"Therion Greymarch," he replies after I first introduce myself to him. "I admired what you did back when we first fought that chimera."
"Thanks... I also admired how fast your reflexes were when Gideon nearly took my head off. No hesitation—no questions—you just acted."
"Ah, that was nothing... Honestly, I'm not a fan of people like him. His intentions were obvious long before it actually happened."
"Right? I totally get what you mean. Uh… By the way, Therion… If you really don't mind me asking—before you got summoned here… what were you?"
"Why would I mind? I was an executioner. No need to worry my friend—it's not something I'm trying to hide. And you were... Oh, sorry. I just remembered—Siona mentioned that you lost your memories, did you not?"
If Therion hadn't reminded me about the whole memory loss thing, I probably would've blurted out something I really shouldn't let anyone at this table hear. I mean, it'd be natural for me to answer honestly about my past after asking about his, right? Seriously… that kid just saved me with that one simple reminder. What a stroke of luck.
...Unfortunately, out of everyone at the table, it's Eirwen's gaze that gets to me the most. I mean the way she stares—it makes me feel like she knows I'm lying.
Compared to Sigvald, I'm pretty sure he still buys into the story I've been selling. But this girl… there's something in her eyes that sends a chill down my spine, makes a cold sweat prick at the back of my neck.
So I quickly shift my attention back to the boy across from me, now busy devouring a mountain of food so high it nearly hides his face from where I'm sitting.
"Are you really that hungry?" I ask, more to steer my thoughts away than anything else.
"I always eat this much."
"But your body doesn't exactly look like someone who… eats like that."
Then, without much thought, I glance at Siona. "Hey, Siona—does your current face and body look anything like how you used to?"
The sudden shift in topic catches her off guard. She stiffens for a moment before blurting out a reply, a little too quickly,
"Not at all... Very different. I used to be way prettier than this."
"What about your stats?" I ask, curious.
Where she pauses only for a beat before replying, "Those are almost exactly the same… Even when I was a kid, my stats were pretty much identical to what I have now."
"If both of those answers you gave are true, then your Charisma stat should prove it."
"You'll have to step over my corpse before I ever let you see that stat," she snaps back.
"Just as I thought…" I mutter with a grin. "How about you, Eirwen?"
At that, every eye at the table turns to her—probably the one with the highest Charisma stat in this entire place, if not the whole kingdom since her number's easily five times higher than anyone else's.
And, just like I expected, she puts on a flawless act. Her face flushes, gaze dropping as she stammers out her reply, "I… I don't really pay attention to myself that much, but… yeah, my stats have always been the same, ever since I was little."
"I see…" I responded casually, as if I hadn't just confirmed exactly what I wanted to know—before letting my gaze wander across the cafeteria.
I take note of the other groups… Most of them that once had only three members have now filled out—five to seven people each, from what I can tell.
Total there are maybe five full teams altogether, with a few stragglers still choosing to go solo. Either out of confidence... or desperation.
And as always, right after the third trial of the day, the elders make their announcement. Like today, only three were eliminated. Yesterday, there were seven—including the four we killed… Where it seems those deaths—each one already widely assumed to be murder—have triggered a ripple effect of more killings.
Because just like we expected, the others must've come to the same conclusion as ours: if narrowing us down to just seven isn't feasible yet, then it's only logical to start thinning the herd early… As everyone's still hoping to get out of this place as soon as possible.
And sure, the physical training is starting to feel easier—probably because our levels are way higher than when we first started—but torture is still torture, no matter how strong we get.
On top of that, I've been hearing whispers… Rumors that the elders might start increasing the duration of each trial. Ruthlessly. Mercilessly. And honestly? It wouldn't surprise me once it happens.
After all, the tremors from the surface have been growing stronger, spreading wider… even reaching here. In the cafeteria, I can already feel it—low, persistent, like something massive stirring beneath the ground. The way the elders look as well, lately only adds to the unease… Every day, they look a little more anxious. A little more unsettled. As if they don't know how much time they really have left either.
All of it points in one direction: the Karthmere want this process accelerated.
Leveling. Elimination. And from the looks of it, they'll make sure it all happens well before half a year passes.
~~~~~
A week passes.
And today, while waiting for Sigvald to earn the trust of his new team—and with most groups still on high alert to prevent any assassination attempts, leaving not a single gap for anyone to make a move—I decide to spend these torturous life in relative peace, using the time to study magic with Garrik now that we're caged together.
That arrangement works out because Garrik's previous cage-mates figured it'd be wiser to sleep with their own teams instead.
At the same time, Therion ends up joining the two of us, even if he isn't all that interested in magic. Says he's too dumb to cast anything, and his Strength's way too high to waste on spellcasting anyway.
But he's always there. Watching us. Dropping the occasional comment or praise. Laughing with us. Sometimes sharing random stories that, somehow, are always worth hearing.
