Silas sat up in bed with a scream.
His hand snapped to his side to grab his sword, only for his palm to meet the rough canvas of the sheets. Not only was his sword gone, but he was in a room he had never seen before. His heart dropped.
With his bed shoved into a corner, a small window with bars, and a single nightstand near the wooden door; anyone would think this room was actually a prison cell. Immediately, almost in a daze, he jumped out of his bed and rushed to the mirror nailed to the wall. His hands slapped his stomach.
There were no wounds — no spilled guts.
He lifted his shirt and his eyes widened when he saw a thick red line on his skin. Almost as if it was glowing, the line ran from his right hip bone, across his navel, and up to the very top of his ribs under his left armpit. It was an ugly sight. His fingertips ran across the edge and sparks shot down his spine, almost as if magic coursed through his veins. Goosebumps covered his body. The line wasn't a scar, but he knew it was the same place where Micah cut him down.
Silas' brain buffered. So it was real? He really did die? No, that was impossible! It had to be a dream, some weird nightmare — but nightmares never felt that realistic. He could still feel the lingering ghost of pain when he touched the red line.
The memories of his death flashed to the forefront of his mind. The red sky, the splash of blood, the smell of dead flesh, Micah's face. If it was a dream, it didn't make sense why he'd wake up in an unknown room with weird clothes. Unlike his old clothes which had wide billowing sleeves and multiple layers, he was dressed in a simple white button-up shirt with leather pants that hiked up his waist.
But at least he still looked like himself. His black hair (which was often tied up with a ribbon) cascaded down his shoulders like silk, his bangs framing his fox-like face. His eyes were the same shade of crimson red. The clothes showed off his broad shoulders and slim waist, but that was pointless! The fabric was tight and restrictive, he couldn't fight in this!
It can't be real, he thought. But it is, isn't it?
Slowly, reality came crashing down.
A wide range of emotions flooded his body. Like a dam deciding to break, he couldn't stand the sight of himself and turned away, his breathing hoarse. His eyes burned with tears and his lip curled into a snarl. All he could think about was death. His death.
Micah betrayed him just to kill him, but for what? There were no valid reasons to kill his own brother! He would not gain power or riches from his death, the Arrows Guild would retract their forfeit the moment they found out he died. Mother would be heartbroken once more and he doubted she'd forgive Micah for his actions either. As much as she hated violence, no way she'd forgive him for killing her youngest son.
"Damn it!" he punched the wall, teeth gnashing. "How dare he?! I did it for our father! For them!"
Silas never went out of his way to kill people. He didn't enjoy it, but of course, it didn't bother him either. He killed those who deserved it, he saved those who needed to be saved. Yet Micah thought he was the worst human to exist for it.
He wanted him dead.
He wanted him to rot.
Silas wanted to talk to him, brother to brother, but he failed to listen. He didn't want to listen. Micah discarded every plea, every bit of humanity his little brother had, and plunged his sword into his gut. There was no going back from that.
But Silas supposed he couldn't do anything about it now. He died and he didn't even know where he was. The last thing he remembered before waking up in this room was a box… but what did the words say again? His brain started to throb as he did his best to recall what happened to him the moment he died. Maybe if he knew what was going on, he'd find a way to get out of the stupid room.
Maybe he could find a way back to his world.
As if the gods heard him, a golden almost translucent box popped up. He jumped back and his eyes widened. It read:
[ WELCOME SILAS SIDARTHA, RANKER #103! YOU ARE THE TWENTIETH RANKER TO WAKE UP! ]
Silas stared at the rectangle in front of him. None of the words were familiar to him except his name. The term ranker, his number, he hadn't a clue what it meant. But if he died, didn't that mean he was in the afterlife now? Were the other 'Rankers' people who died too?
His brows furrowed when another box appeared.
[ ANY QUESTIONS YOU HAVE WILL BE ANSWERED AT A LATER DATE. HAVE YOU EXPERIENCED ANY SYMPTOMS OF NAUSEA, BRAIN FOG, ACID REFLUX, OR SEVERE AMOUNTS OF VOMITING? ]
"What do you think?" he snapped. "Do I look like I've been vomiting my guts out?"
If the box knew when he woke up, then they had to be watching him. They had to know that Silas was experiencing an overwhelming range of emotions, but he wouldn't say that he was sick because of it. Instead, his fingers itched to hold his blade. He wanted to feel the crisp pommel, the withered leather around the hilt, the weight of the metal.
There was nothing inside the room that would give him the same feeling. It was as if they baby-proofed it. Every corner was rounded, the window bars were thick and unmovable, and everything was nailed to the floor or walls. If someone decided to come through that door, he had nothing to protect him except his hands. He knew martial arts, but if they had a sword, he'd be doomed.
Silas placed his hands on his hips and glared at the box. "So where am I? I know you dipshits can hear me! I want my sword and some answers—"
[ BE PATIENT. NEXT QUESTION — DO YOU REMEMBER HOW YOU GOT HERE? ]
Silas' eyebrow twitched when the box changed. He took a deep breath. "Yes. Now tell me—"
[ ALL STARTER QUESTIONS ANSWERED. PLEASE EXIT THE ROOM AND FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN DEATH. ]
His body froze up. Death?
