I awoke to an immediate, searing agony. Even before my eyes opened, I was painfully aware that my entire body felt like it had been ground into dust. And truly, when I managed to blink away my disorientation and glance down at myself, I found it a miracle I was still alive. My ragged breath came in shallow bursts, each inhale rattling through a chest that felt barely capable of expanding at all.
I was lying on cold stone, within what looked like a small subterranean chamber. The first thing I did was remain still, focusing on not passing out from the waves of pain coursing along my battered limbs and torso.
"Over a hundred fractures... or more," I guessed. The human body has 206 bones, and I suspected over half of mine were broken or cracked in some manner. My internal organs felt inflamed, each an epicenter of torment. My abdomen, in particular, radiated a deep, ferocious ache that told me the hole from the Elder's Qi beam was far from healed. Indeed, only the faint scab of scalded flesh remained, and I felt a lingering toxic energy still chewing at the wound from within.
For a long, hazy moment, I merely let myself lie there, trying to pull in air through the dryness of my throat. No Qi remained in my dantian—my reserves were fully drained. I wasn't sure how long I'd been unconscious, but it must have been enough time for minimal scabbing to form over open injuries. And yet, I was certain I'd bleed out if I moved too soon.
After a while—minutes or an hour, I wasn't sure—I slowly, carefully closed my eyes and began to cultivate. Not in a formal pose, no lotus posture, because that alone would likely snap half my bones anew. I just focused on internal breathing, letting the ambient Qi of this place seep into my battered meridians.
To my surprise, the Qi in the air felt heavy and rich, easily five times denser than that of my living quarters in the sect. In different circumstances, I might have marveled at discovering such a cultivation haven. Right now, I only used it to keep myself alive. The healing speed of my usual regeneration helped, but with such extensive damage, progress remained negligible. At best, I could keep from deteriorating further.
▬▬ι═══════ﺤ
Five days passed in a blurry mixture of pain and half-conscious awareness. I drifted between short cultivations and fleeting bursts of unconsciousness. My single advantage was that no one came to disturb me. Yet each time I woke, I felt barely any improvement. My shoulders still throbbed; the gaping wound in my abdomen occasionally oozed fresh blood, aggravated by any movement. The tingling Qi residue from the Elder's attack lingered, infecting the wound with an aura that slowed my body's normal recovery. More than once, I coughed up black clots, a sign that the infiltration still raged within my flesh.
On the fifth day, I finally mustered enough will to push myself upright. The pain that exploded at the attempt made black spots dance in my vision, but I clenched my jaw and forced my limbs to cooperate. Swallowing all the remaining Qi Replenishing Pills I had in my pouch, I tried to ignore how little they helped. My body needed time, not just pills. But time and resources were both scarce.
I surveyed my immediate surroundings. The cavern was cramped, around eight meters across and even less in height. The walls were rough but seemed to have a swirling pattern of black and red streaks—an ore or something akin, though I recognized no hallmark of it. No sign of a door or corridor, no sign of the opening that had drawn me in.
Gritting my teeth, I lurched to my feet, leaning heavily on the wall. My speed would have put the limp of a severely crippled person to shame—Sakayanagi had walked with a cane, but at least she could move with some fluidity. I was slower, each step feeling like my leg bones were grinding into dust. Still, I pressed on, scouring every corner for an exit or hidden passage.
Amid that painstaking circuit, I discovered a small niche in the rock. Within it, half-buried under rubble, stood a stone idol about waist-high. The moment I laid eyes on it, a foul aura prickled along my skin, emanating in waves of dark red Qi. Ominous and oppressive. The idol's form was vaguely humanoid but distorted—twisting horns crowned its head, and lines like veins etched its chest. A malevolent presence clung to it, thick enough that it choked the breath in my lungs.
"No good," I muttered, taking a half step backward. My instincts screamed that meddling with that idol was a poor idea. Even battered as I was, I recognized a forbidden or at least extremely dangerous object. "I'll look elsewhere," I told myself.
But the rest of the cave offered no comfort. After half an hour of hobbling, I confirmed the place was basically a closed chamber—fully sealed. The walls were solid; there were no cracks that led anywhere. No door. No entrance. My memory recalled how the hill had turned translucent and dragged me in, meaning it wasn't a natural formation.
