A/N: i humbly ask the reader to pinpoint any mistakes or contradictions in the story and report them to me in the comments.
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Out of nowhere, the protective energy bubbles popped, leaving every surviving child plummeting from two kilometers above the ground.
The reactions varied wildly. Some vomited uncontrollably, their bodies rejecting the sudden shift. Others lost consciousness entirely, the trauma overwhelming them. Many screamed, their cries piercing the turbulent air as if hoping it might save them. A few remained eerily calm, resigned to the possibility of death.
Among these, two distinct groups emerged: the broken and the desolate. The broken were those who had endured too much, their emotions dulled to nothingness. The desolate had lost everything they held dear, leaving them unafraid of death's embrace. Or perhaps, they were just children teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, their reactions driven by shock rather than calculation. After all, what were the chances of an eight-year-old remaining composed in such a moment?
As the ground raced toward them, panic reached its peak—but just before they hit, all the children were teleported into the mansion.
The landing was far from uniform. Some tumbled headfirst, crashing awkwardly into the luxurious floor. Others managed to mitigate their fall using basic techniques, and a few, like Asmodeus, employed mana bubbles to soften their descent.
Rising to his feet, Asmodeus surveyed the surroundings, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. It was a habit he had cultivated during his time as a low-ranking demon—a habit that had kept him alive.
The throne room was enormous, its scale beyond comprehension, spanning hundreds of meters in diameter. A massive chandelier dominated the ceiling's center, its construction a testament to extravagance: diamonds, gold, platinum, and silver intertwined in intricate patterns. The light it emitted was peculiar—not illumination in the traditional sense but rather a spell that granted everyone night vision. Asmodeus noted its practical use; it could strip sight from intruders, rendering all but the most skilled blind. For lower-ranked intruders like C-rankers or weak B-rankers, it was a death sentence.
The floor was blanketed in silk carpets, their softness a stark contrast to the room's oppressive aura. The walls bore tattoos of endless runes, each weaving into a breathtaking yet menacing tapestry. Only those with a mastery of mana or energy could discern their hidden purpose: the runes formed an intricate pattern of energy, a painting of a monstrous being.
The creature was enormous, its form a grotesque amalgamation of terror and majesty. Purple skin, adorned with thousands of eyes, four gaping mouths, and ten horns forming a crown-like structure atop its head. Asmodeus gave it a passing glance, feigning disinterest, though inwardly, he nodded in approval.
"These cultists have taste," he mused silently, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. Such an observation, if spoken aloud, could lead to two outcomes: recruitment by the cult or being hunted by the Soaring Phoenix Guild. While the guild tolerated the cult's existence due to its ancient roots predating the era of mana, any perceived allegiance from their members would be met with swift retribution.
Above them, a throne floated ominously, suspended in the air—or perhaps anchored to the ceiling. It was difficult to tell. Seated upon it was Dreamer, his gaze piercing as he looked down upon the gathered mortals. His once-disheveled appearance had been replaced with a composed, regal demeanor.
"Welcome to my masterpiece, children," Dreamer's voice echoed, his tone brimming with pride.
And he had every right to be proud. Manipulating a pseudo-domain with such precision was an unparalleled feat among his peers. While it lacked the true essence of an A-rank domain, being a mere illusion orchestrated by his will, the display was still magnificent.
This level of control came at a cost. Though Dreamer's true self remained unscathed, his incarnation was utterly drained. Without the aid of his items or equipment—restricted for this trial—even this illusion had taxed his reserves to their limits.
Before his thoughts could wander further, a sudden phantom pain jolted him back to the present. Grimacing slightly, Dreamer resumed speaking.
"The Cult has decided to make changes due to the extraordinary talents among you," he announced. "With multiple S-rank, A-rank, and B-rank abilities present, the team-based trials are no more. Instead, there will be one final trial—a free-for-all."
A murmur rippled through the room, only to be silenced by his raised hand.
"Allow me to clarify. This will not be a typical free-for-all. Killing is forbidden. Yes, I know, tragic. Instead, consider this a survival test."
The rules were outlined with cold precision:
1. No killing of other survivors.
2. Stealing is permitted.
3. Teaming is allowed but only if all teammates are C-rank or lower.
4. No cheating. This rule was directed squarely at the S-rank and A-rank talents.
"The trial will last one year," Dreamer continued. "It is a hunting game. Points are awarded based on the creatures you slay. To register these points, you must bring the corpses to the elves scattered across the map. These elves are sentient, B-rank beings, and I strongly advise against antagonizing them if you value your lives."
The point system was as follows:
Normal animals: 1–100 points, depending on their danger level.
Demonic beasts: 500 points.
Demonic bugs: 700 points.
Demonic birds: 1,000 points.
Cyclones: 10,000 points.
"No monster exceeds the B-rank," Dreamer emphasized. "And none are sentient. It is theoretically possible to kill every single creature if you're resourceful enough."
Victory belonged to the top ten point holders. Their reward? A revival card. The losers? Nothing.
"Now," Dreamer concluded, "for those who survived the previous trials, here's a parting gift: healing."
With a snap of his fingers, the room erupted in screams and sobs as the children were overcome with excruciating pain. Those broken by fear trials were restored to their original state. The injured were healed. The shattered were somehow pieced back together.
"Now," Dreamer declared, his voice booming with finality, "let the trial begin!"
The children, still reeling from their forced restoration, braced themselves. The seventh trial was underway, and survival demanded everything they had.
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