A horn blast blared outside the dark room. It was like a siren, and it stretched on for a long time, signaling the presence of the incoming Gates and for the Marked children to step out.
Slowly, they did.
Their feet dragged on the roughly cemented floor as they shuffled forward, leaving the dark room and walking into the blazing lights of the desert ends. They were all moving, yet it felt as though they were being dragged.
Jarren was in their midst, squeezing himself into the flow of bodies, barely managing to press forward without being swallowed by the mass of frightened, scrambling children.
Being so close to them, he could feel how frightened they all were, and that fright became ever so contagious as he himself began to feel his heart racing, matching the nervous rhythm of those around him.
Jarren's eyes moved around the crowd, looking at one face after the other while the only thing his mind kept telling him was that he was going to die inside the Gates. Just like every other extra here. Just like everyone that weren't the relevant characters in the story.
In desperation, his eyes caught a shiny, silver object amongst the bodies of the children in front of him. He quickly identified it as a small blade, tucked haphazardly in the loose folds of a boy's pocket. The boy in question was just walking ahead of him, unaware of the opportunity that he had just provided Jarren.
The desperate author took three deep breaths, and with a surge of survival instinct, he reached out and snatched the blade, then hid it swiftly inside his shirt.
The boy turned almost immediately. "What? No... my knife? My knife!" He patted his pocket frantically once he realized his weapon was missing. He began scanning the faces around him, but Jarren had already melted deeper into the crowd, acting like he had no idea of what had happened.
Naturally, he felt a little tinge of guilt, but Jarren shrugged it off immediately. There was no accommodation for that now, he was an extra, certain to die here just like all the rest. The best he could do was to take every advantage he could find.
Besides... 'That boy was going to die anyway,' he told himself.
Few steps after, he was out of the dark room and the hot blast of desert air was the first thing to greet him. There was a merciless sun, the one he had narrated to hang over the dry clouds of the desert ends.
Overhead, it blazed like an indifferent god, scorching the sand beneath their boots and the skin on the back of their necks. Jarren was grateful that Deremiah's body had come with a manageable pair of boots and a high collared shirt.
He looked at the legs of others and saw that some children here were barefooted. Jarren lifted his eyes from the feet of one and met the girl's gaze.
She had hollow eyes, tongue sticking out like it was about to fall and sweat trickling down her face — the only actual liquid in her body apart from blood because she looked extremely dehydrated and damn near dead.
Disgusted with the view and ashamed of himself for creating people to suffer like this, Jarren looked away and gulped. He too was parched, and sweat was already falling down his forehead.
Cursing himself, he squinted at the harshness of the landscape. 'So many other authors have written even more tragic sufferings for their characters. Why does it have to be me that must suffer mine?'
He was not prepared for this. But as he himself knew, none of them on that desert were.
The crowd spread out slowly, on their faces were dejection and terror, but bravery shone on the ones who believed they were ready. These ones stood tall, weapons in hand, ready for battle and the glories that awaited them beyond the Gates.
The others trembled, whispers of fear passing between them. Jarren noticed some were already crying — wide-eyed children who had turned sixteen a few days or weeks ago and believed themselves too young to be thrust into this nightmare.
Pitiful. But as Commander Shoreshanc said and as Jarren had written; When the Gates call, you answer.
Jarren's eyes found Zenith, standing among the crowd with Zena still by his side. He then glanced over at Sarah and Varion, another bonded duo who, like the twins, would soon be torn apart by the trials. Everyone here would enter alone, no matter how much they clung to their bonds now.
Jarren, on the other hand, was already alone.
"They're coming!" someone yelled.
Wide-eyed, the distracted author realized that everyone had been waiting in anticipation for the Gates while his mind had been elsewhere. He felt a pulse beneath the sandy earth, the pulse became a vibration, and the vibration became a rumbling.
The Gates indeed were coming.
Not too far in the distance, a shimmering occurred in the horizon. Jarren watched as the air twisted, taking a magical color and alchemizing itself into massive, altitudinous portals.
Dum... drooom!
A burst of wind followed and gushed against the Marked children, who used their hands to shield their faces from the sands.
When the wind stopped, they saw the architecture of the Gates manifest itself, then slowly began to solidify. At their center was a swirling white light, contrasted with some blue, some yellow and all the colors in a cursed spectrum.
They lined up before the Marked. Gate after Gate, stretching beyond what Jarren's eyes could see. They were built like actual gates of mansions and castles, but their towering arches shimmered with magic and each of them was unique, ingrained with runes that kept pulsing — turning on, turning off, turning on...
