His consciousness felt it was leaving his mind, escaping into oblivion. It was serene.

  Heavenly, so irresistible it could become addicting.

  It was, as if it was.

  Finally his consciousness was coming back. Being pulled back to life by something, back to Eden, back to his eaten flesh.

  Night had already befell the world, covering it with a scarlet red moon hanging in the stars, illuminating the dungeon.

  Uriel’s body had little left—only blood. Eaten by other Bilts attracted to the smell of death.

  The regeneration had finally began creating his body back from nothing.

  The cerebral matter, the framework of his skeleton, the core of his heart and lungs finally attached themselves to his skeleton.

  It continued with the muscles, then the body's organs and veins. He could feel the pain—tearing and reforming, stretching and attaching.

  It was pure, unbridled anguish.

  Steam rose from Uriel’s body, instantly combusting into flames. A violet raging of flames came into being, like before in the void.

  An inferno scorched flesh, which molded back together at the same time.

  His vocal cords had finally finished healing. “Ahhhh! It burns! It burns! Help! Help me!”

  Tears burst out like a river, evaporating into nothingness before they could flow beyond the walls of his eyes, body finally being completed now..

  ‘It hurts, it hurts! Why do I have to hurt?!’ Was the only thing he could only think in a moment like this. The flames didn’t tire, they still ate at his skin and flesh.

  After what felt like an eternity the flames flustered out, dying so he could live without having to suffer more.

  The only thing left was his charred skin, healing back quickly. Steam rose from it.

  He had to endure three days and nights of suffering—of being burned alive. A violet marking formed at the lower ends of his neck, covering it fully.

  His naked body lay flat on the ground, his back cold against the damp floor, front cooling against the chill air.

  While on his back, both eyes were fixed on the glowing Angel Metal above him. Water droplets fell onto his right cheek.

  ‘It’s finally over… I just want to go home.’ Tears had finally been able to fall now.

  His arms weren’t healed; he knew that much. But why were they not healed? everything else was.

  Both hands and arms were charred black, the skin peeled away to expose a violet tattoo in a vein-like pattern. It covered his arms and shoulders.

  “Damn witch… burning me alive for a contract seal,” he spat out, his voice gritted, swells of pain came over him.

  “Ugh, it hurts. She marked me… but doing it like this?” His jaw tightened while rolling onto his left side, groaning. His arms were immobile at the time.

  He coughed up blood, spluttering it out, pupils dilated, panting heavily. “She truly is… a witch.”

  He stayed for around two hours before sitting up using his burnt, barely usable appendages, posture slouched. Eyes conveyed unbeknown angst.

  His lips were chapped, tongue dry and desert-like came out to lick them.

  Ding, ding, ding. “Welcome. You are amongst those who are chosen whether by talent, contract, or by the trial’s whims.”

  There was a long pause before another ding rang in his head. “Do you accept the Trial? Or do you wish to be erased?”

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  He stared at his naked body, mind racing. How would he survive? Did it really matter? He’d be revived by that witch again through the contract either way.

  He waited before responding: “Yes. I accept.”

  A ding rang louder than necessary.

  “The chosen one has accepted the Trial. The trial shall commence by midnight on 33/7/1,293.”

  The voice was monotone, feminine. He’d never imagined it like that. A weird twist.

  Ding. “You are now a Rank One Trial One being. After completing the first trial, you will be awarded: Rank Two Trial One Being.”

  Breathing had become less heavy, head throbbing. ‘I never thought it’d happen like this if it ever did. I need to hurry out of here.’

  “Tonight, huh… that’s kinda pushing myself. Dying, meeting a witch, making a contract with her… now I have to take the Trials. Fuck me, I guess.”

  His head looked around the dungeon to see if it was safe. It indeed was. “Hurk! Hurk!” A black, viscous, tar-like substance came out.

  The smell like that of a dirty washcloth used to clean horse manure, mixed with the vomit of a sick man. The stench invaded his throat and nostrils, tasting it.

  He rubbed his tongue and spit repeatedly to get rid of it, crawling away slowly, turning his naked body away muttering in disgust.

  “Damn… I didn’t know my soul was that disgusting. I guess you get cleansed once you become a chosen one,”

  Standing on his lower legs, stretched upward, both arms out wide, fingers curling back as much as possible, a wash of feelings came over him.

