Michael shut the door behind him, glancing back as if he were the protagonist of a film. After all, don't we all believe we're the stars of our own stories?
He arrived at the gates of Emox, though the disintegration process didn't capture his interest this time. His body vanished and reappeared in a room filled with strangers. The room was entirely made of iron—cold, windowless, and suffocating. There was no visible source of light, yet it was brightly illuminated. It was paradoxical, much like everything else in this place. The space seemed small but somehow contained over a hundred people. It made no sense.
As Michael was lost in thought, a voice echoed through the air. "We meet again. Well, you passed the first test—making it here on time. Now, this is the final stage. Hope you're ready. Die."
The crowd glanced around, confused, but in a room that ignored every law of reality, there was no speaker, no clear source of the voice. Michael realized this space itself was an ability—a place where logic and order had no dominion.
The voice continued, "There are 150 of you. We only want fifty. Have a nice day."
The meaning was clear: kill or be killed. Simple, brutal, classic.
Michael scanned the room. He had no abilities, nothing within him had awakened. He was just a boy—outmatched, outgunned, outnumbered. But survival wasn't optional. He had to live.
If only to hear what Almada had to say tonight.
He glanced left. He stared right. The one hundred and fifty people around him were activating their abilities, powers surging to life. Michael noticed a few of them sitting cross-legged in a corner. He figured he might as well join them.
About ten of them sat quietly on the floor, and Michael, curious, broke the silence. "So, why are you guys sitting here?"
They looked at him and ignored the question, except for one who muttered, "They're too weak."
Michael almost laughed. Did they really think they were strong, sitting there like Madara Uchiha? What a bunch of idiots. Of course, he kept that thought to himself.
Meanwhile, the battle around them raged on. Abilities flared and collided, but no one had died yet—not because they were evenly matched, but because no one wanted to be the first to kill. Until the voice returned, cold and mechanical.
"If no one dies in the next five minutes, a random person will."
A wave of dread swept through the room. Michael's eyes widened as he heard a scream—a woman's voice, sharp and filled with terror. He turned to see blood splattered across the floor, the first casualty.
The room went silent, but not out of fear. It was lust. Lust for blood. A hunger for death. The air became thick with tension, each person now eying the others, ready to kill.
"He doesn't have an ability!" a girl suddenly shouted, pointing directly at Michael. At me. At us.
Michael's blood boiled. He made a vow then and there—he would kill her for this. But for now, survival was the priority.
Everyone turned their gaze toward him, smiling, creeping closer, believing her accusation without question. Michael's pulse quickened, but he didn't falter. He looked ahead, reached into his pockets, and pulled out two knives. A slow smile crept across his face.
"Come on, you pathetic humans," he whispered. "Come and die. For kings always fall to slaves."