In a stark white room, devoid of detail or discernible exits, a group of children appeared without warning, standing upright as if pulled from reality and set down by an unseen hand.
They glanced around, eyes wide with confusion, some edged with apprehension. The room resembled a simple cubic box; completely bland, and neither too big nor too small, providing enough space for the eighty or so children to move freely, with room to spare.
Thaddeus was nowhere in sight. His absence only heightened their unease. Only a handful maintained their composure, while the rest shifted nervously, the blank walls offering nothing but silence.
Time seemed to stretch, turning minutes into an agonizing crawl. Whispers turned into chatter, then into a storm of questions.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. An hour slipped by, then two, then four, and was still counting.
The children naturally gravitated into cliques, mostly along family and clan lines, with a few huddling with friends.
Even the calmest among them now wore deep frowns, their patience thinning to a razor's edge.
At first, logic held them steady. They were in the Crimson household, surrounded by the scions of the Crimson family. There was no apparent danger, no need to panic. But as time continued to trickle by, the featureless walls and the incessant murmurs began to gnaw at their psyche.
The sterile emptiness of the room twisted the atmosphere, the monotony amplifying every small irritation. Whispers became shouts. Curses filled the air. They banged on the walls crying, and tried every trick they knew to escape, but nothing changed.
With no sense of time, even the most level-headed began to crack. A few skirmishes had broken out earlier, brief clashes of frustration, but now even those had fizzled out, leaving a strange void.
Due to the nature of their upbringing, they were rather cautious of interacting with others, particularly unknown people, in a place no less.
No one knew when danger would come, and it was better to have no one guarding your back, than to leave your back to someone who would stab you to save himself.
It was the fundamental nature of truth, wherever the influence of the Existential Compendium had reached. So they were rather reclusive, which made the agonizing experience even worse.
The brain, starved of stimulation, turned inward, seeking conflict where none existed. Aggression simmered, a low boil beneath the surface.
The scent of sweat hung heavy in the stuffy air, mingling with the stale breath of too many bodies, making them all the more uncomfortable.
For some, hyperactivity gave way to a wild-eyed mania; others sank into listless silence. But beneath the stillness lay a storm, ready to explode at the slightest trigger.
The most unsettling were those who remained unbothered; less than five in total. Sweat beaded on their skin, and shadows darkened their faces, but their expressions remained unreadable. Indifferent.
Or at least, that was how they appeared. Inwardly, most of them were also very close to snapping.
Expecting children no older than eleven or twelve to maintain patience in such a situation was nothing short of delusional.
Unlike the others, Kallen wasn't truly a child. Beneath his young exterior lay the mind of a man who had spent nearly thirty years on Earth as a cold-blooded killer.
For him, tests were hardly a challenge... at least as easy as they could be. His young body still held the natural impulsivity and hot-bloodedness of youth.
Back on Earth, he'd once endured over twenty-eight hours of sensory deprivation. Now, with this younger, less tempered mind, he would be lucky to manage sixteen hours without any form of stimulation.
The other kids were already capable of lasting this long because they could see and interact with each other... those close to them mostly.
"It's been fourteen hours already. They can't hold on any longer."
Outside the white room, several figures sat in a dimly lit chamber. At the center, a man with the signature crimson hair and eyes of the Crimson family rested comfortably, his voice the one that had just spoken.
Around him, individuals with varying hair colors; each representing a different family under the Crimsons' dominion, sat in silence. Their gazes were fixed on a large screen displaying the struggling children trapped within the white room.
"I must say, Thaddeus, your method is quite ingenious," the crimson-haired man continued.
"Blending your Will into that your 4th Ascendent level skill [Wind of malevolence], nudging them to the edge before vanishing without a word... Their minds had no time to adjust. Brilliant.
"Now, with all that frustration and desperation simmering beneath the surface, they're brimming with raw, chaotic energy. This test will force them to tap into their innermost potential.
"Throwing them into a life-or-death battle right after will forge their minds. The world isn't kind to the weak. Those who still cower under pressure with this much desperation coursing through them simply aren't worth the trouble. With this much frustration, it should override their fear instead."
A chilling smile touched his lips. "Only under the furnace, hammer, and anvil can a true weapon be forged, or else it shatters. Run the simulation. Send in abhorrent abominations. That would make things interesting... But keep it simple—level one or two, five at most for those with good physiques; level seven for the twin boys and others of their level.
Except for those four. Give them level ten."
Thaddeus hesitated. "But young lord Kallen is still unawakened. I fear he won't be able to handle it, Master Silas."
Silas' crimson eyes glinted with a sharp, unsettling light. "This nephew of mine is rumored to be a genius of battle. I want to see just how true that is. He's the youngest in that room and yet, the most composed... what is he truly made of? I intend to find out."
"As you wish." Thaddeus simply answered, his fingers dancing over a holographic pad in his hand.
The room fell silent, save for the soft hum of the screen. Most of those present wore taut expressions, silently praying their family's scion would not disappoint.
Only Silas and a cyan-haired man from the Emberblades remained indifferent. The Emberblade patriarch's expression held a quiet confidence, a subtle smirk playing at his lips. He had no doubt his daughter would ace this test.
In the tense silence, a low but sharp puff sound suddenly cut through the air, snapping the children to attention.
It was the kind of sound an electronic device might make when releasing pressurized gas.
The realization struck the sharpest minds among them. On a normal day, they might have dismissed it. But here, in this unsettling, featureless room, their instincts screamed danger.
Their pupils shrank to pinpoints, and their guards shot to their highest. Muscles tensed, and many held their breaths, some even instinctively assumed defensive stances.
But it was already too late.
One by one, they crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Not a single child was spared.
For a few seconds, the room remained still. Then, as if responding to a silent cue, previously invisible runic markings flared to life. Soft white light pulsed gently, blending seamlessly with the room's jarring, sterile whiteness.
The floor beneath each child opened up with mechanical precision. Beds rose smoothly, cradling their limp forms. An unseen force guided them, adjusting their bodies with care, as if handling fragile porcelain.
From either side of each bed, sleek, metallic tubes extended, closing around the children like protective pods. Inside, a white gas hissed into the chambers, bathing the children in a cool, soothing mist designed to keep them comfortable and stable.
The room, once filled with wary chatter and pent-up tension, now stood eerily quiet, an unbroken silence accompanied by the faint, rhythmic glow of the runes.