Darkness.

It wasn't the peaceful kind—the type that lulls one into sleep. No, this was suffocating. A weight pressed against Wayne's chest, his breath shallow, his body aching like he had been ripped apart and stitched back together. The cold metal beneath him sent a shiver up his spine as his senses slowly crawled back to life.

Then, the voices came.

Low murmurs. Uneven breathing. The distinct scrape of boots shifting against metal. He wasn't alone.

His fingers twitched. He tried to move but found his muscles sluggish, heavy. His mind clawed for memories, for something—anything—to tell him where he was, why he was here. But there was nothing. Only a void where his past should be.

Then—light.

A dim, sterile glow flickered to life above, revealing the tight confines of their space. The walls were smooth steel, barely wide enough for them to move without bumping into one another. Wayne sat in the corner, back against the cold metal, legs stretched out before him. The air was thick with tension, the kind that belonged to people who had been thrown into something they did not understand.

Seven others shared the space.

A woman with piercing amber eyes and raven-black hair leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Her posture was casual, but there was a sharpness to her gaze, like a blade waiting to be unsheathed. Next to her, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his jaw sat hunched forward, fists clenched. He looked like a soldier—or perhaps a mercenary.

To Wayne's left, a wiry young man with silver hair and nervous eyes fiddled with a small piece of metal, his fingers moving in restless patterns. Beside him, a girl—no older than twenty—held her knees to her chest, her wide green eyes darting around like a cornered animal.

Three others sat scattered in the cramped space: a man with a cold, calculating stare, a woman in bloodstained bandages, and a silent figure whose face was obscured by a hood.

No one spoke at first.

Then, the scarred man broke the silence.

"Alright," he grunted, his voice rough as gravel. "Someone needs to start talking. Where the hell are we?"

Silence.

Wayne's head throbbed as he tried again to reach for memories. Again, nothing. His name—Wayne—was all he had. Everything else was a fragmented blur.

The raven-haired woman clicked her tongue. "We're in The Eternal Trial."

Wayne stiffened. The others reacted, too—some with understanding, others with confusion.

"The what?" the silver-haired young man asked, his voice tight with unease.

The woman sighed, running a hand through her hair. "The Eternal Trial. The bloodsport of the century. The nightmare we've all been thrown into."

Wayne's pulse quickened.

The name rang in his head like a distant echo, a whisper from a past he couldn't grasp.

The girl curled in the corner whimpered. "I-I don't remember signing up for this."

"You didn't." The hooded figure finally spoke—a low, steady voice, devoid of emotion. "None of us did."

Wayne exhaled slowly. His instincts told him one thing—he was in danger.

Something in his mind urged him to observe, to analyze. His gaze swept over the room. Their clothing was different, mismatched—some wore armor, others casual wear, while a few bore the remnants of past battles. That meant they hadn't come from the same place.

And yet, they were here together.

"You're saying this is a game?" Wayne asked, finally speaking. His own voice felt foreign to him.

The scarred man let out a bitter chuckle. "If you can call a death match a game, sure."

A loud hiss cut through the air.

The walls trembled.

The dim light above shifted to a deep crimson as a mechanical voice crackled to life from unseen speakers.

[Welcome, contestants. You have been selected for The Eternal Trial. Your pasts do not matter. Your futures are unwritten. Survive, conquer, and claim your destiny.]

A pause. Then—

[Seven days. Seven trials. The weak will perish. The strong will ascend. Let the games begin.]

Wayne's blood turned cold.

Then, the floor dropped.

A surge of weightlessness hit him as the entire chamber plummeted. Cries of alarm echoed in the metal cage as they all scrambled for stability. The sensation lasted seconds—maybe longer—before the crash.

The impact sent Wayne sprawling. His breath knocked out of him as pain flared through his body. He coughed, rolling onto his side.

The metal walls that had trapped them split apart, retracting like the petals of a mechanical flower.

And then—light.

Blinding, unnatural light.

Wayne lifted his head, blinking rapidly as his vision adjusted. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.

A vast coliseum stretched before them, its architecture impossibly grand, a mixture of ancient stone and futuristic steel. Towering spires loomed overhead, their jagged edges glowing with eerie, arcane symbols. The sky above was a swirling vortex of colors, unnatural and shifting, as though reality itself was bending around this place.

And the people.

Thousands. No—hundreds of thousands.

They filled the enormous space, standing on different platforms, trapped in groups just like his. Some were armored like knights of old, others bore the rugged gear of mercenaries and rogues. Magic flickered between fingertips, weapons gleamed under artificial sunlight, and banners of unknown factions rippled in a wind that did not belong.

A battlefield.

A city.

A prison.

Wayne swallowed hard. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes, watching. Judging.

The Trial had begun.

The raven-haired woman took a step forward, staring out at the impossible sight before them.

"Well," she murmured, a wry smirk tugging at her lips. "Welcome to hell."