In the dimly lit chamber, the large screen fractured into countless smaller frames, each displaying a different landscape where the children had begun to spawn simultaneously. The environments varied wildly—some lush and vibrant, others desolate and foreboding, each designed to test the mind and spirit of its inhabitant.
This was not reality but a sophisticated simulation. With the world's advanced fusion of dynamis and technology, such feats were trivial, merely a glimpse into the vast potential of their science and mysticism.
The children's initial reactions were as varied as their settings. Relief washed over some, who believed they had escaped the sterile prison of the white room. Others crumbled, bursting into tears, the bottled-up stress finally breaking through.
Anger and malice twisted a few young faces, while fear and despair gnawed at others. Hope bloomed in the eyes of a handful, as introspection and hysteria took root in the minds of a few more.
Some remained calm, curiosity driving them to investigate their surroundings, while others stood perfectly still and at peace, if only for a moment.
But this fragile balance was shattered almost instantly.
Shadows moved. Bushes rustled. Rocks shifted. The air grew colder, heavier, as if saturated with an unseen malevolence.
From the depths of forests, the cracks of broken branches echoed. In barren wastelands, the earth trembled with the approach of unseen threats.
And then, only two emotions filled every screen... either fear or bloodlust.
The simulation had begun.
"Who do you think will perform best?"
"Ah! That's a no brainier. Definitely the Crimsons, and the scions of the Emberblades coming at second. Even though they're no longer the ruling family, their foundations still run deep."
"Argus, your son is already failing. Look! He's screaming in fear. He's not entirely bad, though. There's a hint of madness in his eyes. He'll definitely attack if that abomination comes any closer to him. Hmm... Not bad."
"Hehe." Argus chuckled darkly in response. "Although your eldest son is doing well, his younger sister already fainted," he said with a dark smile.
"Ah, Alverion, your seed already started fighting it. A true gem"
"Haha, indeed... indeed."
"What are you doing, cowering away, you damned disappointment? Fight back, dammit!"
The room filled with a chaotic blend of chatter, laughter, curses, and the harsh grinding of teeth. Each figure clamored on their seat, eyes glued to the screens as they responded to how their own prodigy performed, or how the scion of an ally or rival fared.
Bootlicking masked as compliments, subtle jabs hidden behind thin smiles, and every manner of meager manipulation played out under the guise of amicability.
This was not merely a test for the children. It was a battlefield of its own kind, where the ambitious sought-after opportunity, while the young ones fought for their survival in the simulated world.
Afterall, this in itself, was power play in its own right. A rare opportunity for progress, as the children's performance could dictate whether their respective clans and families would ascend or plummet in the coming years.
For those who excelled, doors would open... doors that led to the possibility of studying alongside the scions of the Emberblades, or even better, the Crimsons! Such an honor was not merely a privilege but a transformative boon.
The rewards extended far beyond prestige. There were prestigious martial techniques they could learn, skill books (1) offered as coveted prizes, and deep, esoteric teachings that only a handful could receive.
These teachings were normally granted once every ten years and strictly limited to those under twelve. It was, by all accounts, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The phrasing of "once every ten years and limited to those under twelve", was a cleverly veiled guise of generosity.
Yet, above all else, there was the promise of connections the children could make. Connections were the truest form of power, capable of turning the tides of fate. To forge ties with families of higher tiers was to plant seeds of influence, seeds that could flourish into alliances, trade agreements, or even matrimonial bonds. These connections could lay the groundwork for an era of prosperity when their generation matured and rose to power.
Everything hinged on this moment. Performance was not just a measure of skill but a vessel of ambition. The recognition of those above was akin to divine favor, and the slightest nod of approval could change destinies.
For the children, it was a battle of life and death. For the adults, it was a game of chess, with each child a piece, each success or failure a move that could elevate or ruin them. The stakes were nothing short of everything.
In a jagged terrain filled with black rocks and soot, a crimson-haired boy with faint bags under his eyes sat on a boulder, his eyelids drooping with a deceptive laziness. The rocky ground trembled lightly, pebbles and dust jittering as if in anticipation.
The air was thick with a malevolent energy, an unsettling aura that seemed to be there and yet not, like a nightmare only half remembered.
"It'll do you well to just reveal yourself and die quickly. I'm not exactly in a good mood," Williams muttered, his voice a drawl, his eyes half-lidded and staring blankly forward.
Aside from the ceaseless quivering of the ground, nothing changed. No shadows moved. No beast lunged. It was as if he had slipped into madness, talking to ghosts in the barren wasteland.
But then, a slow, twisted smile slithered across his lips. His once lazy eyes sharpened, glinting with a terrifying malice that seemed to suck the warmth out of the air.
"Good," he whispered, his voice like a blade dragged over stone.
Time seemed to slow as he rose from the boulder, every movement fluid and unhurried. Fragments of stone on the ground quivered, then shot into his palm, coalescing into a massive war hammer. The weapon was rough and brutal, its head jagged and uneven, but promised to pack a painful punch.
His movements seemed to portray the light of a seasoned blacksmith. One born of, and for the forge.
There was a thunderous echo, followed by a wet splatter was swallowed by the lingering reverberations.
Before him stood an abomination—a four-eyed creature with skin like molten tar, its mouth a grotesque cross-shaped split, lined with jagged, uneven teeth. The horizontal slash of its maw stretched from ear to ear like a perpetual grotesque grin.
The creature wailed in agony, its left arm entirely obliterated. Viscous black blood sprayed across the ground, sizzling against the rocks.
Williams didn't flinch. Instead, he tightened his grip on the war hammer, his expression still caught somewhere between boredom and delight.
"Come on," he coaxed, his voice almost gentle. "I'm just getting started."
The abomination's four eyes narrowed, its limbs twitching with a mix of fury and pain. And then, with a snarl that rattled the air, it charged forward.
Williams met it with a grin, and plenty of smacks from his makeshift hammer.