Benson sat beside his mother on the old couch. Her breaths were slow, weak, but steady enough to give him hope.
He clenched his fists, staring at the flickering candlelight on the table. It barely lit the room, but it was all he had.
"Mom," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Can you hear me?"
Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, the world stopped.
"Benny…" her voice was soft, barely there.
"I'm here," he said quickly, leaning closer. "You're okay. I've got you."
She tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "What's going on? Everything's… blurry."
"You fainted," he said, his words rushed. "You're just tired. Rest, okay? I'll take care of everything."
She nodded weakly, her hand twitching as if she wanted to reach for him. He took it gently, his chest tightening.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he said. "I promise."
But deep down, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep that promise. The world was tearing itself apart, and he was just… him.
No power. No plan. And now, this strange system—Greed—lurking in his mind like his own shadow.
For once, even Greed was quiet.
The silence should have been comforting, but it wasn't.
It was the kind of silence that felt like the calm before a storm.
The sound of breaking glass shattered the stillness.
Benson's head snapped up. His heart pounded as he scanned the room, his grip on his mother's hand tightening.
"Who's there?" he called out, his voice shaky but loud enough to carry.
No answer.
Then came the heavy thud of boots, closer, closer, until they stopped just outside the apartment door.
The door burst open with a crash, splinters flying everywhere. Benson scrambled to his feet, shielding his mother with his body.
A group of people stepped inside, all dressed in black armor that gleamed under the faint light. Their faces were hidden behind masks, each one marked with a red symbol Benson didn't recognize.
One of them stepped forward, taller than the rest. His mask was different—no symbol, just smooth, featureless black.
"You're coming with us," the man said, his voice cold and flat.
Benson's hands clenched into fists. "Like hell I am."
The man didn't react. He raised a hand, and the others moved.
Benson barely had time to think. Two of them rushed him at once, their movements too fast, too precise. Far faster than the enhanced speed he had been using just
He swung wildly, aiming to use his enhanced speed but he was much slower than it had been with those, and his punches didn't land.
One of them knocked him back with a single hit, sending him crashing into the wall.
"Benny!" his mother's voice was panicked, weak, but it cut through the chaos like a knife.
"I'm fine!" he shouted, even though his ribs ached. He pushed himself up, glaring at the intruders. "Stay away from her!"
The leader tilted his head, almost as if he was amused. "You're not in a position to make demands."
Something cold wrapped around Benson's wrist. He looked down to see a glowing chain, red and pulsing like a heartbeat.
He yanked at it, but it didn't budge. The chain tightened, pulling him forward.
"Let me go!" he shouted, thrashing against the pull.
The leader ignored him. Two others moved toward his mother.
"No!" Benson lunged, but the chain held him back.
His mother tried to fight, weak as she was. She clawed at them, kicking and screaming. "Leave him alone!"
They didn't listen.
Benson's chest burned with helpless rage as they dragged her away. "Don't touch her! Please!"
He fought harder, pulling against the chain until his wrist felt like it might break.
And then, a voice.
"Do you want power?"
It was Greed.
"Help me!" Benson screamed in his mind. "Do something!"
"Say it."
"Fine! Yes! I'll do anything, just—help me!"
The chain snapped.
Benson stumbled forward, free, but something was different. His vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared, the room seemed… sharper.
The intruders turned to him, and for the first time, he saw them hesitate.
"What the—" one of them started, but Benson didn't wait.
[Enhanced speed has been recharged. 50 Xp consumed]
He moved without thinking, faster than he'd ever thought possible. His fist connected with the nearest intruder's mask, shattering it like glass. The man crumpled to the floor.
The remaining two hesitated. They weren't stupid—Benson's sudden speed was something they'd never anticipated.
But they were bigger, stronger, and armed, and they didn't retreat. Instead, they advanced, locking their weapons into place. They thought they could overpower him. They thought wrong.
Benson ducked under a swing from the first man, the heavy blade missing his neck by inches.
He could hear the whistle of the weapon cutting through the air, but Benson was already gone, a blur moving to the side.
He could feel the rush of wind in his wake as he evaded another swing.
The second man was faster, but not fast enough. Benson launched himself into the air, his legs propelling him like a coiled spring. He twisted in midair, landing just behind the second attacker.
Before the man could react, Benson's fist shot out, connecting with the side of his head with a sickening thud. The man staggered, dazed, but still standing.
The first man recovered and tried again, but Benson was already gone, slipping between the strikes like a shadow. Every move was fluid, almost instinctive, his body acting on its own with only one goal in mind: survival.
He weaved around the first attacker, ducking under another strike, his heart pounding in his chest. Benson knew he couldn't outlast them in a direct brawl.
His speed was his only advantage, and he had to make it count. With a quick pivot, he grabbed the first man's arm mid-swing, using his momentum to throw him to the ground. The man landed hard, the wind knocked out of him.
The second man turned, enraged, slashing with a wide arc meant to cleave Benson in half. But Benson was already behind him, too quick for the blade to find its target.
He slammed his knee into the back of the man's leg, forcing him to buckle. As the man fell forward, Benson delivered a brutal elbow to the back of his neck, sending him crashing to the floor, unconscious.
Benson stood over them, breathing hard. His body was trembling from the exertion, the hunger gnawing at him again, but he couldn't stop. Not yet.
He looked down at the fallen men, his chest rising and falling with each breath. They were stronger than him, but they couldn't keep up.
The leader watched, silent and still, until Benson stood in front of him, panting and furious.
"You're not taking her," Benson growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The leader tilted his head again, as if studying him. Then, without a word, he pressed something on his wrist.
Benson's body froze.
He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond. The leader stepped closer, his mask inches from Benson's face.
"You're interesting, your fighting skills are atrocious but you're interesting nonetheless" he said. "But you're hardly ready."
Benson felt his heart plummet as the fallen men began to stand as if all that he had done was nothing. He saw as their hands began to beam of a translucent yet blue color.
They… They haven't been using their…. They have abilities?!
A sharp pain shot through Benson's head.
And then, everything went black.
When Benson woke up, he was somewhere else.
The air was cold, the ground hard beneath him. He pushed himself up, his head pounding, and looked around.
He was in some kind of arena, surrounded by high walls and bright lights.
Dozens of people stood around him, each one armed and looking far more dangerous than anyone he'd ever seen.
And above it all, a voice echoed through the space:
"Welcome to the Trials."