**150 Years Ago,**
The world teetered on the brink of chaos. It all began with the forsaken one, who appeared with an unsettling calmness as the sun lazily rose in a sky that was about to unravel. In an instant, time itself seemed to shatter—a forgotten second, lost to eternity. Hordes of monsters, beings of pure malice that rivaled deities in their unholy might, surged forth from jagged gates that had erupted across the globe. These creatures, formless shadows masquerading in the guise of royal soldiers from a fallen kingdom, clawed their way into existence. And then, as if the very heavens had conspired to deliver a harrowing message, a voice echoed:
"Do you accept to become God's apostle?"
At first, confusion clouded the hearts of those who received this divine summons, but soon the atmosphere thickened with anticipation. One by one, souls among the chosen few began to accept God's gift, awakening latent powers that could stand toe to toe with the abyssal entities. But in the realm of existence, anything given comes with a cost, one steeped in trials and tribulations.
**Present Day:**
Apollo was violently jolted from the haze of sleep, bewilderment flooding his senses as a familiar voice wrapped around him like a shroud. The words clung to the air, heavy with portent.
"Do you accept to become God's apostle?"
His heart raced. Was it finally happening? A glimmer of hope pierced the drudgery of his existence, a life long marred by abandonment and the grim shadows of the slums. In this city of decay, the forsaken gathered together—discarded souls deemed unworthy by the hands of fate. Here, where the less fortunate—those forgotten by heaven—scraped by on the edges of life, doom loomed large. Yet, even for the chosen, acceptance was merely the beginning; relentless trials awaited those selected to rise.
No sooner had Apollo uttered his fateful word, "Yes," than he felt the familiar tug of reality slipping from his grasp. In an instant, he was snatched from his wretched life and hurled into the mental realm—a surreal domain devoid of time's constraining grasp. His mind reeled as he hunched over, clutching his temples, the transition leaving him dizzy and unnerved.
Before him, the divine judge materialized—a being of elegance draped in radiant light, radiating authority and judgment with an ethereal presence. This herald of God bore the weight of innumerable souls as it prepared to assess Apollo's worthiness.
In a voice that resonated like the toll of a celestial bell, the divine judge proclaimed the rules of the trials:
"These are the rules defined by God:
- Rule 1: Do not defy God; defying God will result in death.
- Rule 2: Refusing to take part in the trials will result in death.
- Rule 3: Refusing to fight the abyss and not supporting the other apostilles will result in death."
A chill skated down Apollo's spine like ice water flowing through his veins. Were these truly the only edicts from the heavens? Something felt off; the simplicity screamed hidden complexities.
Gathering his courage, he inquired of the judge with a tremor in his voice, "Are these all of the rules?"
The divine judge lowered its gaze, an expression akin to pity flickering across its luminescent visage. "We are neutral beings; we have no right to interact with humans. Our only job is to watch and oversee the trials. You are worth nothing to us if you do not complete the trial at hand."
Shock coursed through Apollo. Wasn't their purpose to aid humanity in vanquishing the abyss? Why the icy detachment? A torrent of questions whipped through his mind, swirling in a tempest of uncertainty.
As if sensing his turmoil, the judge raised a hand with an air of solemnity, interceding with a voice that boomed like thunder. "Let the first trial commence."
In an electrifying moment, light engulfed Apollo, a blinding ray that felt more like a harbinger of doom than a source of salvation. The cold tendrils of death coiled around him, squeezing every ounce of courage as his instincts screamed for him to flee—yet it was too late. When he next opened his eyes, he found himself amid a hellish battlefield, the air thick with the stench of rot and despair. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, their lifeless forms impaled on long, rusted spears, a grim reminder of the conflict that had ravaged this forsaken land.
A commanding voice reverberated around him, booming like a call to arms, "Apostille Candidate Group 132, your trial will now begin."
The weight of what lay ahead crashed over him, and without a moment's reprieve, he braced himself for the unimaginable.