On Gregory Island, the recruits had just leaped into the abyss.
The chasm was so deep that an unusual air resistance gave them the sensation of momentarily floating in absolute nothingness.
Panic flared.
Every single recruit wondered in terror whether they would land safely or if this plunge would be their death sentence.
Mid-air, Lucas found himself facing Narissa.
The boy kept his eyes frantically glued downward, while the Neïd never looked away from him.
After all, he was the one who had dragged her into this insanity.
She wondered if her intuition had deceived her, but with no other route to cross the ravine, she had chosen to place her faith in him.
After an agonizingly long freefall, the bottom of the ravine finally emerged from the dark.
Instead of a welcoming landing zone, a forest of razor-sharp stone spires rose from below.
Screams of sheer terror tore through the air.
Keeping his composure, Lucas grabbed Narissa’s hands firmly to maneuver through the wind.
Drifting just off their trajectory was a massive, hand-shaped plant structure woven entirely out of thick vines.
Narissa instantly understood why the boy had inspected the edge with such meticulous care before jumping: if you drifted off the proper axis during the descent, reaching this sanctuary of vines became physically impossible.
It meant certain death—impalement or a lethal impact against the stone.
All around them, candidates scrambled desperately to veer toward the giant vegetative hand.
But most had leaped without calculation, and the terminal velocity of their plunge rendered any mid-air adjustments practically impossible.
Lucas, Narissa, and a handful of other recruits slammed violently into the woven foliage of the first structure.
The force of the impact was crushing, but the dense plant mass absorbed enough of their momentum before hurling them toward a second vegetative platform situated lower down.
For the rest, it was a bloodbath.
High-pitched shrieks and gurgling sobs echoed through the canyon as dozens of bodies impaled themselves brutally upon the stone spikes.
The jagged rock acted like bloody crutches, slicing through flesh, severing heads, and gutting the unfortunates.
Those who missed both the spires and the vine structures slammed into the hard rock floor at full speed.
The shockwave pulverized their bones and burst their skulls, splatter-painting brains and blood across the cold stone.
For the survivors who had reached the hand of vines, natural grips along the wood made climbing down the structure relatively easy.
Suddenly, a desperate cry rang out.
Clinging to the very edge of the vegetative hand, a young girl was struggling not to lose her grip.
She was a feline hybrid wearing a blue and orange jumpsuit—Dulce.
Her fingers slipped over the slick fibers, tears of terror streaming down her cheeks.
“Help…
Please!
Somebody!”
Lucas, barely recovered from the shock of his landing, heard her plea.
Without hesitation, he moved toward the edge of the platform to extend a hand.
Before he could reach her, a scaly arm barred his path.
Narissa held him back with a firm grip.
The boy stared at her, stunned.
“What are you doing?!
She’s going to fall if I don’t help her!”
The Neïd’s face remained cold, devoid of any sympathy.
“And what if she drags you down with her while you try to pull her up?
Think for a second…
You are surrounded by criminals and monsters.
Do you really believe they’d hesitate to sacrifice you?”
Lucas went silent for a moment, a grimace of pain and uncertainty painted across his face.
But as he met the hybrid girl’s devastated gaze, he steeled his resolve and answered in a low, firm voice:
“I know this world isn’t soft…
But that girl doesn’t deserve to die right in front of us.
Besides, if we want to survive what’s coming, having allies won’t hurt, don’t you think?”
Narissa stared at him intently…
then released her grip.
Lucas leaned over, grabbed Dulce’s wrist, and hoisted her onto the platform.
Trembling, the young girl bowed deeply in gratitude before collapsing to the ground in relief.
As they began their final descent, Lucas glanced back and realized with a shudder that the two vine-covered hands actually belonged to a gigantic statue carved directly into the cliffside.
The stone figure was sticking out a massive stone tongue, with thick vines sprouting wildly from its eye sockets.
An icy chill ran down his spine, but he picked up his pace alongside Narissa and the other survivors.
After several exhausting hours of trekking through the canyon floor, night finally enveloped the ravine.
At the far end of this oasis stood a tall waterfall.
At its base, a crimson-skinned Grod colossus lay sprawled in the grass—Chogo.
And perched right above him, overlooking the stream, a woman with long pointed ears and dark tinted glasses observed them with regal severity: Commander Mélo.
At the sight of the water source, the mob of recruits surged toward the waterfall to quench their ravenous thirst.
Narissa joined them.
Although her Neïd physiology reacted poorly to the saltwater of certain oceans, the freshwater from this spring instantly invigorated her scales.
As the group savored this momentary respite, Chogo sat up, stretched, and called out to the commander in a provocative tone:
“Commander!
Now that the fresh meat is all gathered, what’s next?”
The recruits, who had naively hoped for a few days of rest after the massacre, froze at the question.
But Eresboros was not in the habit of coddling its convicts.
Mélo adjusted her glasses and spoke in a bone-chilling voice:
“You are entirely correct, Chogo Belto.
The survivors have gathered.
The eight-month training can officially begin.”