"Hmph!"
A snort echoed behind me from the idol's reaction. It made me spin so fast I almost toppled. Pain flared along my ribs. Recovering, I stared—a figure was emerging from the idol, like an incorporeal phantom.
A shape coalesced into a middle-aged man—a savage countenance with a large scar slashing diagonally across his face, and continuing down his exposed stomach. His scarlet-red hair fell in thick waves, more intense in hue than Mo Hong's. It was like the color of blood. The Qi rolling off him was so immense it drowned the air in dread. Even the aura from Mo Hong and Sun Min, the two Nascent Soul cultivators, couldn't compare—this was an entirely different league, so colossal that my mind boggled at the difference.
His eyes bored into me, interest or amusement flickering behind them. The savage scar lent him a permanently aggressive look, and his aura practically dripped menace. Even so, I tried to keep my face blank, ignoring the excruciating pain in my gut.
"Still in one piece, are you?" he said in a low voice, half to himself. The idol behind him flickered, a sign of whatever tethered him to this place. His gaze swept over my battered body, the hole in my side, and the dried blood caking my clothes. "I wasn't certain you'd endure that final strike."
I swallowed, ignoring the agony lancing through my throat. "You... pulled me here," I said, remembering how the translucent hill had grabbed me and dragged me into this chamber. He must have been the one who rescued me at that last instant, before I bled out or got finished off.
"That's correct," he said, stepping away from the idol as though passing through a thin film of water. He radiated an aura reminiscent of half-embodied spirit, a remnant rather than a living cultivator. "Some call me the Crimson Sage, though that title is a relic of a time long past." His scar twisted with a faint sneer. "And you are the child who survived the slaughter outside my temple."
His lips quirked, something like dark amusement in his expression. "I witnessed it all—the group of enemies, your so-called allies dying in droves, you dispatching your foes one by one until only that puny Foundation Establishment cultivator's intrusion nearly ended you." He scanned my injuries with a slow, methodical stare. "Quite the capacity for brutality you've shown, given your meager cultivation. That caught my interest."
I exhaled, the mere motion straining my body. "Why did you... intervene?"
He gave a dismissive wave. "Because I found you intriguing, that's all. My idol's wards recognized your Qi. In any case, I had the power to draw you into this hidden chamber, away from that man's finishing blow. So I did." His scarlet hair drifted, as though moved by an unfelt breeze. "Either you're an interesting seed to cultivate, or I let you die like the rest. I chose the first."
My mind reeled. This man's aura surpassed anything I'd sensed before. And this was just a remnant—who knew how powerful his true body had once been?
"What... do you want from me?"
The Crimson Sage let out a low chuckle, a sound that sent a faint ripple through the air. "What do I want?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. His crimson eyes gleamed, sharp with amusement yet carrying an unfathomable depth. "Now, that is an excellent question."
His gaze bore into me, dissecting every fiber of my being as though peeling away layers of flesh and bone to examine whatever lay beneath. The air itself felt heavier under his scrutiny, charged with a weight that had nothing to do with Qi and everything to do with presence. His aura shifted, thickening with a metallic tang that clung to the air like an invisible mist. It wasn't just power that surrounded him—it was the weight of countless deaths. The very air felt drenched in the echoes of slaughter.
"Do not be so tense, child," he said smoothly. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have wasted the effort to save you."
I remained silent.
A low hum left his lips as he took a slow step forward, the flickering idol behind him distorting ever so slightly.
"You possess something rare," he finally said. "An iron will, a mind as sharp as tempered steel. Even backed into a corner, bleeding out, you didn't succumb to fear. You fought." He grinned, revealing sharp, white teeth. "More importantly, you fought efficiently. No wasted movements. No desperate, reckless flailing. Every action, every kill, methodical." His amusement deepened. "Ah, what a rare thing to witness."
I said nothing, my breath slow and measured despite the pain lacing every inhale.
