The god had smiled at him, he was sure of that. Percival awoke on the spongy mud floor of the jungle. Dressed down to a simple brown leather tunic and pants, his iron chestplate and leggings rested to his side. Those, in addition to the sword he'd kept strapped to himself, were the only things he possessed.
He didn't dawdle. Years of military service had prepared him well for his current endeavor. He quickly took note of the nearby presence.
Sleeping several feet away from him was a foreign man he'd met shortly after awakening in the jungle. His skin looked tan, but the man had explained that it was simply his natural color. Though he had never met one, he'd heard of "orientals" from the east who sold spices and silks. Perhaps, the man was one of them.
Percival had initially assumed him to be a person of wealth and influence given that his clothes were finely woven, however, he had introduced himself as "Tanaka Kira" , an average salaryman.
The details weren't important. He had already resolved himself. The man beside him was competition.
Silver hissed as he unsheathed the sword his general bequeathed to him. Gripping the hilt tightly, he approached the sleeping man. His prey stirred, yawning deeply as he stretched his arms. Eyes blurred, he attempted to orient himself in what was surely an unfamiliar environment.
Then, his gaze settled on the drawn sword, the tempered steel inching closer with every step. The threat of death closing in, the man made a last ditch effort.
"Please! I promise to be of use. Spare my life, I beg you!"
All four of the man's limbs, as well as his head, touched the ground, crouched over like a panting dog. He spoke loudly and incessantly, pleading for his life dozens of times.
Percival understood his words. The meaning of the pose was not unknown to him. They simply failed to convince the resolute knight.
According to his father, "Percival" was the name of a legendary hero, one of the greatest knights to ever live. Together with Sir Galahad, a fellow member of the round table, he successfully located the Holy Grail. The hero Percival was a man of virtue and indomitable strength, someone who overcame insurmountable odds and lived happily ever after. His parents had named him after such a great man in hopes that their son would accomplish equally great things in life.
Percival apologized to his parents, wherever they'd ended up. Life had ended in tragedy. Now, he planned the murder of six innocents. Their son was a dishonorable failure.
The sound of blade cutting flesh brought him no joy. It didn't even disgust him. He registered the noise, but thought nothing of it, after all, he'd grown numb to death long ago.
He cut cleanly through the man's neck, his blade cleaved like an executor's blade which decapitated swiftly. The tension that upheld the body in a pose of ingratiation relaxed. As the body crumpled into the soft bed of mud, a steady pool of crimson leaked from the freshly made corpse.
Minutes ago, he'd awoken from a dream where a god told seven people to find a tower. One of those people lay dead before him. He had killed him. He acknowledged his sin wholeheartedly, though he wouldn't regret it.
The god had promised the victor a second life, a blessed rebirth. Those he had seen in the dream were strange and varied. Some were even inhuman. He knew nothing of their abilities, but their existence was a threat to his chance at a better life.
A man of war, the question he'd asked the god stumbled from his lips. In war, only a single side could be claimed the victor. Such thinking applied to the trials. Eliminating the competition would end with surefire victory.
Leaving the remains of the salaryman, Percival wandered the unfamiliar jungle for signs of the others. By the end of the first day, the god announced that one had safely reached the tower. He met the news with indifference. A single escapee meant little in the grand scheme of the game. There would be other trials.