The desert stretched endlessly around them. It was basically an ocean of sand and silence. Days had passed since the caravan left Halverin, and still, no monsters had come. No monsters, no bandits, no danger. Just the endless, shinning desert and the steady wind that flew over sand.
For most, the lack of danger was a blessing. For Solen, it was a slow kind of torment.
He walked beside one of the rear wagons, the sun pressing heavy on his shoulders. The other chosen guards kept their distance from him. Their laughter carried ahead of him, rough and easy, followed by the clatter of armor and the sound of their footsteps. Whenever he drifted too close, the noise would fade, replaced by whispers that never quite reached his ears.
He didn't need to hear the words. He knew what they were saying.
'Backdoor recruit.'
'Pretty boy.'
'The captain didn't even pick him himself.'
It didn't help that he looked nothing like the other guards. Most of the guards were broad-shouldered and sun-scorched from years of living under the intense heat of the sun. Solen was neither. His pale skin hadn't yet tanned enough to look similar to them. Other than this, his face was too sharp, his frame lean, almost fragile in comparison. A few of the others had started calling him "lady-face" when they thought he couldn't hear.
He didn't respond. He didn't even look at them. Not because it didn't sting — but because he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing it.
The head guard, Garran Voss, rode near the front, rarely speaking to anyone unless giving orders. Solen wasn't sure if the man even remembered his name. And the merchant leaders including whoever had chosen him — traveled in the central carriages, hidden behind silk curtains and guards too alert to approach.
He had thought the road would give him answers. Instead, it had given him silence. The Pale's so-called trial felt distant now as though it had faded into the sand behind him.
Solen kicked at the sand as he walked, the caravan wheels creaking beside him. The rhythmic grind of travel was starting to drive him mad. Every breath was dust, every step the same dull sound of boot meeting grit.
He glanced at the others ahead — the ones laughing, swapping stories, pretending he wasn't there. He wondered if being chosen by the Pale had really meant anything at all.
'If this is what survival feels like, I'd rather it throw me something worse than boredom.' he thought bitterly.
He adjusted the strap of his pack in which he had kept some useful stuff along with his lantern. "This is pointless," he muttered. "A trial, huh? More like a slow death by sand and boredom."
For a moment, he imagined something — anything — happening. A fight. A reason to move, to breathe, to stop feeling invisible.
As if the thought itself had tempted the pale, the lead horses made strange voices and tried to run away to the rear.
Then came a sound.
Not just a sound — but something far scarier. A grinding, echoing shriek, like stone being crushed beneath its own weight.
"Front line! In formation, get ready to fight." Garran's voice bellowed from somewhere ahead, shattering the monotony. "Rear line! To the carriages, protect the Merchants."
Solen froze, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the dull short blade he carried. He couldn't see much — just a blur of movement through the dust.
"I jinxed it. Didn't I?" He muttered to himself.
Shapes were rising from the sand. They were strange shadowy creatures who gave the same feeling as the reflections — but they were not.
He knew about monsters called Reflections, fragments of souls that wandered the Pale. But these... these were something else. Older. Wilder. The air around them felt scary, the pressure that made his teeth ache.
He had never seen something like this.
Someone screamed. Then steel met flesh — and the caravan's front line erupted into chaos.
Most of the others who had been chosen by Garran, were men who had both strength and technique. Though they were mildly surprised to see the monsters appearing suddenly, they didnt falter. All drew their weapons and started to battle valiantly.
While the Front line was fighting against the strange creatures under the lead of the Garran, Solen and the rest of the rear line were standing in front of the carriages of the merchants ready to protect them if needed.
The front line was already a storm of motion and screams. Sand burst upward with each movement.
Garran moved through it all like a figure carved from iron. His greatsword flashed once, twice — clean, controlled arcs that cleaved through the strange shadowy forms as though they were smoke pretending to be flesh.
Whenever a guard stumbled, whenever one of the creature's fangs came too close, Garran was there. A blur of steel which parried the creature for them. Then a counter so precise it seemed effortless.
It was clear — painfully so — that if he wished, Garran could have ended this battle alone.
Still, he allowed his men to fight, stepping in only when death reached too close. He was basically a teacher, not a savior.
Solen stood with the other rearguards beside the carriages, the heavy wheels half-buried in sand. Around him, the other guards whispered nervously, clutching at their swords and other weapons.
"By the gods," one of the guards murmured, gripping his spear tighter. "Did you see that? He split that monster in a single swing."
"Sir Garran's a monster himself," another said, half in awe, half in joke. "No wonder he's survived this long."
Laughter rippled faintly through the rear line — thin and tense, like men trying to convince themselves the danger was far away.
Solen didn't join them. His eyes stayed fixed on the battlefield.
As the shadow-creatures fell one by one, dissolving into black mist, he noticed something strange. Each time a creature's form crumbled, something lingered in the air — faint wisps of pale light, like fragments of smoke glowing from within.
No one else seemed to notice. The guards were too focused on cheering the victory, the merchants too frightened to look. But to Solen, the lights were clear as day.
And then, he heard it.
A voice — soft, cold, and unearthly familiar.
"Initial energy required to bootstart your abilities and awaken system functions."
"Detected — residual soul fragments from fallen entities: Hollow-type."
"Absorb the souls of the dead Hollows?"
The words echoed inside his skull.
Solen's breath caught. His heart pounded hard inside his chest, as his gaze followed the drifting lights. For the first time since the trial began, he felt excitement inside him.