Nemo closed his eyes, held his breath, and stepped through the door.
What hit him next made his flesh tingle—as if every particle of light coming from the gate, penetrated his flesh, soul, spirit, and mind , energizing his trembling, feeble body. It was like a final push, forcing him to face the challenges ahead.
When his feet touched the other side, he felt the shift from a sterile, unreal environment to a damper, colder and more tangible one. He reopened his eyes and focused his gaze, scanning his surroundings for danger. Finding himself alone—safe, for now—he sighed in relief.
Taking a few steadying breaths, Nemo observed what lay infront of him, only be stunned, and bewildered.
Stretching before him like a living tapestry of menace and beauty was the entrance to a maze, a labyrinth. Its towering walls were woven from thick, gnarled veins, twisted together into labyrinthine corridors. The deep emerald vines glistened with dew, threaded with thorns as long as fingers—gleaming like obsidian under a starlet sky.
Interwoven among them were vivid red flowers, their petals unfurling like bloodstains. Their scent was sweet, intoxicating, carried on the damp, still air that clung heavily around him.
Beneath his feet, uneven cobblestones lay worn smooth by time, moss creeping through the cracks. The stones were cold, echoing with a soft, hollow sound at every step—unnaturally loud in the maze's quiet gloom.
The sight should have terrified Nemo. Instead, it reassured him, dissolving the lingering doubts that had plagued him. Despite all the clues that came his way, part of him had still believed this was some cruel joke. But here he stood, face-to-face with the Trial's labernyth—a place he'd only heard of, like a myth, never imagining he'd see it, let alone experience it firsthand.
A few protruding cobblestones separated him from the maze's interior. But before stepping in, he needed to organize his thoughts.
"This trial is an enemy designed to break us—at least, that's what I've read."
He sifted through the sparse information he recalled. His wary, slightly invigorated expression turned thoughtful.
"Aspirants who shared their experiences all agreed: this place digs deep into your psyche, using your hidden fears against you."
He shivered as a cold breeze slithered past.
"It targets weaknesses—flaws. The maze pushes you to your breaking point, using your memories, dreams, nightmares, and the denizens lurking within it. And when you're down? It doesn't let you recover. That's when it eliminates you."
His gaze drifted over the mist-shrouded maze.
"The more you fight back, the deeper you go, the better your result. Fail early, and your 'potential' is deemed lacking. Persevere, and you're rewarded accordingly."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "That is, if you're not me."
His situation was nearly hopeless. His psyche was riddled with holes—weaknesses that would cripple a normal person. He had no combat experience to face the horrors inside, unlike scions and heirs who trains since five years of age. And once the maze broke him? That was it. No second chance. No rebirth into the real universe, like those sixteen or older. Just death. Final, absolute. Assuming nothing worse awaited.
The odds were abysmal. Even the mightiest and strongest of warriors had shattered here. He felt like an ant in a cage, waiting to be crushed.
Shaking off the despair, he checked his belongings:
His glasses—essential, since he was practically blind without them.
His green tracksuit—offering slight camouflage against the vines.
His trusty wrench—carbon fiber, lighter and tougher than steel. A makeshift weapon in his right hand.
His headset—his lifeline against panic attacks that followed him like a curse. A gift from his late boss, cherished beyond measure.
Music and noise-cancellation were his shields against the unrelenting ghosts of his past.
Nemo adjusted the headset, tightened his grip on the wrench, and stepped into the maze.
One step.
The entrance sealed behind him, veins slithering shut, trapping him. And then he felt it—his heart hammering, chest tightening, muscles locking. Sweat dripped down his forehead; his hands trembled so violently he nearly dropped the wrench.
The maze was working its magic. Its first weapon? His own panic.
Nemo reeled from the assault—but panic was an old enemy. Instinct kicked in. He cranked the headset's volume to full, drowning the world in music, and began counting prime numbers, eyes squeezed shut. A ritual that usually helped.
This time, it only lessened the burden. The stimuli remained, ever present.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward, moving slowly down the corridor. He avoided the thorns' razor edges, glancing back often to prevent ambushes. The music and counting steadied him—but left him deaf to danger. Progress was painstaking.
At the end of the corridor, he turned right, and continued to advance step by step.
Then he saw it—the shadow of the first creature.
It lurked just beyond the corridor's end, a distorted silhouette that sent his pulse spiking. Panic flared, but beneath it flickered something else—a jagged thrill.
He had no idea what kind of monstrosity awaited him. Only that their clash was inevitable.
This was one of the labyrinth's born horrors. An early test. A warning for those still deluding themselves—those who didn't yet grasp that their ascent to power had only just begun. That they stood barely a step above cannon fodder, teetering at the universe's bottom rung, where the weak were discarded.
The maze seeped into his mind like inhaled smoke—a living entity with one purpose: to shattere and drain his soul.
It gnawed at him, piece by piece, eroding his sanity with patient, hungry teeth.
But it didn't matter.
The moment he snapped at the hangar his fate was sealed.
He died once already.
There were no alternatives here. No negotiations. No mercy.
Kill or be killed.
Win or lose.
Break and die—or break, rise to your feet, and survive.
This was a one-chance gamble. He had to make it count.
Hopeless as he felt, a flicker still burned in his eyes—unwavering. A spark of desire, anchoring him to the faint, desperate hope of a life beyond the one he'd been condemned to.