Meanwhile, in the Third Space—the Headquarters of Eresboros.
In an office bathed in dim light, a man with spectrally pale skin and neatly styled blue hair was reviewing ledgers.
A knock sounded at the door.
The individual, possessing eyes of absolute gray, gave a casual wave of his hand.
A man concealed beneath a heavy hood entered the room, bowed deeply, and straightened up.
“So…
How are operations proceeding?” the blue-haired man asked calmly.
The hooded emissary swallowed hard before replying, “Sir Callis…
Everything is progressing according to your projections.
Commander Mélo transmitted the casualty report.
There are only 95 recruits left alive on the island.
The true training has just commenced.”
Callis Déva let out a satisfied smirk.
“Perfect.
The survivors will make valuable assets for the upcoming events…
And regarding the other matter?”
The informant hesitated for a moment.
“The one locked in the vault under Master Crawford’s care…
According to the latest reports, he is still entirely unable to move his body.
The magical load has him almost completely paralyzed.”
Déva poured a thin stream of scalding tea into a porcelain cup with aristocratic elegance, as if performing a delicate piece on the piano.
“Very well…
You are dismissed.”
The man bowed again and hurriedly left the room.
Déva brought the cup to his lips, his gaze drifting into space.
“I wonder how long it will take Crawford to permanently break him…
We shall see.”
Deep within the facility, inside the vault.
Drey hung suspended in absolute darkness, his body locked down by the Lock Photons.
Standing before him, Crawford wore a broad, sadistic grin.
“Alright…
Drey, you’ve rested long enough.”
The Cleaver snapped his fingers.
Scarlet runes flared to life along the walls, flooding the room with infernal heat.
The second the magic activated, Drey’s flesh felt as if it were burning from the inside out.
He screamed at the top of his lungs:
“AHHHHH!
Please…
Stop!
Stop!
It hurts…
It hurts so much… You are reading on g.com, the official source.
AHHHHHH!”
Thrashing in mid-air, Drey begged in vain.
Crawford stepped forward and delivered a devastating kick that sent him flying into the opposite wall.
Without giving him a second to breathe, the Cleaver swooped in, unleashing a barrage of brutally violent strikes.
A crushing hook fractured Drey’s cheekbone, dropping him into his own pool of blood.
“Please…
I’m begging you…
It hurts too much…
Stop…”
Crawford didn’t answer.
His smile froze into an expression of pure madness as he cocked his fist once more.
Meanwhile, in an abstract, pitch-black space.
A young boy sat on a wooden chair.
Around him was complete darkness, save for a vast pool of blood spreading beneath his feet.
Floating before him was an illusory screen projecting the torture scene: Drey’s body was being relentlessly battered by Crawford, screaming in agony.
Suddenly, a second, identical figure materialized beside him.
But while the boy on the chair remained emotionless, dark, and silent, the second Drey wore a smirking grin and a nonchalant posture.
The seated Drey stared at the screen and muttered in a hollow voice, “It’s pathetic.”
The nonchalant Drey burst into a mocking laugh.
“Well, well, don’t be so hard on him!
That’s you, remember?”
It was Drey’s consciousness.
subjected to a level of suffering that shattered human limits, his mind had secreted a desperate defense mechanism: a psychological “fourth wall.” His consciousness observed the torment of his own body from this mental sanctuary, plunging the young man’s psyche into a state of semi-madness.
The second Drey kept laughing, as if watching a top-tier comedy.
“You know, it’s pretty tragic…
All that pain you’re enduring over there is still just physical.
Soon, it’s your actual mind that’s going to bleed.”
The seated Drey didn’t answer.
With a slow movement, the projection of his consciousness began sinking into the pool of blood, submerging itself into the dark depths of his mind while the other Drey threw out one last taunt:
“Go on, go see your parents…
I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have you back!”
Back on Gregory Island, at the base of the waterfall.
The shell-shocked recruits listened intently to Commander Mélo.
The deadly sprint through the forest and the jump over the chasm had merely been a preliminary screening process.
The true trial was about to begin.
A candidate, a pale-skinned Asthartés, took a step forward.
“And what does this training consist of, Commander?”
Mélo locked her cold gaze onto him.
“It is a territorial conquest simulation.”
A wave of confused whispers rippled through the crowd.
“I have hidden flags across the entire island,” she explained.
“Every captured flag grants you sovereignty over a territory.
These zones are packed with vital resources: fresh water, game, shelter, timber, and medicinal moss.
You may choose to team up, form factions, or operate alone…
But know this: I will be playing the role of the Royal Guard.”
She paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air.
“You are criminals.
If I catch you in my path, I will eliminate you.
If I capture your flag, your territory will be confiscated.
A group without territory will be hunted relentlessly until extinction.”
A dead silence fell over the clearing.
One recruit stammered, “That…
That’s really the trial?”
“Yes,” Mélo concluded.
“If you manage to resist me, manage your resources, and survive for eight months, you will officially be integrated into Eresboros.
There are exactly 95candidates left out of the initial 150.
Let the hunt begin.”