It was bone-chilling.
The faces of the Marked children turned ghostly pale as they stared at the looming portals. Even those who had prepared for this moment looked stricken with awe and terror, now they were all doubting themselves.
After all, no one here knew what truly awaited them beyond those swirling, white-glowing thresholds. Except Jarren. Jarren knew.
Every single person standing there on the desert ends, he knew their fate. He wrote it himself.
And it wasn't like any of them had a choice. The Gates' Marking system was extremely unfair. Some of these children had been chosen months ago, given time to train, to arm themselves, and ready their minds for the Trials.
Others, just like the poor soul whose body Jarren now inhabited, had barely received their Marks a week ago. Deremiah Morcant had been one of the unlucky ones. And because he was so certain that he would perish in the Trials, he had chosen to end his life rather than face the Gates.
This brief burst of memory pierced through Jarren's mind, and he winced, feeling a sharp but short pain in his head. It seemed the next process of reincarnation was happening, although at a much slower pace.
Jarren was regaining the memories of the old host, they were trickling in slowly, like drops of water on a dry towel, dampening it with information of Deremiah's past life.
Jarren cursed for the umpteenth time. 'Why is everything so different for me?' This process of reincarnation was way too sluggish, and by feeding him Deremiah's past bit by bit, he was left with fragments. He didn't have the full picture, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
But to be fair, this was also his fault. Perhaps it was completely his fault. He was the one who had created Deremiah with no back story and the singular purpose of dying in that bathroom. So what memories exactly was he expecting to get?
Another curse left his lips.
The trumpet blared once again, and all the children shuddered collectively when they heard it. Some of them looked backwards to the top of the fortress where Commander Shoreshanc was standing authoritatively with two men at both sides.
"Step into the Gates, participants. Begin your Trials!" he ordered.
The drums returned. Dum… dum… dum…
Reverberating, steady, daunting.
The children all felt the tension through their bodies, but not a single one of them moved. They knew they were going to have to eventually, but no one was apparently brave enough to take the first step. Including those who had come prepared for battle.
The drums stopped.
Jarren's eyes looked around in the damning silence. There was the sound of wind, someone sobbing, the Gates swirling, but no sound of footsteps.
"I said move, damnit!" Shoreshanc barked out in anger.
Still nothing but the noise of silence.
But then, Jarren felt a rough shove on his shoulder, causing him to stumble forward. He barely managed to catch himself when he turned his head.
A girl with raven-dark hair and armor that gleamed obsidian black just strode past him at that moment. She shoved her way through the bodies of the other children, moving with purpose.
People began to whisper and the crowd parted in reverence as she passed. Her hips swayed to each side under her magnificent metal armor, and a gallant sword hung slanted upon the swordhold on her back.
There was a black thin crown on her head that although was made of obsidian steel, appeared to be created with thorns. Her presence was impossible to ignore and her aura was almost as queenly as her beauty.
Jarren's eyes widened. She was Elora of Dawn.
Looking at her, one would think that she was the main character of an epic fantasy novel, a female prince Arthur a person might say. She sure as hell gave off that energy. But Elora was also, unbelievably, an extra.
Although she was one of the few to have a stronger backstory, being a descendant of the Dawn Bloodline who had always been renowned for their triumphs in the Gates, Elora's only service to Jarren's story was to die.
In the webnovel, she sacrifices herself to save Zenith out of her respect for his character. But now, watching her march into the Gates, Jarren felt a pang of regret and a jolt of enlightenment.
Perhaps… perhaps the readers had been right. Elora was a promising character.
He and the rest of the Marked watched as she kept marching forward, then disappeared into one of the waiting Gates.
A ripple spread through the crowd, and that was all the motivation they needed. Someone took a step forward, then another. Slowly, the Marked children began to move, entering into the Gates one after the other.
Zenith and Zena walked hand-in-hand toward a Gate, so did Sarah and Varion. Zolfan, Tereyie, Grendon, Shanks, and all the minor characters Jarren knew would survive.
He followed at a distance, heart pounding, mind scrambling. With his palm, he touched the cold steel of his knife through his shirt, using it as a means to assure himself that he had a chance to survive.
The more he walked, the closer he got, the closer he got, the larger the terrifying figures of the Gates became, and fear gripped his heart tighter than ever.
This was it.
Jarren crossed the threshold and the whiteness of the swirling light engulfed him.
You made the games, Jarren. It was high time you played it.