The world was pain.

Every nerve in Jorel Drecan's body screamed as if it were being ripped apart. He couldn't see, couldn't hear—every sense was drowned out by the raw, unrelenting agony that coursed through him. His mind teetered on the edge of oblivion, the darkness beckoning with the promise of escape. But something within him, a deep-seated stubbornness, kept him anchored to consciousness. He refused to let go.

The examiners circled him like vultures, their faces cold and impassive, eyes gleaming with clinical curiosity. They were waiting—no, hoping—to see him break, to see the pain overwhelm him and drag him under. But Jorel wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He clenched his teeth so hard he feared they might crack, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to stay upright.

The pain was like a fire in his veins, burning away all thought, all reason. Only fragments of memories flitted through his mind—brief, haunting images that flickered like dying embers. Flames, tall and terrible, consuming everything they touched. A scream, high-pitched and desperate. The smell of smoke, thick and suffocating, filling his lungs. His parents' faces, twisted in horror, just before they—

No.

Jorel forced the memories back, locking them away in the deepest recesses of his mind. This was not the time to dwell on the past, not when his future was on the line. His hands trembled as he gripped the armrests of the chair he was strapped to, nails digging into the wood. The exam had only just begun, and he knew the worst was yet to come.

His eyes fluttered open, blurry and unfocused. The room was dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unyielding. A single figure loomed over him, holding a small vial filled with a viscous, dark liquid. Jorel recognized it immediately—one of the many concoctions the examiners used to induce pain. He had studied them in the weeks leading up to the exam, memorizing their effects and the types of agony they brought.

The figure tilted the vial, letting a single drop fall into Jorel's open mouth. It was bitter, burning his tongue as it slid down his throat. Within seconds, his entire body convulsed as the pain intensified, searing through him like molten metal. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, every inch of his skin aflame with sensation.

"Impressive," one of the examiners murmured, jotting down notes on a clipboard. "He's still conscious."

Another voice, this one more skeptical, chimed in. "He's resistant, but the real test will be if he can channel it."

Channel it. That was the key. The pain was not just an obstacle to overcome; it was a tool, a weapon. To become a true Selac—a Seipsum Lacerares—one had to learn to harness pain, to funnel it into something more than just suffering. But Jorel was still in the early stages, still learning how to direct the agony instead of letting it consume him.

His vision swam as he tried to focus, to latch onto the pain and twist it to his will. It was like trying to grasp smoke—every time he thought he had it, it slipped through his fingers, leaving him gasping and disoriented. The examiners watched him intently, their faces inscrutable.

He couldn't fail. Not now. Not after everything he had been through.

The fire in his veins ebbed slightly, just enough for him to regain some semblance of control. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, to find its core and draw it in. His mind reached out, searching for something to anchor the pain to—a memory, a thought, anything. And then, like a spark in the darkness, an image flashed before him.

His grandfather, stern and unyielding, standing over him with arms crossed. "Endure, Jorel. Pain is just the beginning. Use it."

Those words had been drilled into him from a young age, ever since the fire that had taken his parents. His grandfather had raised him, trained him, forged him into something stronger than he had ever thought possible. It was his grandfather's voice that guided him now, cutting through the haze of agony.

Jorel's breath steadied. He could do this. He had to.

With a monumental effort, he focused on the pain, letting it coalesce into a single point in his mind. He imagined it as a flame, small but fierce, and began to feed it, stoking it with every ounce of suffering he felt. Slowly, painstakingly, the pain began to shift, to change. It was no longer just a wave crashing over him; it was something he could direct, something he could control.

The examiners exchanged glances, noting the change in Jorel's demeanor. He was no longer just enduring—he was channeling. The pain that had been tearing him apart was now a part of him, a reservoir of power that he could draw from.

"Interesting," the first examiner remarked, his tone tinged with approval. "He might actually have potential."

But it wasn't over yet. Jorel knew that this was only the beginning, a preliminary test to see if he could even handle what was to come. The real exam—the one that would determine his future at ER University—was still ahead. For now, he had to focus on surviving the next few minutes.

The pain ebbed slightly, enough for Jorel to open his eyes fully and take in his surroundings. The examiners were already preparing the next phase of the test, their expressions professional and detached. Jorel took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.

He was ready. He had to be.

Because failure was not an option.