For someone who claims to have executed nearly five hundred convicts, he's surprisingly warm—gentle, even. Too gentle, honestly. So much so that I often forget just how terrifying he becomes in the third trial each day.
The way he swings that massive sword... there's a strange elegance to it. His strikes never fall into erratic zigzags like most people when they panic. No—his form flows. Every movement curves, rotates—deliberate. Controlled. Purely like a dance.
And when the blade hits? It carves through bone like it's paper—clean, precise—while the armor remains untouched, leaving nothing but clean, effortless cuts behind.
All while his growl rises in tandem with the weight of his blows, as if the sound itself adds pressure to every strike while it never scrapes against the ground, never clangs off armor or glances off steel. Not once.
"I have a question…. Besides being an executioner… Are you some kind of martial artist too, Therion?" Garrik asks, casually casting his wind spell like the constant drain on his HP is nothing to worry about anymore.
"Something like that… I learned it from my wife," the hunched man replies calmly.
"Well… She must've been one hell of a fighter then," Garrik remarks, his tone still relaxed as the wind spell fades from his fingertips.
"Yeah... And while that's true, she never took a single life."
That throws me off. I blink, not even trying to hide the disbelief from my voice. "Really?"
"I'm not lying," he says, quiet but certain. "She could've killed a hundred soldiers if she wanted to… but she was different. Different from us. Different from who I used to be."
Another wave of undead fades into ash, giving us a moment's peace—just enough time to breathe, to let the tension slip. I glance at Therion, silently hoping he doesn't mind continuing.
"You know…" Therion murmurs, eyes distant. "Back then, I wasn't the kind of person who saw death as a burden. I killed because I was ordered to, and not once did I question it... because I didn't feel anything when I did."
"I never cared if the people I executed—while crowds shouted their names in anger or grief—were guilty or innocent, saints or monsters… I didn't know them, and I never wanted to. I couldn't care less about the royal family who ordered me to kill their own siblings, their own children, all over false accusations—just to seize or cling to power.
All of that changed the first time I saw her—at the cemetery where I lived. She was visiting a fresh grave, of course... someone I'd just executed the day before. Classic story."
The tale halts for a moment as we spot movement in the distance—more undead, shambling toward us slow and unbothered.
"Anyway, she kept coming back. Every day. To that same grave. It belonged to some old noble. The only thing I remember from his execution was the sound of the crowd crying... which, trust me, almost never happens."
Therion glances between the two of us… With slow, practiced movements, he wipes the thick smear of black blood from his greatsword—a blade nearly as tall as he is—using nothing but the fabric of his own shirt.
Then, he continues, voice low, steady. "As the days passed, something strange started to grow inside me. Watching her sit there in silence, on that cold, wet ground... the more I tried to ignore it, the sharper it stabbed at me."
"Love?" Garrik guessed.
"Guilt." I corrected him without missing a beat, both of us still trying to make sense of the hunchbacked boy's story as he silently readied himself for another fight… Only for him to chuckle softly—at one word, or maybe both.
"Of course it's about love, Garrik… But love is just the theme of this story. As for you, Deon… I'm guessing you've never been in love before, have you?"
"I… didn't really have time to… I mean, in my previous life… No. Maybe not."
I catch myself again—almost slipping up, almost saying something that doesn't line up with the fake life I've built. And I know exactly who's to blame for that.
"Ah, forgive me… I keep forgetting you lost your past memories," the boy says, and somehow, that turns the guilt back on me.
"Anyway, long story short, one day I walked up to her. I stabbed a sword into the ground right in front of her… and told her she could use it to kill me, if it would stop her from grieving."
"So it was guilt, then…" I say.
"Of course it was guilt, Deon… But I know what you're thinking. That guilt just happens on its own, with no reason behind it. You're wrong."
Immediately I respond to his words with… nothing. Like I'm still trying not to lose, still refusing to be the one in the wrong. But in the end, I just shut my mouth. Barely, somehow—I manage to hold myself back, even if it stings.
While Garrik, still curious, tries to coax more out of the boy.
"So… what happened next?" he asks.
But Therion shakes his head.
"I'll tell you the rest another time," he says. "For now, let's focus. The fight's not over yet."
A strange story, I think to myself…
Because I still remember how easily he killed Gideon.
I mean, everything he said sounded like a plea, like he was begging us to believe he'd changed… But I'm not so sure I buy it.
Even so, he's right not to continue since just like everybody else, I still need to kill as many undead as I can before the timer runs out.
But then the days pass, and he never shares the rest of the story… While I'm too reluctant to ask, so even when we leap into the massive pit marking the first trial of the day, I push the thought aside.
I just focus on my breathing—diving through one submerged tunnel after another, surfacing only to drop into the next hole. Three hours of nonstop swimming later, I reach the final grate in the rotation—
Only this time, something's off.
~~~~~