"You intrigue me, boy." His tone was unreadable. "And I do so hate to waste potential." He raised a hand, his fingers curling faintly in the air. The space around us trembled in response, the faint scent of blood intensifying. "So I am offering you an opportunity."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of opportunity?"
His smile widened. "Simple. You are strong, but you are not enough. That fight—no, your entire existence until now—has been a mere struggle against limitations. You lack power, you lack knowledge, and you lack the means to transcend the shackles of this world." His voice turned almost coaxing, a thread of temptation woven into each syllable. "I can fix that."
Power. Knowledge. Transcendence.
I exhaled slowly, ignoring the faint coil of something dangerous curling in my gut.
"What's the price?" I asked flatly.
His laughter came dark and rich, echoing against the unseen walls of this hidden space. The oppressive air around him pulsed, laced with unseen carnage, as though every death he had ever caused whispered through his Qi.
The Crimson Sage's laughter faded, leaving behind an oppressive silence. The scent of blood still lingered, thick and cloying. His scarred face twisted into something between amusement and cruel expectation.
"Ah," he mused, his scarred face twisting with delight. "Now that is the right question."
"You must undergo my inheritance, however, this is no ordinary inheritance, boy," he said, his voice carrying the weight of something absolute. "There is no gradual acceptance, no time for contemplation. You stand at the threshold of power, but the door only opens one way. Either you step through, or you are crushed beneath it."
He continued on. "A test of worth. Succeed, and my legacy—my power—will be yours. Fail, and you will perish." He took a single step forward, his presence distorting the space around him. "No second chances. No mercy."
The words settled into the air like a decree, absolute and binding. There was no room for hesitation. No negotiation. Either I survived this trial or I ceased to exist.
"Very well," I said simply. "Begin."
The Crimson Sage grinned, his scar stretching across his face like a gash. "Good."
The world around me shifted instantly, and everything once again turned black.
▬▬ι═══════ﺤ
I woke up at 5:30 AM as usual, blinking my eyes open in my dorm room at Advanced Nurturing High School. The ceiling lights seemed as mundane as ever—nothing out of place. I sat up in my accustomed dorm bed, the fair hum of the air conditioning sounding in the background.
Pushing aside the blanket, I rose from bed, changed into my gym clothes, and headed out for my regular morning exercise. In the gym, I briefly exchanged words with Sudo. He was pushing himself harder than usual, gearing up for the end-of-year Special Exam. I continued my own brief workout, then returned to my dorm to shower and prepare for the day ahead.
Perhaps it was the tension of exams, or maybe I was imagining things, but I felt a flicker of awareness that time was passing too ordinarily. Discarding that thought, I headed out for the main building. Students congregated in small groups, discussing notes or chatting about weekend plans. So far, the day was as routine as any other at ANHS.
By mid-morning, we'd settled into our first classes. The final exam schedule posted on the board reminded everyone how close the year's end was. The teacher droned on about test formats, but I found my thoughts drifting. Strange. I feel... oddly unsettled. Yet there was no apparent reason—just a faint sense that something could be off. But the day progressed with quiet normalcy, and I couldn't place any real cause for this feeling.
At lunchtime, I walked to the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning for a free table. Kei flagged me down, smiling from across the room. I joined her at a small table by the window. She had a half-finished meal, chatting enthusiastically about some new clothing store that had opened in the mall district on campus.
"Seriously, it's all the rage right now," Kei said, fiddling with her fork. "I saw so many new arrivals—lots of cute stuff. You should come with me once the exam's over."
I nodded, half-focused on her words. Part of me flickered with déjà vu, as though we'd had this conversation before. But that made no sense. I'd definitely remember a conversation about a brand-new store if we'd had it. Maybe I was conflating it with her usual updates about fashion. I pushed the odd thought aside.
Across the cafeteria, I briefly noticed Ryuen with his group. He looked up, our gazes meeting for a split second. A small smirk tugged at his lips, typical of his borderline-taunting manner. Nothing out of the ordinary. I returned my attention to Kei, who was giving me a curious look.
"You're off in your head again," she teased, though her tone carried slight concern. "Worried about the tests, or what? I never see you this absent."
