As the stunned crowd remained frozen near the altar, paralyzed by what they had just witnessed, a man slipped silently into the shadows like a snake slinking away from the chaos it had helped stir. He moved with urgency, navigating through twisting alleyways and desolate roads, the only sounds accompanying him being the echo of his boots against the cracked stone and the distant hum of murmured disbelief. The city around him, once vibrant and teeming with life, now resembled a graveyard of glass and rust, cloaked in thick smog and stifling silence.

  Eventually, he reached a large, foreboding structure that loomed in the centre of the ruins—a building that had once been a proud courthouse and now served as a stronghold for those who still claimed control over the fragments of civilization. Without slowing his pace, he passed through the iron security gates, offering only the briefest of nods to the heavily armoured guards who flanked the entrance. Inside, the air grew colder and heavier, as though the walls themselves bore witness to the weight of history.

  On the stairwell wall just beyond the entrance, eight framed portraits glared down at him—images of past challengers, all long dead. Their expressions varied, frozen in time: some proud, some terrified, some defiantly angry. They were not hung out of reverence, but obligation—a visual reminder of failure masquerading as honour.

  Two men stood at the top of ladders, mounting a ninth frame onto the wall. Michael.

  The man—Butler, a nickname he despised with every bone in his body—gritted his teeth as he caught sight of the new portrait. Michael’s cold, determined glare in the image stirred something in him, something hot and bitter. Each step he took up the stairs felt heavier, his boots hitting the stone like war drums. At the summit stood a plain wooden door, unimposing yet unmistakably important. He didn’t wait for permission to enter. He never did.

  “You saw what happened?” he snapped the moment the door swung open.

  Inside, Officer Elaine sat with effortless composure behind her pristine ivory desk, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, and a thick document open before her. Her gaze remained fixed on the text, calm and unbothered.

  “Of course, I saw,” she responded coolly, her voice as smooth and sharp as ice. “Everyone saw.”

  Butler’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Her lack of emotion, her practiced detachment—it was like acid on open skin.

  “We can’t support both of them,” he said, pacing toward her. “We only have enough to fuel one. If we try to back the girl—” He trailed off, but the implication hung thick in the air.

  Elaine finally looked up. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, revealed nothing.

  “Nothing changes,” she said evenly. “We support Michael. The girl is an unfortunate anomaly.”

  “That girl is just a kid!” Butler shouted, slamming his palm onto the desk hard enough to rattle the glass. “She wasn’t even chosen. She touched the altar by mistake!”

  Elaine tilted her head with the faintest hint of amusement. “And it’s not our fault she was so... unlucky,” she replied, her tone gentle but dismissive. A ghost of a smirk touched her lips.

  “You enjoy this, don’t you?” Butler growled. “The power. The decisions.”

  She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “I enjoy watching people reveal who they really are. You, for example—predictable. Emotional. Reckless. That’s why you’ll never be the one making these decisions.”

  “I don’t want control,” he spat. “I want us to stop pretending we’re gods, handing out death and calling it strategy.”

  Elaine’s smirk faded. “We’re not gods,” she said quietly, firmly. “We’re barely survivors.”

  Butler turned, voice thick with resentment. “You keep acting like you’re above all this, but one day, when the numbers no longer work out, it'll be your turn to sacrifice yourself for the rest of us.”

  Michael’s world spiralled violently. Sight, sound, and sensation folded into themselves, a vortex of nausea and weightlessness. He couldn’t orient himself, couldn’t breathe properly. It was like falling in every possible direction at once—until, with an abrupt and painful thud, he landed flat against cold, polished stone.

  He groaned, his joints aching from the impact, and slowly pushed himself upright.

  The room around him was utterly sterile and eerily silent. White walls and white floor stretched out in all directions, broken only by a single image: the twin serpents, one ivory and one obsidian, eternally consuming each other in a mirrored coil. The sight matched the reports exactly.

  A soft, stifled sob made him turn his head.

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  In the corner of the room, a girl sat curled tightly into herself. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them protectively, and her raven-black hair fell in tangled curtains that shielded her face. Her body trembled, quiet gasps of fear barely audible.

  Michael exhaled and lowered himself to sit cross-legged across from her.

  “So,” he said after a moment, keeping his tone as gentle as possible, “do you have a name?”

  She didn’t respond at first. Eventually, a pair of wide amber eyes peeked out from behind the hair. “Sophie,” she whispered, so softly he almost didn’t catch it.

  “Alright, Sophie.”

  She was small, fragile in a way that made her presence in this place feel utterly wrong. She looked like she belonged in a classroom or a warm home, not in this sterile chamber that reeked of death and judgement.

  “I’ll have to help her, at least for as long as I can,” he thought. “I won’t let her die in front of me.”

  Before he could say anything more, the voice of the Challenge filled the chamber.

  “Challenger Michael. Your planet has chosen to support you with its blood.”

  A smooth panel on the wall to his left slid open, revealing a softly glowing doorway.

  “You may go in and prepare for the Challenge.”

