"Ah, damn it... I knew it. I knew this was gonna happen sooner or later." One of the kids groans and slams a fist against the metal grate overhead. It doesn't budge.
It's supposed to rise—way higher than this—before the water level climbs, all triggered by the elders' chants. At least that's how we're meant to surface... and move on to the next trial.
But right now, it's not moving.
"We nobles have finally reached an agreement… From this day on, each of your trials will last five full hours."
The voice echoes from far above, the speaker's head barely peeking over the edge, leaning back nervously as if afraid of heights... yet none of that is enough to mask the arrogant finality lacing his hurried decision, which, the moment he speaks it aloud, almost instantly sparks a chorus of groans and curses erupting from all around me.
Even more fists join in, slamming against the iron grate as it begins to descend—slowly, inevitably—forcing our heads back beneath the surface… yet it's as if that old fool remains blissfully unaware of how his earlier words have planted a special kind of hatred in all of us. His bald head pops back into view just before we're fully submerged again, the voice calls out one last, infuriating piece of news:
"And from now on, you'll only be granted one minute of oxygen between holes. So go ahead—enjoy whatever you can in that precious time."
So… An extra two hours added to each trial... If things follow the usual pattern—finishing this one and heading straight into the conveyor belt trial without rest, then getting just an hour of break before moving on to the third trial—that means we're looking at sixteen hours of non-stop hell before dinner.
With the day starting at six in the morning… That means everything won't wrap up until well after ten at night. One hour for dinner, and we're forced to wake up at five in the morning for breakfast… that leaves us with just six hours of sleep—if we can even manage to sleep at all.
"This is too much! Those damn old bastards have gone way too far!" shouted one of the boys right beside me, just as his head broke the surface—only for the grate to begin descending again, forcing his face back underwater.
Yeah… Kinda…
I mean, the so-called one minute the elders just mentioned, really was only the time the grate stayed lifted. But it didn't account for how long it took us to actually swim up to the hole.
So in reality, we had maybe only ten seconds—or maybe even less—to catch our breath before being shoved right back into the depths.
And it was the kind of torment that pushed people past their limits… That this was their own breaking point. So they snapped—lashing out in the flooded corridors, turning on anyone within reach. Claw, fist, teeth—anything they could use to kill, they used. Chaos followed in their wake, and in that madness, survival also became just another excuse to go feral.
Unfortunately, none of those desperate attempts ever worked. We all still surfaced at the next hole, battered, bleeding, and gasping—dragging ourselves out of the water that now carried a faint tint of red, stained by the blood of too many.
Also, since no one could actually cast any spells underwater, these ten seconds became the perfect moment to unleash them—anyone who could conjure even a single deadly incantation should've been able to kill at least one person.
Thus the chamber erupted with a barrage of chants, dozens of voices calling out different spells all at once, overlapping the other… It was just pure chaos—even too wild for me to join in, so I made my choice.
I dive back into the water, hoping to shield myself—
—just as a series of deafening explosions rip through the air above the surface, blinding my vision and crushing my hearing until it felt like my eardrums had been ripped apart.
But that doesn't matter… Now, all that's left for me to do is swim toward the next hole.
After all, the grates always open in the same exact pattern—perfectly timed and predictable. If I plot my path carefully enough, I should be able to get there even before the grate starts to rise above the surface.
But curiosity gets the better of me.
I glance upward… and there they are—four, maybe five bodies, drifting slowly downward toward the depths. I spend five seconds watching them sink before deciding that's enough.
Time to leave the others behind.
~~~~~
I grip the grate—still locked in place beneath the surface—and shut my eyes. I clear my mind, forcing my body to slow its metabolism, suppressing the panic that claws at my chest.
Calm.
Still.
I whisper to myself not to worry, that this is the right hole, that this is the grate that's about to rise… And then, just like I hoped, the water shifts—lifting toward me—and I don't hesitate. I gasp in a ragged breath the moment my head breaks the surface.
Where I find—I'm alone in this hole.
The solitude brings a small wave of relief.
Though it also confirms my suspicion—my ears. The blasts must've ruptured something. Because everything sounds muffled and distant… So I do what I can.
I chant the exact same incantation I once heard someone whisper, back when both my own legs were crushed two weeks ago.
"Vael... Solren... Baelthir…"
The spell hums through me, and slowly, my hearing returns—first a faint ring, then the soft lap of water against stone. And finally, ten seconds later, the quiet is shattered.
The water erupts with bodies—one after another—gasping, sputtering, dragging air into their lungs like it's the first time they've ever tasted it.