"Just... thinking," I replied, not offering specifics. "But I'm fine." It was the same answer I always gave, and Kei's eyes narrowed a bit in mild exasperation, but she let it drop.
We finished lunch, discussing trivial things like new coffee flavors at the café. Afterward, we went off to the next class, our afternoon periods.
In the final class—Japanese History with Chabashira—I sat at my usual desk. Light streamed in, forming a warm patch on the floor. Matsushita, seated beside me, occasionally glanced my way, as if uncertain about something. Or maybe just bored. Chabashira droned on about Meiji era reforms, but my mind again nibbled at that sense of mild unease. Why did I feel as if I was stepping through a script I'd read before?
I absently tapped my pen on the desk, trying to ground myself in the present. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust, the teacher's voice quiet and monotone. My classmates looked similarly resigned, wanting the day to end. If not for that unshakable feeling, I'd categorize this entire experience as another forgettable slice of daily school life.
Suddenly, the classroom door slammed open with a jarring crack—loud enough to make several students gasp. In fact, it wasn't just opened—it had been kicked in, the impact sending a dull reverberation through the walls. Instantly, every conversation died. Chabashira froze mid-sentence, turning to see what was going on.
A large group—twelve people—stormed inside. They weren't dressed in anything resembling the school uniform or normal clothes. Instead, they wore mismatched combat suits, some brandishing knives or batons. A couple carried short swords. Their appearances were all over the place: one man looked like a scruffy, savage bandit with wild hair and a heavy scar across his jaw, while another was a strikingly beautiful young woman in sleek black attire, holding a blade with deadly poise. There were older individuals, younger ones, men and women—no shared uniform, no single style. It was like a collage of mercenaries thrown together out of nowhere.
The rest of the class froze, each student stiffening. Horikita's eyes flicked around, evaluating. Sudo gripped the edge of his desk, about to stand. Kei, who sat near me, sucked in a tiny gasp, her gaze darting from me to the intruders. The entire room was locked in shock.
"What on earth—?!" Chabashira started, voice taut, but the savage man at the forefront growled a warning. Another figure, the beautiful woman, scanned the rows of desks, her expression cold and predatory.
Twelve intruders, armed and radiating a readiness for violence. They had battered the door open without any warning and now stared down an entire class in an advanced high school. The dissonance was stark: a modern, safe education environment assaulted by a ragtag band of seemingly professional—or at least ruthless—fighters.
Some of them twitched as if about to say something, but the savage, burly man took the lead. He spoke in a low, harsh voice that clashed with the tidy classroom ambiance. "Nobody move," he commanded. "We're here for a reason." He lifted an axe, letting it glint threateningly in the fluorescent light. At his back, the other eleven spread out, forming a rough semicircle around the stunned students.
No one dared breathe too loudly. Sudo half-rose, fists tight, but the man shot him a glare. "Sit down," he snarled, brandishing that axe at Sudo's direction. Sudo, uncertain if it was worth risking a fight, slowly sank back, though tension rippled in his shoulders. Meanwhile, Ike and Shinohara looked terrified, glued to their chairs. Even Horikita remained stock-still, though her eyes flickered, likely calculating possible outcomes.
"What... is the meaning of this?" Chabashira demanded, mustering her usual stern tone, but the group ignored her, scanning each desk. The savage man turned, noticing the teacher. "You. Stop yapping. We're not here for conversation." He took a step forward, brandishing the axe near Chabashira's face. She stiffened, swallowing her protest. Silence clamped over the classroom once more.
One of the intruders let out a rasping chuckle, his gaze snapping between me and the savage axe wielder. Then his face contorted into a mix of anger and grim delight as he spoke, directing everyone's attention to me. "Look who I've found," he hissed. "If it isn't Bái Xūé... or should I say, Ayanokoji Kiyotaka?"
Instantly, my classmates' eyes darted to me in shock, panic rippling through the room. Bái Xūé? The name meant nothing to me, yet a flicker of some deep, unplaceable recollection nagged at the back of my mind. Why did it feel as if I'd heard it before somewhere? At the same time, the intruders—twelve in total, now minus the axe wielder stepping forward—turned as one and glowered at me with a hatred that felt personal, like they'd been hunting me.