He only had a chance to read the box a second time before it crumbled into small golden bits of dust, then to nothing. The door to the room was unlatched and swung open. Silas jumped and closed his fists near his jaw, his shoulders hunching. But no one walked inside. Instead, he took note of the yellow glowing line on the floor outside in the hallway.
His jaw popped to the side and adrenaline pumped through his veins. What did it mean by death? Didn't he already die? Eyes sharp like daggers, he took a tentative step forward and peeked his head outside. The hallway was barren except for the flickering lanterns dangling overhead. Cracks like spiderwebs weaved down the white walls, some gaps big enough for insects to wriggle in. There were no other doors in sight and any signs of people were long gone.
In all honesty, he didn't want to leave the room without a weapon… but there wasn't much he could do when he didn't have his sword. It was either stay and wait or follow the line.
"Fine," he grumbled. "I'll play along."
He just hoped he didn't die again. Whatever that meant.
The floorboards creaked under his feet. Stepping outside into the open corridors, he ignored the chill down his spine when a gust of air smacked his back. Silas stuck close to the wall. If any enemies came rushing at him, staying in the middle of the hall was a death zone, especially if they had a long-range weapon. His fingers glided over the cracks to feel for any close vibration, craning his neck each time he thought he heard something. It turned out to be nothing.
He could barely hear a thing over his heartbeat. He took steady breaths as he walked further down, reaching no signs of the end. His mind began to wander.
What was he going to do?
Now that he was dead, did the goals of his living life even matter anymore? Of course, they did! He wanted revenge, not just on the guild, but on Micah as well. He wanted to see his mother again and to feel her hold him. He had only reached twenty years of age. He wanted a chance with a girl, a family, and people to call his own. He wanted to be a man just like his father was.
Yet this was his fate. It was stripped from him and there was no way of going back, at least from what he could tell. His teeth sank into the fat of his lip.
He hated it. He hated this. All of it was so unfair — Unfair, unfair, unfair! Why did he have to die and not someone who deserved it? It wasn't like he killed women or children as the Arrow Guild did! He was trying to stop them, he was trying to do something that was good. But now he was stuck in some hallway, reading some weird magical boxes, and his sword was missing.
I want to go home, he pursed his lips. Suddenly he had the urge to cry, but he quickly shook his head. Crying would get him nowhere and it wouldn't fix his issues either.
"Damn it all," he hissed. "I'll make it out of here."
— And he didn't care if he had to kill god to do it!
Silas paused when he reached a fork in the hallway. Two ways to go, each path had a yellow line, but they connected only to keep going forward. He stopped walking and mumbled under his breath. "Someone must have used this path… maybe they were instructed to follow the yellow line as well?"
There were no signs of people. The dust was still undisturbed farther down and no fingerprints touched the dirty walls.
But then he heard it. A long creak of a floorboard shifting.
A switch in his brain flicked and instinct took over. He slammed his back against the wall and kept his head tucked down, fists raised to guard his neck and ribs from any blows. He made sure to keep his back away from the open air behind him. His red eyes were sharp, and daring, as he neared the corner. He heard a shuffle and a gasp for air.
"Who's there?" Silas hissed. "I can hear you!"
Damn it. He wasn't in a good spot at all. He hated how exposed he felt and the itch to hold a sword was overwhelming. What would he do if the person was bigger than him? What if they had a major difference in weight class? Silas was good at martial arts but he wasn't the greatest, especially not against people who were larger and heavier than he was.
"I asked who's there?! Come out now!"
They didn't. Not that he blamed them. If he were them, he wouldn't have come out from around the corner either, especially if he didn't know if they had a weapon or not. His nose curled up. If he delayed any more, they'd start to guess he was stalling. He needed to act — quick.
He waited for another second. Just one more creak. One more creak to tell him that they were moving.
And when it came, Silas moved before he could think.
Lunging forward with one pounce from his right left, his elbow slammed into the person around the corner. They choked for air and he pressed his thumb to their neck. They were small, and light, and they went to the ground easily. The boards boomed when the weight of their bodies fell.
Silas pressed his leg against their thighs to keep them planted down. One swift movement, one twist, he could snap their neck. His red eyes boiled.
He snarled, "Who are you?"
"Woah! Woah!" A frail boy waved his hands back and forth, tears filling his eyes. "Please don't hurt me! I'm just trying to follow the yellow line because some weird screen told me to follow it, and- and- I'm sorry! Please don't kill me! I'm innocent- I'm innocent!"
Silas blinked.
A kid?
"Please! I didn't know who you were so I didn't come out of hiding, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Immediately, he let go of the boy and lurched backward, resting on the balls of his crouched feet. Out of all the things he expected to run into, he never thought he'd run into a kid. The boy looked like he was eleven years old — only he was sickly and frail. His blonde hair was blunt and greasy, his round blue eyes sunken in, and a baby blue glowing dot was on his neck. Just like the red line he had on his stomach.
