The Trials Begin (5–8)
The wave ca.
Nero did not see it.
He felt it.
A pressure—deep, invasive, searching—passed through him like cold air through an open wound.
For a fraction of a second, everything inside him went still.
Then—
Nothing.
No resistance.
No reaction.
No consequence.
It moved on.
The candidate beside him stiffened, eyes widening—
White fla consud him instantly.
Another vanished without a trace.
A third dropped, convulsing before being dragged away by sothing unseen.
Nero stood untouched.
He blinked once.
Then again.
A slow breath escaped him, controlled, but heavier than before.
Relief settled in—not sudden, not overwhelming. Just a quiet, undeniable realization.
He had passed.
Whatever had just judged them—
Had seen nothing wrong with him.
"...Heh."
It was faint. Barely there.
But it was real.
The wave continued, rolling deeper into the endless formation, leaving behind emptiness, ash, and survivors who no longer understood why they were still standing.
It ended as abruptly as it began.
Silence followed.
Then—
The ten white-robed figures moved again.
One stepped forward.
Their voice rose—not loud, but absolute.
The chant returned.
A circle of pale light ford beneath every candidate at once.
Nero looked down.
It wasn’t drawn.
It wasn’t projected.
It existed.
The air shifted.
The ground dissolved.
And in the next instant—
Everything vanished.
Nero hit the ground hard.
The impact rattled through his body, his grip tightening instinctively around the spear as he rolled once and forced himself up.
The air—
It was wrong.
Dry.
Rotten.
Cold without being cold.
He looked up.
Fog stretched endlessly across the land, thin in so places, thick in others, revealing glimpses of sothing vast and unnatural.
Bones.
Everywhere.
The ground beneath his feet crunched—not sand, not soil, but fragnts. Fine, brittle, layered over sothing harder beneath.
He shifted his stance.
The ground held.
Compressed.
Ancient.
Dead.
Far in the distance—
Enormous shapes rose from the fog.
Ribcages.
Massive. Twisted. Larger than buildings.
Half-buried.
Endless.
The sky above was locked in a dim, stagnant twilight. No sun. No stars. Just a dull, unmoving haze.
Golgotha.
He didn’t need to be told.
The silence lasted less than a second.
Then—
A scream.
Another.
Then dozens.
Then hundreds.
Nero turned.
They were everywhere.
Candidates—scattered across the wasteland, disoriented, struggling to stand, so already shouting, others trying to regroup, most simply frozen.
And then—
The ground shifted.
Not beneath him.
Ahead.
A ripple.
Then—
They ca.
The first wave burst from the fog like a collapsing wall.
Tall.
Wrong.
Humanoid only in the loosest sense.
Pale skin stretched tight over elongated fras, limbs too long, too sharp, moving in ways joints were never ant to allow. Their mouths split wide, filled with blackened teeth that caught what little light existed.
They didn’t run upright.
They dropped—
And sprinted on all fours.
Fast.
Too fast.
The distance closed instantly.
"FORM UP—!"
The shout didn’t finish.
The first impact tore through the front line of scattered candidates.
Bodies collided. Screams broke. Steel rang.
A man was dragged down before he could even raise his weapon, his armor screeching as sothing pulled him into the ground with impossible force.
Another swung wildly, his blade glancing off pale flesh—
Then three of them hit him at once.
Nero moved.
Not back.
Forward.
His spear thrust out, clean and direct, piercing through the chest of the first creature that reached him. The resistance was wrong—too soft, then suddenly too dense.
He ripped it free.
It didn’t stop.
Its claws lashed out, grazing his armor with a sharp scrape that sent a jolt through his arms.
He stepped in—
Drove the spear again—
This ti through its head.
It dropped.
Another replaced it instantly.
There was no pause.
No space.
They kept coming.
To his left, a candidate scread, clutching his arm. Blackness spread from the wound, crawling under the skin, veins darkening as it moved.
"No—no, no—!"
He dropped to his knees, trying to tear at his own flesh.
No one helped him.
No one could.
A blur passed through Nero’s vision.
He turned—
Too slow.
Sothing slamd into him from the side.
The force drove him several steps back, boots grinding through bone fragnts as he forced himself upright. The creature lunged again—
He adjusted.
Stepped aside.
Drove the spear downward, pinning it to the ground.
It shrieked—
Then another landed behind him.
Then another.
The tide thickened.
Candidates began to cluster—not out of coordination, but desperation.
Back to back.
Weapons out.
Trying to carve space where none existed.
"Hold! HOLD—!"
The command broke into a scream as the speaker vanished beneath a surge of pale bodies.
Nero moved through it.
Not retreating.
Not advancing.
Positioning.
Each movent calculated, each strike deliberate. He didn’t waste motion. Didn’t chase kills. He cut openings, shifted ground, forced breathing room where he could.
But even he could see it.
They were being overwheld.
The numbers weren’t just high—
They were oppressive.
Every ti one fell, another took its place.
Blood hit the ground—
And the creatures reacted.
They surged harder.
Faster.
Drawn in.
A man nearby lost his footing.
That was enough.
They were on him instantly.
He didn’t even get the chance to scream.
Nero exhaled sharply, stepping over the fallen as he repositioned again.
A cluster of survivors had ford ahead—a small rise of bone and broken remains, just enough elevation to hold ground.
He moved toward it.
Others had the sa idea.
They collided into position, forming a crude defensive line.
Spears. Swords. Shields.
Desperation made structure.
The first wave crashed into them again.
This ti—
They held.
Barely.
Bodies piled at their feet.
The ground beca unstable, shifting under the weight of the dead and dying alike.
The air thickened.
Breathing beca harder.
Still—
They held.
For now.
Nero drove his spear forward again, splitting another charging figure and kicking it back into the mass.
His eyes didn’t wander.
His mind didn’t drift.
Everything narrowed to one thing—
Survive.
A voice cut through his thoughts.
Calm.
asured.
Present.
{If signs of my existence was revealed, there could have been a mishap, which would not have gone over well for the Heretic during the Soul Examination}
Nero’s grip tightened.
"...Now you speak."
Another wave hit.
Harder.
Closer.
Endless.
And Golgotha did not care how many of them remained standing.
Only that they kept falling.
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