All around, my classmates radiated dread. From the corner of my eyes, outside the classroom, I spotted Ichinose, Sakayanagi, Ryuen and even Amasawa who looked like she was ready to jump into the chaos. A few students from other classes had gathered, eyes wide, but nobody dared intervene. For a fleeting moment, I wondered Are they delusional? Why aren't they escaping?
Ignoring them, I yet again saw every student in the room. My old friend group had panic and fear written in their faces, presumably fearing my situation.
"W-Why do they know your name, Kiyot—?" Kei stammered, shivering at my side. Her question trailed off the moment one of them growled at her. Horikita joined in, trying to broker calm, but the hostile group dismissed any attempts at peace with a single glare.
"Stand aside," I told Kei and Horikita, my voice edged with a cold finality. The tension in my tone made them step away, despite wanting to shield me. An this moment, I recognized that discussion was pointless. They wanted my head—no question.
The bandit-like man hefting the axe finally advanced. "Hahaha, there he is, the ruthless boy, but this is the end for you." He curled his lips in a sneer, brandishing the weapon with savage confidence, as though he couldn't wait to split me in half.
I took a slow breath and stood up from my seat, ignoring Kei's frightened whisper of my name. The intruder seized the moment: he swung his axe full speed toward my torso, the air whistling from the force. Students screamed my name, but I'd already emptied my mind of their cries, focusing on the man's trajectory.
In the space of a heartbeat, I twisted my body a fraction to the side, letting the axe whoosh past me. It slammed instead into the desk, splitting it in two with a deafening crunch of wood. Before the man could yank the blade free, I struck: my right elbow snapped forward, smashing into his solar plexus with every ounce of force I had. He gasped, eyes bulging, the wind knocked out of him. I caught the back of his head with my left hand, preventing him from staggering away. A strangled grunt tore from his throat.
With a swift downward jerk, I shoved his head toward the stuck axe—his own momentum causing his face to collide painfully with the metal. He shrieked in muffled agony, blood spurting across the handle. Not done, I raised my right foot and brought it stomping down on the back of his skull, driving it further into the axe's sharpened edge.
A sickening, wet crunch rang out as his skull caved. A fountain of crimson and clotted brain matter spattered upward, painting my shoes and the remnants of the desk. The man's cry ended in a gruesome gurgle. His body went limp, twitching once as his last breath escaped in a choking rasp. I exhaled, withdrawing my foot from the bloody pulp that remained of his head.
Silence slammed over the classroom, so complete that you could've heard a pin drop. Shock gripped both my classmates and the rest of the intruders. Even the other eleven armed assailants hesitated, eyes flicking from their comrade's destroyed corpse to me, as though reconciling some memory.
A heavy tension radiated through the room. My classmates—Ike, Shinohara, Maezona, Kei, Horikita, Matsushita, all of them—looked at me in undisguised horror. Even Koenji was shocked and found no words in this situation. I probably appeared monstrous, face and blazer sprayed with fresh gore, breathing level as if unaffected. The sight must have contradicted everything they believed about me.
I calmly peeled off my blazer—now soaked in red and chunks of brain tissue—and used part of it to wipe some of the blood splatter from my face. Tossing the ruined garment aside, I stood in my white collared shirt, faint red splotches staining the front. My expression remained impassive, unflinching. The job was done.
My classmates were speechless. Kei's eyes welled with tears, unable to fully reconcile the quiet me with the gore-splattered figure standing over a mangled corpse. Horikita's knuckles whitened on her desk, her composure shaken. Ryuen watched with an odd expression that yet hinted at admiration... or terror. Chabashira, our teacher, could only stare, lips parted, at the dead intruder near my destroyed desk.
I stood there, letting the hush persist. My breathing was steady, my eyes coldly assessing the remaining foes. This wasn't over. They still outnumbered me. But the brutal demonstration left them momentarily rattled.
Inside, I felt only a numb acceptance, my mind coldly acknowledging the necessity of such violence. If they intended to kill me, I had no choice. Even if I couldn't piece together how or why this happened in a normal high school environment, it seemed my instincts guided me. Now, I was here, in a classroom-turned-battlefield, awaiting the next move.
