A lean young man sat on a bench of cold, rusted iron, in a place that tried very hard to look like a hospital waiting room but smelled more like a morgue masked with bleach.
His eyes were hollow and stern, framed by dark, unwashed hair that hung down to his ears.
He wore a simple grey t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame, swallowing his emaciated shape, paired with black trousers and worn-out sneakers that had seen better years.
His shoulders were slouched, hands wedged between his legs to stop them from shaking. He stared at the scuffed floor tiles, counting the cracks, waiting for his name to be called.
Then, it hit him. A familiar, jagged itch deep in his throat.
Rem reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled white handkerchief, and buried his face in it. The cough that followed was loud, wet, and exhausting. It rattled his ribs and shook his balance on the seat.
The woman sitting beside him didn't say a word. She just gathered her son and began to move.
Rem lowered the handkerchief, saw her retreat, and before she could turn away, he coughed again—deliberately, harshly—into the open air between them. Not a fit. A statement. She flinched, clutched her son tighter, and hurried to a bench on the far wall, leaving a vacuum of space around him.
Rem pulled the handkerchief away. It was stained with bright, fresh red.
He thought. That was my last clean rag.
Coughing blood wasn't new. He had been doing it since he was a kid in the Warrens—the subterranean slums where "medical treatment" was a myth and the air tasted of soot. He didn't know if it was a disease or a curse, and frankly, he couldn't afford to find out.
"Shit."
He stood up, his legs feeling heavy, and walked to the disposal bin. He tapped the pedal. The lid hissed open, revealing a pile of other bloodied rags. He tossed his last spare in and walked back to his seat.
As he turned, his gaze caught a recruitment poster peeling off the wall. It depicted a pristine white tower piercing a golden sky, with bold letters beneath it:
BECOME AN AWAKENED. ENTER THE DIVINE TRIAL AND SERVE THE GODS.
Rem felt a surge of cold irritation. He felt insulted.
The world outside this clinic wasn't ordinary. It hadn't been for a long time. Decades ago, the Gloom had descended—monsters and nightmares that defied physics, terrorizing humanity. Humanity had stood no chance. So they prayed. They screamed to the heavens, and the Twelve Celestial Gods answered.
They bestowed the System—a divine framework linked to their own power—to create soldiers capable of fighting back.
The Divine Trial was the factory that produced these Awakened. But it was only for the "Blessed." It wasn't a world Rem belonged to.
His throat itched again. He checked his pockets—empty. With a grimace, he coughed into his elbow. It was short, a dry hack, but he wiped his sleeve anyway.
The lady and her son shifted again, ensuring maximum distance. Rem glanced at them, but the woman fixed her eyes on the floor, refusing to acknowledge his existence. Rem looked away, unbothered. This was his life. Even in the slums, he was a pariah. A leper. He couldn't blame them; the smell of iron and sickness clinging to him was enough to drive anyone away.
Things had improved slightly since he moved to the upper city. He had a small job working from home as a reviewer of cheap novels and academic papers. It paid enough for a one-room apartment and the supplements that kept his lungs from collapsing. He didn't spend much on food because he had no appetite. One meal could sustain him for a day.
That explained the skeleton sitting under his skin.
"Remidius."
The voice was soft, cutting through the sterile hum of the clinic.
Rem turned. A nurse stood by the office door. She was dressed in a light pink uniform that fit her perfectly. Her orange hair was pinned neatly under her cap, and her eyes were a soft, startling blue.
She was beautiful, Rem thought.
He didn't usually look at women this way—he knew exactly where he stood in the food chain—but there was a warmth to her that made him pause.
"Are you coming in, sir?" she asked, her tone tinged with the fatigue of a long shift.
Rem stood up quickly. "Yes. I am."
He walked into the office. It was small and smelled of old paper. A man sat at a mahogany desk, penning something into a file. He was chubby, with dark brown hair and a beard that looked like it trapped crumbs. Glasses hung precariously on the tip of his nose.
Rem pulled out a chair and sat. His eyes drifted to the nurse standing behind the doctor. She caught his stare, looked confused, and turned away.
The doctor opened a file. "Mr. Remidius..."
Before he could continue, Rem's throat betrayed him. The hitch was violent. He doubled over, hacking, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.
"Here."
The nurse was there in an instant. She pulled a pristine white handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to him.