Instinct kicks in. My hand lifts, fingers curling as my energy surges, locking my grip on a cluster of targets just five meters away. If I cast Ignirath now—while their heads are still spinning from oxygen deprivation—I could incinerate six of them in one clean strike… But then Therion surfaces right in front of me. Followed by Siona, Eirwen. And finally, Garrik.
My breath hitches.
"I almost killed you," I mutter, voice trembling despite myself.
Where it causes Therion to glance over his shoulder, catching sight of the easy targets I'd just been aiming for. His jaw tightens as he realizes what nearly happened.
"...Sorry," he says simply.
But I only gave him a quick nod, steadying my breath instead before asking, "How did you end up together?"
"Oh… Garrik and I helped the girls fight off some assholes down in the tunnels. They were trying to kill them."
"You manage to kill any?"
"Nah... no. It was too chaotic. I'm not exactly used to fighting underwater either."
"Yeah, it's fine. I mean… This is all just because those damn old bastards dumped that on us out of nowhere!" I snap—my voice sharper than I expect, frustration cracking through before I can rein it in.
"Deon, wasn't that dangerous?"
Beside the kid, Garrik asks between heavy breaths, though he doesn't clarify what he means right away.
"Which part?"
"I saw you swim off—before the guiding light even appeared underwater. Do you really remember the pattern?"
"Yeah. It's not that hard, honestly."
"Then we need to move now, before the others catch up. Right? Can you lead the way?"
"Of course. Just follow me."
So I lead them toward the next hole, guiding us through a corridor—when suddenly, light appears from a direction up ahead. It means we're still late… but that's expected, considering this is their first time asking me to do this.
Still, we're lucky. Even with that delay, we're the first ones to arrive at this grate. And if we push ourselves again just this once, we should be able to reach the next hole right as the grate rises—maybe even five seconds before it does.
So I urged them, "We should move to the next hole—now."
"What? Right now?"
"It'll be dangerous if we move too soon, Deon." Both Siona and Garrik take turns questioning whether I'm sure about this.
"If we're only five seconds too early, it should be fine... I mean, just this once, you'll have to push yourselves if you want to reach the next hole and move on while everyone else is still just arriving there."
They all fall silent at the suggestion—until Therion, steady and sure, asks, "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
One by one, they exchange glances, then all eyes settle on me. I take their nods as the signal I need. Without hesitation, I dip my head beneath the surface again—just as the sounds of a scuffle echo from somewhere not far behind us.
On our second attempt, we're still ten seconds late. It's not until the fourth run that we finally reach the next hole just as the grate begins to rise and from that point on, the rhythm clicks into place. We move with precision—claiming each grate before anyone else arrives, diving toward the next one before others even breach the surface behind us.
Only one issue ever really comes up with being this early... Is that in a few of the corridors, we end up crossing paths with others. Confused faces. People beginning to realize what we're doing—but unable to match our pace.
See, every time we run into someone like that, we've just resurfaced—lungs still full of fresh oxygen. But they're already pushing their limits, barely hanging on after their last swim. So of course, they choose not to follow. They stick to the closer grate, the one right in front of them—even if it's already halfway closed—instead of chasing after the one we're aiming for, still several dozen meters ahead.
And it's a shame, really—Sigvald ends up being one of those people more often than not, stuck with his own team, forced to stick to their pace.
An hour passes, and still, neither his squad nor any other manages to match ours. I doubt it's even about strategy anymore. Their lungs just can't take it. Their bodies are breaking down after swimming nonstop for over four hours—fighting for every breath, every inch. And on top of that, they're still forced to battle at every hole just to survive.
Eventually—somewhere around the sixth or seventh rotation—it changes.
Everyone left just gives up on trying to kill each other at every single hole. The desperation fades into something quieter, something colder. Survival becomes the only goal now. No more ambushes. No more scrambles for dominance. Just the hollow silence of people who've finally realized they're running out of strength… and air.
Then five hours—plus a few minutes—drag past... and finally, we're lifted back to the surface. No one has the energy left to complain about the extra time tacked on at the end.
Or maybe… maybe I'm the only one who was counting… Or maybe I was wrong about the count entirely. Whatever the case, no one gives a damn anymore.
It's like we've all quietly agreed that even if they keep extending the trial—seven hours, eight, hell, more—we'll just take it. No resistance. Just silent resignation.
The sight of people yanking off their own half-hanging fingernails and toenails has become something I see far too often.
So no exceptions—every single one of us starts casting healing magic, regrowing the ones we've lost, reinforcing the ones still clinging on… because we know we'll need them—desperately—for the nightmare that comes next.
~~~~~