A jagged cracking sound erupted as I yanked the axe free from the corpse, the broken remains of the bandit's skull slipping off with a wet thud. For a heartbeat, that was the only noise in the entire room—an eerie hush enveloped the classroom. My classmates, trembling and pale, stared in wide-eyed horror at my calm, emotionless demeanor. It must have appeared downright inhuman to them.
But I was too immersed in my own thoughts, letting fragments of realization slot into place. All pieces of the puzzle fell together. Everything lined up. I remembered everything: How I was transported to another world, my time in the Nightshade Monastery, and finally the inheritance trial by the Crimson Sage. These intruders were faces from my past kills. Possibly illusions or constructs, repeating the moment of their demise—except now set in a bizarre stage of my classroom. If the trial's goal was to test whether I recognized its falsity, I'd have succeeded. Yet it continued. So it must be something else: perhaps I needed to kill them again. I'd already done it once. Doing so a second time was trivial.
"You! I'll kill you, brat!" roared a furious voice. My attention snapped back to the present. One of the men I recognized as the "uncle" figure from the original bandit encounter. His eyes blazed with hatred and grief. He lunged, a sword slashing down in a wild arc.
I raised the axe to block, the blades meeting with a resounding clang. At the same moment, several more converged on me, weapons ready to strike. A swift pivot let me sidestep the uncle's blow, forcing him off balance. I took the chance to swing at him, ignoring his own feeble attempt at a counter. If neither of us flinched, our strikes would land simultaneously—yet I knew, from experience, that he'd retreat rather than trade a lethal blow.
Sure enough, the man stumbled back to avoid my slash. I was prepared: the second he moved, I hurled the axe. It spun through the air and lodged in his back with a meaty thud. He released a strangled cry, crashing face-first to the floor. Blood spurted around the embedded axe, forming an ever-spreading pool of dark red.
I wasted no time. Ripping his sword free from his stiffening hand, I turned, scanning for new threats. The stench of blood rose thickly, pungent enough that some students vomited—the retching sounds blending with the dying gurgles of the man. Around me, half the intruders tried to rally, but my blade was in motion before they could coordinate. A savage thrust here, a deft slash there—limbs parted from torsos, skulls caved in under repeated blows. Their own illusions of superiority crumbled as I attacked with precise footwork and disciplined technique. It wasn't brute force; each strike was carefully timed to exploit an opening, each parry minimal, turning their power against them.
"Aaaaagh—" one man screeched, my sword piercing his heart. He dropped in a spray of blood. I stepped over him, scything the blade into another's throat, severing carotid and jugular in one fluid motion. Another stumbled back, only to have me lunge forward—slicing a diagonal gash across his chest so deep that I glimpsed bone. He collapsed, screaming, while my classmates watched, paralyzed.
Chaos overtook the classroom. Students shrieked at each fresh spatter of gore, cowering behind desks or dropping to the floor. The intruders' once-confident expressions twisted into panic. The smell of viscera and fear blanketed the room. My breath was even, my pulse steady, no adrenaline shock—just an icy calm reminiscent of that first time I'd needed to kill for survival. Indeed, I recognized each kill, remembering the original scenario. The logic was coldly consistent: "I have done this already. Another time won't change anything."
Splatters of blood painted the walls, the floor slick with the remains of the fallen. The next moment, two more collapsed, one from a severed spinal cord, the other with a sword lodged in his eye socket. Neither screamed for long.
Eventually, only three remained. The first two were the so-called seventh-stage cultivators who died from the others' attack, trembling at my unstoppable approach, while the third—Luo Ming, their past leader—stood to the side, face livid, arms shaking. They hesitated to converge. Still, hatred burned in Luo Ming's eyes.
I dashed at him without warning, ramming the blunt edge of the sword into his solar plexus. His breath whooshed out, his body folding. I left him gasping for air on his knees and pivoted to the two cultivators. They looked uncertain, glancing between their wounded leader and me, but they mustered what was left of their courage to attack. A quick exchange of blows: metal clashed, echoing alongside muffled sobs from the students. With each frantic strike they made, I dodged or parried, forcing them into corners. Finally, I sliced off both of their arms at the elbows, each blow done with a single, precise slash. They collapsed to the ground, howling, blood gushing from the stumps.
