted for Local Map Range]
[Holder: ID #20984 — Tag: Vren K.]
[Status: ACTIVE — SCROLL TRACE ENABLED]
Murmurs spread quickly, thick as fog.
Scrolls.
They'd all heard the rumors: Three types—Water, Earth, Fire. Five scrolls in total. Each one necessary to unlock the steps beneath the lake and enter the Second Trial.
Now, the game had changed.
The system marked Vren as a holder. His location broadcasted across the Veil. A faint, glowing beacon painted on the map.
It was less of a prize, more of a target.
Already, others began to shift. Red Fangs repositioned, Aristocrats whispered in coded tones, and the Butchers began circling like vultures. Everyone had the same thought.
Take the scroll. No matter what it costs.
The submerged city, half-drowned and tilted, sprawled across the shallows. Broken temples jutted like teeth through the mist. Beneath it all, ancient steps descended—down into darkness.
Lysander stood at the edge of one of those steps, staring into the black.
The water shimmered faintly. Below, something moved.
He didn't speak. Just crouched and began cleaning his dagger. A young woman approached—quiet, brown-haired, with cuts across her arms. She offered a waterskin. He nodded and drank.
No words. No expectations.
A few hours from now, they might end up on opposite sides. He knew it. So did she.
Behind him, Gwen argued with an Aristocrat envoy. The tone was sharp. She didn't raise her voice, but the tension was visible in the way she gestured, the way the envoy kept glancing at his Veil Frame like it could save him.
Lysander ignored it all.
His focus remained on the steps. Something down there pulsed—not sound, not sight, but sensation. Like a second heartbeat buried deep inside his bones.
He blinked. Shook it off. Probably just adrenaline.
Probably.
---
Part 4: Before the Descent
Night descended like a blade.
The mist thickened again, and red warning lights flared along the edges of the zone. The System's deadly perimeter pushed inward, herding stragglers toward the center. More would die in the dark.
Everyone knew it.
Groups camped uneasily near the ancient stairwell. Red Fang scouts watched the southern approach. Aristocrats pretended they were in control. The Mirror Faith cultists hummed beneath their breath and spoke of patterns in the stars. The Butchers didn't even sit—just sharpened weapons, eyes on the scroll glow.
The water was still. Too still.
Then the Veil Frame shimmered.
[TRIAL MODE: WHISPERING LAKE — ACTIVE]
[Duration: 72 Hours — Objective: SURVIVE]
[Contribution Rankings: ENABLED | Scroll Tracker: ENABLED]
[Monster Waves Initiating: 00:30:00]
Tension rippled through the camp.
A few prayed. Others checked blades. Some tried to rest, knowing they wouldn't wake up.
Lysander stood at the edge, where the stone ended and the descent began. He stared into the void below.
The lake was silent.
Then, almost too soft to notice, a whisper brushed past his ears. A voice—not hostile, not welcoming, just… aware.
"Stay steady. Just for now. They're watching."
He turned, eyes scanning the mist.
But there was no one there