Rem looked at her face, then at the clean white cloth. For a second, he thought the gods were mocking him with kindness. His hand twitched toward it, then stopped. He looked from the clean linen to the faint red already smeared on his own sleeve.
"No," he said, his voice rough. He turned his head and coughed, sharp and final, into the crook of his arm. When he looked back, his sleeve was stained, but her handkerchief was still clean. "I'm fine."
She slowly withdrew her hand, her professional smile faltering for a second into something like pity or confusion. She gave a slight, formal nod.
"I'll be at my next station if you need me, Doctor," she said, and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.
The doctor waited for the click of the latch before turning to Rem.
"Mr. Remidius. Your reports for all the tests I asked for came in this morning. I've gone through them." He paused, adjusting his glasses. "While your blood shows no trace of conventional pathogens, your illness isn't a disease. It is the result of a Stigmata."
"What?" Rem rasped, confused.
He knew what a Stigmata was. He'd read every book on the System he could find. A Stigmata was a mark on the iris—a golden glow that indicated a divine spark, the potential to become an Awakened.
"It is a Failed Stigmata," the doctor said, sliding a scan across the desk. "A spark that failed to catch fire. Instead of granting you power, it is rejecting your physiology. It is abnormal. A divine defect."
Rem stared at the scan. In the center of his iris, there was a faint, sickly grey-yellow glow.
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He had a Stigmata? But it was broken?
"I haven't done much research on this presentation," the doctor continued, "but I advise you to continue the supplements. They suppress the rejection. You might not have as much time as you think..."
The doctor kept talking, but Rem's mind filtered it into white noise. A single, dangerous thought had taken root in his brain.
From what he had read, the System didn't just give powers. It rebuilt the body. It forged a physique capable of channeling divine essence. It made you a warrior.
If I got a System... it would fix the illness. I would be cured. I could live. I could eat real food. I wouldn't have to cough up my soul every morning.
"Mr. Remidius." The doctor's voice snapped like a whip.
Rem blinked, refocusing.
"Have you been listening?"
"All of it," Rem lied smoothly.
"Good. Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah. Suppose I entered the Divine Trial. What's the probability I could come out with a System? I don't plan on entering, obviously. Just curious."
The doctor scoffed. "You'd be insane to enter. But theoretically? A Stigmata is a mark, not the power itself. A weak, failed Stigmata would likely result in a weak, useless Aspect. If you survived the Awakening at all."
"I see," Rem said.
He stood up to leave. He reached for the doorknob.
"Mr. Remidius," the doctor called out, his voice grave. "I hope you aren't thinking what I think you are. If your illness is caused by a god's rejection, imagine stepping into the Trial—a holy ground where their presence is absolute. It wouldn't end well. For your sake... do not enter."
Rem turned back. He put on his brightest, most practiced smile.
"I'm not that foolish, Doctor."
"Good."
Rem nodded—a nod that meant nothing—and walked out.
He stepped out of the clinic and onto the busy street. The sun was bright, casting long shadows against the pavement. He stood on the steps, the phantom feel of the clean handkerchief he'd refused still lingering in his empty hand.
The doctor thinks I'm a fool, Rem thought. He thinks I'm going to go home and wait to die.
He looked down at his stained sleeve. The smell of iron was his own.
It was a simple equation. Stay here and die a slow, painful death. Or enter the Trial, face the nightmare, and either die quickly or be reborn.
Rem squeezed his fist. The decision wasn't even a choice. It was an instinct.
I want to live.
The thought wasn't a hope. It was a demand. A desperate, clawing hunger that rose from the pit of his stomach.
Suddenly, the world seemed to freeze.
A strange pressure descended on him, heavy and cold. His vision flickered, like a screen losing signal.
Rem froze.
In front of his eyes, weaving itself out of thin air, a string of pale, bone-grey runes appeared. They were sharp, angular, and radiated a cold indifference.
`[DEADLY DESIRE RECOGNIZED.]`
Rem's breath hitched.
`[NEW GOAL: SURVIVE THE DIVINE TRIAL.]`
`[DORMANT SYSTEM ASPECT ACTIVATED.]`
The text hung in the air for a second, then shattered into silver dust.
Rem stood on the steps, staring at nothing. The noise of the street returned, but it sounded distant.
He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking, but for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid.
A grim, thin smile cut across his face.
So be it.