Silence descended.
Their stumps spurted red, forming puddles on the tile floor as I stood amidst the carnage, sword slick with gore. My classmates were beyond words, faces ghostly pale. Some had fainted, others vomited or clutched each other in trembling horror. The classroom was unrecognizable, a scene of abattoir-level brutality. And me—unscathed and unnervingly calm—stood in the center of it all.
I let my gaze drift back to Luo Ming, who still knelt, coughing for air. The illusions—the trial—should be nearly over. I stared at the mutilated bodies, recalling how I'd ended them in the real fight. This felt so routine now. As if their final demise was always fated. The hush pressed on every side, broken only by ragged breathing and the drip, drip of blood off the desks.
Taking a step forward, I dropped my sword momentarily, the metal clattering on a once-clean floor. Then I grabbed both of the still-screaming men by the back of their hair, dragging their limp form across the slick tiles, ignoring their frenzied shrieks. My shoes skidded a bit, gore pooling at every step. At that obscene sight, the classroom's hush reached a new depth, as though even the air refused to carry sound.
Silence.
Silence that didn't last long, as, behind me, Kei and a few others uttered a faint cry. I ignored them all. My focus was wholly on finishing the last vestiges of the men. As I pulled the two barely conscious men, I felt no flicker of hesitation. This was the trial. If it demanded I kill them again, then I would do so. This trial was after all connected to my survival.
I released the broken-limbed man, letting his body slump to the floor in a heap of trembling flesh, but I still maintained my grip on the other—my left hand curled around his hair, keeping him upright. The classroom air was thick with the stench of blood and viscera, mingling nauseatingly with the acrid tang of vomit. My next move was methodical: with my free right hand, I unlatched the tall second-floor window and slid it up, letting a cool breeze sweep into the gore-laden room.
Several students gasped, suspecting what I intended. The wounded man on the ground realized it too. His eyes bulged in panic the moment I seized him by the collar. "N-No, please!" he rasped, his voice raw from screaming. "I won't— I promise, I—!" His pleas died mid-sentence. With a burst of strength, I hauled him up, ignoring his flailing arms as he tried to cling to my sleeves. In one clean movement, I tossed him out the window.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH—!" The scream dwindled in a blink, replaced by a sickening thud from outside. It left a horrible echo in the still air, and a few of my classmates cried out, some reflexively covering their mouths to stifle new waves of nausea.
Then I turned my attention to the man still in my left hand. He had been half delirious, but hearing his comrade's terminal shriek snapped him back. Terror flooded his gaze. "Please, no—No, wait, I—!" But I didn't hesitate. Shifting my stance, I hurled him through the open window as well.
Another scream cut through the corridor's hush, sharper and more desperate than the first. Again, it stopped abruptly with a dull, bone-crunching impact. Peering outside, I glimpsed their bodies sprawled on the ground two stories below, arms and legs twisted. They lay side by side, blood pooling beneath them, ironically entwined in death as they crashed together.
I exhaled faintly, turning to face the remainder. The entire class stared at me, horrified. There was something undeniably more chilling about an execution by gravity, listening to a victim's final scream abruptly stop. It was a haunting finale, resonating in their ears. Even those too numb to react earlier showed fresh shock, as though this method of killing rankled their nerves more than all the butchery inside.
My gaze landed on the last man still breathing—Luo Ming, their supposed leader, or at least the final survivor of this farce. He'd managed to regain enough sense to witness both of his allies flung to their deaths. Now he crouched near a toppled desk, an ugly gash on his forehead, eyes reflecting raw terror as they locked onto my cold stare.
"You... you...monster!" he spat, spittle flying. "How can someone like you even exist?!"
I strode forward, ignoring his outburst. He tried to back away, but his injuries slowed him. I seized him by the throat, not squeezing yet, simply pinning him in place like a specimen. He panicked, voice cracking. "I—I surrender! Please! Mercy—!"