Does that mark indicate how he was killed? Is he a ranker?
The boy blubbered. "I'm sorry, sir! Please don't kill—"
"Shut up. I won't hurt you," Silas huffed and he hauled the kid up from the ground. "Stop crying."
He was as stiff as a board. Slowly, he stopped crying, rubbing the tears away with bony fingers. Silas frowned. His mom would have smacked him upside the head if she knew he scared a kid so bad, especially a sick one. But it wasn't his fault! The kid should have spoken up when he asked if someone was there!
"What's your name?"
The boy bit his lip. "…Jake."
Hm. That's a different name.
"Silas. A box told me to follow the yellow line too."
Jake perked up at that. His blue eyes brightened just a tad bit and his hands grabbed Silas' sleeve. "So- so you're a ranker too?! The screen asked me some questions about my health and what I remembered last, and then it said to follow the line or I'd die."
So that answered some of his questions. The kid was a ranker, which most likely meant he died and woke up in a room just like his. It was a question of how the kid died. The dot on his neck was not small, instead it was about medium-sized. Maybe he was shot with an arrow. Archers aim for any easy kill spot and necks were often the most accessible.
A dagger to the throat would have looked different. It wouldn't be a dot, it'd be a slitted shape since no blade is pointed and round like an arrow tip. However, he couldn't shake that some of Jake's explanations didn't make sense.
"The screen?"
"Huh? Yeah, a phone screen. That's what the golden box looked like. I thought it looked like one of those game-loading screens, you know?"
Silas pursed his lips. Yes, he knew what a game meant, like a card game, but what did a 'phone' mean? He didn't like the sound of it, it made him feel stupid, especially since the kid was staring up at him like it was something common. It had to be a cultural difference, or maybe an age difference. Kids always had different names for things.
"Ah… I see."
Jake continued to hold onto Silas when he started following the yellow line again. He really did switch up fast. One moment he was blubbering through tears, now he was clinging onto him for dear life. He wasn't giving him any breathing room. Silas refrained from snapping — it was a kid, he couldn't just be mean to him and tell him to run along.
It would be dangerous for him to go off on his own. If he managed to run into Silas, that meant he could run into other people as well. And adults weren't always gentle to children. Sure, Silas wasn't, but he wasn't an evil enemy who wanted to harm the boy. Some people out there purposely wanted to hurt kids. Like the Arrow Guild for example.
I'll have to keep Jake close to me, he thought. I can't let him run into people like that. He wouldn't last a second.
"Sir, uhm… can I ask you a more personal question?" Jake blurted, nails digging into his arm. "I mean- you don't have to answer if you don't want to! It's just—"
He sighed. "Spit it out, kid."
There was a heavy pause. "Did you… uhm- die?"
Silas frowned. He didn't want to think about that, or why he was here, all he wanted was some answers. The line under his shirt started to prickle like needles when he thought about the cold blade that sliced him open. He didn't notice Jake squeezing his arm to get his attention, or the way his blue eyes started to well up in tears.
"Silas?"
He snapped from his thoughts. Glancing down, he said dryly, "Yes I did. Now don't ask any more questions."
Jake slowly nodded. He was quiet for a couple more minutes as they traveled down the empty, dusty corridors before he spoke up again. His voice was shaky and weak as if the wind was knocked from his lungs. "…I died too."
Silas didn't know how to respond. He wasn't good with kids, he didn't know how to comfort them when they were sad, and he doubted he'd be able to mimic the loving nature of his mother if he tried. Asking Jake how he died would be insensitive and even if he wanted to know, he didn't want to damage the boy any more than he already is. So he kept his curiosity to himself.
It only proved to him that anyone labeled a ranker was someone who died; and age, health, and experience didn't matter. If a kid was in a place like this when he looked like a skeleton, that meant other kids could be here too. Same with warriors. Silas was going to bet he wasn't the only swordsman who was brought back to life for Haven.
Jake didn't speak much after that. He started to cling to Silas more and more, his legs not long enough to keep up with his long strides. In the end, he ended up giving him a piggyback ride. His thin arms wrapped around his neck and he pushed his pointy nose into his shoulder blade.
No way in hell the kid could walk that much. He looked like he was going to fall apart if someone knocked him wrong. Silas had no issues carrying him — he was as light as a feather. It just made Silas think about himself when he was a kid, back when he had no issues except what his mother made for dinner and how much his father was going to scold him when he found out he broke his quill.
Jake's voice was muffled. "Silas?"
He hummed.
"Do you think we're going to die again?"
Silas paused. Down the hallway, he could see a yellow door, one of the first doors he had seen since he left his room. The line went straight up to it and the doorknob had an engraved 'H' on it. Jake only squeezed him tighter. He felt his muscles wind up, not knowing what was behind that threshold. But he didn't put the young boy down, he refused to.
"…I won't let that happen, kid."
Jake whimpered. "Okay."