Walking through the forest, the sounds blend in with the environment. The sun is already up and the heat is insulated inside the forest by the dense foliage. With the fertility of the forest also come those who take advantage of it. I hear deer and see mosquitoes flying around, but no animal dares to approach me.

  Beyond the woods, a small old wooden house. Outside this house, protecting it like a guardian, the silhouette of a lion waits for me at the door, watching me as both prey and predator. Although its form simulates one, what I now face is no mere animal.

  Maybe he doesn't really exist and it's just a hallucination. Maybe my eyes are sharper today, or I've been blessed by the heavens to see a part of the spirit world. All the alternatives culminate in uncertainty and the inevitable uselessness of thinking about “certainty” in Chaos.

  My sight cannot fully comprehend it—my eyes hurt if I look directly at it—its body seems as elusive as the details of a dream. The beauty of six angelic wings would enchant everyone, and the triple wisdom of their heads would deceive everything.

  I am the exception.

  Silence spreads through the garden as I approach and stare at the door behind your body. It's not the strange silence created by frustrated social interaction or the lack of words, but the empty silence that permeates your mind when you wake up, which pushes you to observe the corner of the room for a few minutes before getting up.

  Something pushes me to recognize it—an urge like the thought of throwing yourself off a high bridge. They say it's a signal from your brain to strengthen your resolve not to destroy yourself. I follow the recommendation and ignore it, knowing that recognizing the Lion means that it will also recognize me.

  I enter my house and walk past him, go to the bathroom and take a shower, then change into my black uniform with a beaver symbol on the chest. Furthermore, I rewrap my hand, brush my teeth and get ready to leave.

  In the meantime, I pick up one of the grimoires to re-read everything I already know. I'd read some kind of fiction to pass the time, but I wouldn't be able to concentrate. The face is apathetic, but I haven't been granted the blessing of not really feeling. It's not long before three knocks echo from the front door.

  I breathe in, then go to the door and use my peephole to see if the soldier is carrying anything suspicious. I do it in the corner so that I'm not blinded by the hole. Free of assumptions, I open the door.

  A suit of steel armor twice my size looms over me. Behind him, two other soldiers accompany him. The design of a beaver—the symbol of the village—is marked on their chests.

  The sunlight casts a shadow that obscures the guard's face behind the steel. His gaze is cold, and while one hand holds the parchment of permission so that he can legally escort me, the other rests on the hilt of the sword in its scabbard.

  I hold out my hand and ask for the written authorization. He waits a second before handing it to me. The royal seal seems authentic to me, marked on the red dough. I open it and, without getting too close or losing sight of him, I read the letter silently in front of the soldier. When I see that everything is in order, I hand him the letter again and take my personal seal from my pocket. The soldier takes it for a second and checks its validity, then hands it back to me.

  I hold out my wrists. The soldier handcuffs me, and the other two escort me to a cart. One of them unzips the cloth covering the large wooden box and opens its door, while the other takes the ladder so that I can climb up.

  The horses neigh and try to run at my presence. Agitated, the confusion between remaining faithful to their caretakers and surviving presses down on them like every other time. Not that they can -- they're used to dealing with it, so the soldiers whip them and command them to be quiet.

  I do as instructed and climb inside the box. I observe the metal lines of the iron cage that reinforces its interior. One of the soldiers enters the box next to me, while the other two go to the front. I sit on the wooden bench from where I can see their backs, but the soldier with me sits at the other end and blocks my view.

  After a hushed conversation, they whipped up their horses and set off in the direction of the village academy. Of course, a wooden box wouldn't hold me. They know that. The mere fact that they put me in one proves that they still have some faith in my conscience.

  Faith. Maybe the newfound confidence in the light is just the pleading of an ungodly person about to be judged. Maybe it's just a feeling seconds before being regurgitated.

  Sweat runs down my hands. My leg trembles. The smell of burning meat wafts through the boarded-up window and, along with it, muffled village chatter. It seems that everyone was preparing their best dishes in celebration of the Hunting Festival. I look away from the wooden floor—so as not to startle the guard by staring at him—and turn towards the gap in the cloth covering the cart.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I can eavesdrop on people's faces. Weighing on my shoulders, I could see them even if I were blind. They whisper, sometimes they scream in fright when they notice the wagon coming by surprise. Some look away and pretend not to care, others make their displeasure clear.

  I don't mind. I can't. Being aware of my situation, it's natural that some people hate me. Even so, this environment—this cage, these people staring at me—has always given me a strange feeling; as if I was rushing to make a decision I didn't know what it was. As if I'd already done it, but couldn't remember.