As though hearing a cue, Chabashira crept closer behind me. Her voice shook. "A-Ayanokoji... you've done enough. If you kill him now, it's... the police are already on their way. This might not count as self-defense anymore."
Her words drifted over me, hollow. I glanced around, seeing the devastation I'd wrought: blood spread in wide arcs on the floor, desks and chairs spattered with brain matter, severed body parts scattered like grotesque debris. The smell was suffocating. Some of my classmates huddled against the walls, tears streaking their faces; others looked ready to collapse. Forty-plus eyes stared at me with various degrees of shock, horror, and incomprehension.
Who wouldn't? They saw me, a 17-year-old, disposing of 12 armed adults without facing injuries, killing them brutally one after the other, without showing any remorse or emotion.
I let my gaze drift across the room, taking in each reaction. Kei stood frozen, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, her eyes locked onto me as if she no longer recognized the person standing before her. Horikita, usually composed, had gone deathly pale, lips parted in stunned disbelief. Sudo, who had always seen himself as a fighter, stiffened in the corner, his fists clenched—not out of defiance, but from the quiet, crushing realization that I was something far beyond what he could ever contend with.
Even those I once considered part of my old friend group couldn't meet my eyes. Ichinose, standing in the corridor, covered her mouth with both hands, her body trembling as tears welled up. Ryuen, the one who had once called me a monster with casual amusement, now wore a look of raw unease. He had spoken the words before, but he never truly understood what they meant. Now, he did. Now, he had his answer.
Sakayanagi regarded me with an expression I couldn't quite place—pity, perhaps, or maybe something more unreadable. And then there was Amasawa. Unlike the others, she didn't look away. Her golden eyes, sharp and unwavering, bore into me with something akin to... reverence.
Koenji, for once, was silent. The ever-present arrogance in his posture remained, but there was a shift—something more measured, more cautious. He ran a hand through his golden locks, his smirk absent for the first time. His crimson gaze swept over the ruined classroom, over the lifeless bodies sprawled across the blood-slicked floor. "Oho..." He exhaled, almost in admiration. "Such magnificent carnage." His voice lacked its usual mockery. Instead, there was something else—genuine intrigue, laced with unease. "Even I must admit, Ayanokoji-boy, you truly are on an entirely different level." His chuckle was subdued this time, carrying none of its usual confidence. "Perhaps... even beyond my understanding."
Kushida, however, had no composure left to maintain. The cracks in her perfect mask shattered completely. "What the fuck..." The words slipped out of her in a breathless murmur, her own voice betraying her. Her hands trembled at her sides, caught between horror, confusion, and something else she didn't want to name—fascination.
Hirata stood paralyzed, his idealistic world crumbling around him. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He wanted to say something—to reach for logic, for a moral framework that could make sense of this. But there was none. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "This isn't..." His breath was shaky. "This isn't what people should do to each other."
He took a slow step back. Then another. His instincts were screaming at him that what he was witnessing was not something any normal person was meant to see.
Because in this moment, one undeniable truth settled over everyone in that bloodstained room:
I was not normal.
I let out a faint sigh. Returning my attention to Chabashira, I spoke calmly, "Sorry, sensei, but this matter is not up for discussion." She opened her mouth, maybe to protest, but I ended the exchange instantly. My grip on Luo Ming's throat tightened. A single twist, a sharp jerk, and a dull snap filled the air as his cervical vertebrae shattered.
His head lolled to the side, eyes rolling back. I released my hold, and his lifeless body thumped onto the already blood-soaked tiles. Blood trickled from his slack jaw, joining the large congealed stains. The final intruder was gone.
Silence reigned, an oppressive blanket of dread. Even the faint hum of the school's ventilation seemed muffled by the stench of gore. My classmates, the teacher, and the onlookers from the doorway stood frozen, uncertain whether this grisly scene was real. As for me, I felt no flicker of guilt, no relief—only a numb sense of finality.
Now what? I wondered. Will the world fade to black, returning me to that hidden cavern? According to the logic of this 'inheritance trial,' I'd dispatched them all. So where was the conclusion?
I stood among the dead, awaiting whatever shift or exit would end this twisted scenario.