  Michael stared at the doorway in silence, the weight of its meaning settling on his shoulders. He knew exactly what waited for him beyond that door. Every child trained for the Challenge did. It was a place drenched in the power of mass sacrifice—a vault of energy harvested from the lives of the innocent, the old, the unwanted.

  He didn’t move.

  Instead, he looked at Sophie and tilted his head toward the door.

  “You go,” he said quietly but firmly. “I’m good as I am.”

  She blinked, clearly confused, then her expression shifted into something closer to fear. “But... I-I don’t know what to do… I didn’t ask for this…”

  “It’s not about asking,” Michael said. “Maybe that room gives you something that helps. Maybe it doesn’t. But you should find out. Me? I’ve had enough help.”

  Sophie stood slowly, her legs uncertain beneath her, then took tentative steps before finally crossing the threshold and disappearing into the glowing chamber.

  The door closed with a soft hiss.

  “Challenger Michael. You have disobeyed the words of the Challenge. Penalty activated.”

  Michael winced. “Here we go.”

  A second door opened in the far wall.

  “Survive for 30 minutes.”

  What stepped out from the new doorway resembled a man in shape and size, but there was something unmistakably wrong with it. The way its limbs moved—too fluid, too precise—combined with the erratic twitching of its eyes and the unnatural sheen of moisture on its skin, made it clear this was no human being.

  “That’s not human,” Michael thought, grim determination settling over him.

  There were no introductions, no hesitation, no speeches. The creature lunged.

  The blade in its hand sliced through the air with brutal speed. Michael sidestepped just in time, feeling the whisper of metal against his skin. He retaliated immediately, slamming his fist into the creature’s temple. It staggered. He followed up with a knee to its gut and then pivoted behind it, driving his elbow into its spine. The creature collapsed.

  Michael didn’t pause. He straddled the thing and hammered his fists down, again and again, until he felt the satisfying crack of bone and the warm splash of blood across his knuckles. When it stopped moving, he reached down and pried the saber from its fingers.

  “That’s one down,” he thought, breath coming hard and fast, “but it’s far from over.” The Challenge had made its expectations painfully clear. Killing wasn’t the goal—surviving was.

  Two more figures emerged from the same doorway, their eyes immediately falling on the crumpled corpse. They shrieked, high-pitched and enraged, the sound unnatural and grating.

  One held a saber, like the first, while the other carried a sleek black bow.

  Michael moved without hesitation. He charged toward the one with the sword.

  The archer fired instantly. The first arrow whistled past, narrowly missing him. The second found its mark, sinking deep below his ribs. He could have dodged it, but that would have exposed his neck to the saber, he took the hit as a calculated risk.

  Michael gasped, pain exploding through his side like fire. But he didn’t slow. He clenched his teeth so tightly he tasted blood.

  “Guess learning anatomy with those professors was worth it, huh,” he thought bitterly.

  He swung his saber upward, cleaving the swordsman’s hand off at the wrist. The creature howled, the sound stabbing into Michael’s skull like a hundred needles.

  He stumbled, momentarily disoriented. Another arrow zipped past his head.

  He tried to roll away, but he was too close. The one-handed creature struck him in the gut with a heavy fist. Michael flew backward and hit the wall with enough force to jar his bones.

  Before he could recover, two arrows pinned his hands to the wall, and he let out a scream that echoed through the sterile chamber.

  “Move. MOVE, damn it!”

  He pulled with all his strength. Flesh tore. Blood ran freely. He fell just as five more arrows struck the wall above.

  He focused on the archer. “That one’s the real danger,” he thought. “He’s controlling the field, limiting my movements, splitting my focus.”

  Michael surged forward, charging at the bowman with reckless resolve. As he neared, he saw it smile.

  Goosebumps raced up his spine.

  Before he could react, he heard the unmistakable hiss of an arrow.

  The projectile slammed into his shoulder, spinning him mid-air. He hit another wall with a bone-rattling thud.

  A third creature stepped into the arena. This one was taller, paler, and carried a white bow.

  Its lip curled in a snarl, and it raised its weapon alongside the first archer. Behind them, the mutilated swordsman retrieved its saber and began to approach.

  Michael groaned, barely able to remain upright, his entire body screaming in protest.

  “Bring it on,” he muttered, voice hoarse but defiant.

  In the chamber Sophie had entered, the air was calm, almost serene. A glowing orb hovered gently in the center of the room, pulsing with a quiet rhythm. Her wide amber eyes darted around, panic and confusion evident in her every motion.

  “Where am I?” she whispered.

  “Welcome, Challenger Sophie,” the voice said, quieter than before, almost kind. “Your body will now begin to synchronize with available potential.”

  She stumbled back, hands raised as if to ward off the words. “I didn’t mean to come here… I didn’t mean to be chosen.”

  But then she felt it—a pulse of warmth in her chest. A flicker of something she couldn’t name. A power that wasn’t hers, but somehow was.

  Somewhere deep inside, a small ember of courage began to glow.

  Maybe—just maybe—she could survive too.