  Stopping the wagon doesn't stop my thoughts, but it gives me a new focus.

  “Let's go.” The soldier says.

  He opens the door and I go, escorted, to the street. The cart maneuvers to be put away, and one of the people in the front seat climbs down to accompany me. In front of me, the village gym has a simple beauty, with orange concrete surrounded by white and rounded shapes. The style seems comfortable to me, even if the paint has peeled and the structure has seen better days.

  No one who saw the village, so bustling, would think it only had a hundred people. I can hear the shouts, as loud as thunder, coming from the gym next to the academy, where the tests were being carried out. The passage is clear at this time due to the concentration of people, which allows me to be escorted directly.

  I walk towards the main corridor, decorated with the flags of the noble houses. In front of me, the academy campus stretches out and is surrounded by its halls. I head left, in the opposite direction of the gymnasium, towards the administrative wing. The guards guarding the corridors watch me pass, and the staff stop their work when they see me, so as not to make any mistakes.

  I approach the big red door at the end of the corridor, and the soldier in charge receives the letter from the one escorting me to allow me to enter. A staircase made of dense gray concrete steps stretches in circles to the basement. Walking down them, torches on the walls illuminate the walls, but don't exclude all the darkness.

  Deep underground, the appearance of the room gives away its purpose. A circular arena with a white floor stretches out in the center. At the edges outside the arena, a staircase glued to the wall ascends to the laboratories where the scientists, instructors, and alchemists set up shop.

  Normally, a training room would involve the theoretical and practical teaching of magic, carried out within the room itself or in the gymnasium. This room, however, is reserved for the study and containment of those who are too dangerous to see the light of day. Monsters, volatile experiments and abominations like me, that is.

  On the upper floors, I see the chief instructor's subordinates writing letters, sheets of paper and parchments with quills bathed in black ink. Behind them, more rooms that lead into the structure, but which I can't—and am not allowed to—see.

  Footsteps circle the spherical corridor around the arena and come towards me. The instructor is revealed by the light of the torches, his face marked by lines of tiredness, stress, and age. His hair and beard are full and brown, although there are one or two white lines running through them. Eyes as yellow as amber came from his family—his rank, however, was not bought to him.

  Make no mistake—it's not as if I adore them. But I know competence when I see it, and Zherdos, despite keeping his distance from me like everyone else, possessed it. Staring at me, he observes the power that flows around me, even though he's seen it dozens of times. Breaking my train of thought, he pulls himself together and says:

  “Sieghart, isn't it?”

  I nod.

  Zherdos signals for the guards to release me from the handcuffs, and so, one of them does. He takes the clipboard from one of his assistants and alternates his gaze between me and her to confirm his statements.

  “Black pants, black uniform, both about the right size. White hair, red eyes, pale. Years have passed and you never change. Are you sure the color isn't a dietary problem?”

  He inhales at the lack of an answer. “Anyway…” Zherdos confirms the information. “Documentation.” He says, and the soldiers hand him the letter of authorization to bring me here.

  I take the seal out and hand it to the guard, who in turn hands it to the instructor. Receiving them both, Zherdos points to the spot in front of the arena where he came from and asks his assistant to put the documents away. Although I don’t like the idea, it's better than letting them be destroyed during the test.

  “Your magic seal will be removed.” He begins.

  A village in the middle of nowhere would be unable to produce a seal that blocks nine-tenths of my mana. The more I use it, the harder it is to use Chaos—and the more I want to keep using it. The seal only helps to interrupt the process.

  This interruption refers to the total amount of mana I have, but it also affects how effective the use is. At the moment, every time I use magic, only a tenth is actually directed at it, and the other nine are dumped into the environment.

  “Since we don't want to stress Chaos more than we have to, we'll only test it twice. The first will be casual use, then we'll remove your seal to open the Gates. We want you to reduce the amount of chaotic mana in the environment when you use magic.”

  “How much?”

  “Two tenths will be enough.” He returned the look. “If you fail today and tomorrow, we'll increase the power of your seal. On a success, we'll keep it as it is until we see that you can keep it stable.”

  I nod.

  In the latter case, the limitation of the seal would be lowered—but he doesn't believe that would happen. Part of me doesn't either.

  “Very well. Remember what we practiced last time. Don't interrupt the flow, just control its direction.”

  I nod.

  “… Very good.” He says. “Enter the arena.” Zherdos commands and calls the last guard close to him with another signal. They turn their backs—although they don't leave them open for me—and walk to the top to join the others. Alone, I face the arena.