  He felt it. Clean—so clean it was beautiful, so illusory, unable to describe it.

  ‘What is this? I’m extraordinary. I’m divine. The world is so, so… delightful,’ eyes became enshrouded by the captivating glow of the scarlet moon.

  The dim whitish-yellow light of the Angel Metal catching the majestic, divine-like vision. Like a King had just descended.

  After a prolonged moment, his eyes opened, looking as if he had transcended mortality, like one who had ascended to Kinghood.

  A wide grin gradually spread across his pale skin without consent.

  Medium-length black hair flowed down, silky smooth over his face after being reborn from death. He felt ethereal, above everything.

  His body had undergone refinement after being revived, making it the strongest it had ever been.

  Shattered remnants of his soul flowed from his eyes down his face, dripping to the ground. Though they did, his expression remained unfaltered, unchanging in nature.

  So unchanging he could be mistaken for a carved stone of a once-great man, so great they could rule the world with words.

  He was euphoric. No human mind should be treated like this. His mind was burned out, it made the feeling of being alive divine.

  He closed his eyes, finally regaining his mental state. ‘Fuck… that felt heavenly. I shouldn’t be too laid-back though.’

  It was as if his mental state had been compromised—conscious the whole time, yet not in control.

  Letting out a faint chuckle he crawled to the walls, lifting himself up. His hands and arms like those of a crippled man’s.

  Wincing, back arched, groaning as he straightened. A sigh of relief escaped his lips —relief he was alive. Relief he could live again.

  “Hah… still hurts. F*ck, feels like I’m being ripped apart.” His hands trembled violently. Flesh and blood painted the dark grey walls deep red.

  He wavered, dragging his legs along the moist ground, feet already dirty as they scraped the floor, pulling himself toward the exit.

  Like a child reaching for the mother, inching toward the one thing in his mind—the exit, the end, the one thing he needed at that vulnerable moment.

  “I’m going to get out. I’m not taking the trial in a dungeon,” he gritted his teeth, breathing heavily as his chest rose and fell.

  Reaching the exit, eyes gleamed with a semblance of hope. But as the exit came fully into view, three figures stood at the entrance.

  They were most likely his “teammates,” as they called themselves every waking moment. They were only a figure of control.

  Though they did take him in—they fed and paid him, even if it was just scraps. But why would he settle for that when he could go be a mercenary by himself? Especially since he was a Chosen One?

  He didn’t know either. Maybe he was too young? Too young that he wished to have a family.

  Maybe he wanted people to take care of him, fake or not. He wanted peace, company, compassion—whether it was fake or not. He wanted it all.

  Inching toward them, a feeling of indescribable hatred started boiling inside. Reaching the end, fully exposed and vulnerable. They glanced at him.

  The first man was taller, gruff, refined for battle: Daniel, Rank One Trial Two, stood to Uriel’s right.

  Brown hair, streaked with grayish-white, covered his scalp. Eyes like a wolf’s.

  A chiseled jawline covered with a grey beard made him look both handsome and intimidating, experienced in battle. Height above average.

  A younger gentleman: clean but deadly-looking, green snake eyes, deep brown hair slicked into a bun.

  Clean-shaven, sharp jawline with stubble, lanky but toned—looked weak.

  Finral, a Rank Two Trial Three, captain of the group, stood in the middle. Younger than Daniel, height mediocre—unremarkable.

  The last was younger, around Uriel’s age: Enith. Sharp jawline, athletic build like a Hornalin Beast Wrangler’s.

  Hair that didn’t go past his brows, wearing fine black leather armor with elements of White Angel Metal.

  From what Uriel remembered, Enith had wealth. Presence wasn’t intimidating—except no one knew his Rank and Trial.

  Height was shorter than expected, though Uriel was only slightly taller.

  Ding, ding, ding. ‘Hello, Chosen One. The first Trial shall commence at midnight in thirty minutes.’

  The dings rang like a soft premonition.

  Either resolve what could and would happen fast—or fall into a coma and potentially die again.

  That would mean revival by Ileven, and that? He didn’t want it, nor did he need that much lost time slip through his fingers