The air smelled different.
For the first time in weeks—maybe longer—Sylas could breathe without gagging. There was no iron tang of blood. No sickly rot of monster flesh. Just air. Real air. It carried dust and dryness, the faint scent of city smoke, and a breeze that brushed his skin like forgotten memory.
He stood near the hospital window, one hand resting on the frame, fingers twitching slightly from habit. Every part of him felt… alert. Not because he was in danger—but because he wasn't. And somehow, that felt even stranger.
The world beyond the glass moved slowly. Sunlight hung low, warm and golden, bleeding across rooftops and hospital courtyards. Wind danced through trees in the parking lot below. For a moment, it almost felt like a dream. And Sylas didn't trust dreams anymore.
His eyes drifted across the room.
That's when he saw it.
A mirror, propped against the wall beside a metal sink. Narrow, old, the kind hospitals used when they didn't care about comfort. Cracked on one side. Dusty. Forgotten.
Sylas hesitated—then walked toward it.
What he saw made him stop.
The reflection wasn't wrong, but it wasn't quite right either.
He looked… different.
Thinner. His frame had always been lean, but now it bordered on emaciated. Skin too pale, collarbone sharp, cheeks slightly hollow. There was a quiet fatigue in his expression—a shadow behind his eyes that hadn't been there before.
But the eyes themselves… they glowed faintly red.
He blinked. Leaned closer.
Not glowing exactly. Just sharp. Piercing. Like a wolf watching through the trees.
I look like hell, he thought dryly.
His lips twitched into a faint, tired smirk. "I wonder what I'd score. Seven out of ten?"
It was meant as a joke. Just a muttered thought.
But the mirror replied.
"You look perfect, master."
Sylas froze.
A chill raced up his spine. He stared at his reflection. It hadn't moved. The expression remained the same. Calm. Unbothered. But the voice—he'd heard it. Soft. Clear. Echoing from inside the glass.
He blinked hard.
Hallucination? Side effect from the trial?
Before he could think it through, a new message blinked across his vision—small, white text hovering just behind his eyes.
[Fate System Note: Rankers may alter reality through confident lies. However, changes do not persist beyond a short time.]
Sylas swallowed.
"A lie," he whispered. "I lied… and it became real?"
Tentatively, he raised a hand. Looked at the mirror again. "Are you alive?"
The reflection's mouth moved with his own.
But the voice came again—slightly distorted this time, like it echoed from somewhere too deep to reach.
"Yes, master."
His chest tightened. Something inside him stirred—something dangerous. Hungry. Not quite power, but possibility.
His thoughts raced. If I can speak a lie… and make it real for a second…
He turned slowly, glancing down at the shadow cast by his feet. It curled across the floor, still and harmless.
"Stretch your hand out," he whispered to it.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the shadow twitched.
It moved—subtly, unnaturally. One tendril lifted, like a limb reaching. Then it flickered, lost shape, and fell limp again.
The change had lasted maybe three seconds.
Sylas stumbled backward, breath catching in his throat.
This wasn't magic. This was something else.
A lie, spoken with enough belief, could trick the world. Bend it.
Only briefly.
But sometimes… a second was all you needed.
He stared at his hands.
At the cracked mirror.
At the quiet, dust-laced light slipping into the room.
A thousand ideas bloomed in his mind—strategies, escapes, manipulations. But beneath all of it, one truth settled in his gut like a stone:
As the rush of possibilities flooded his mind—ways to lie, ways to twist reality, ways to survive—a sudden, stabbing pain tore through his chest.
His breath caught.
Then came the second wave—his skull throbbed like it had been split in half, his vision blurring at the edges.
Zani... it's dropping.
He stumbled back, legs buckling under him. The strength in his body drained like sand through his fingers. His skin turned clammy, his heartbeat sluggish.
Sylas barely made it to the bed before collapsing. Every muscle screamed in protest as he sank into the mattress, his mind half-lost in a fog of pain and exhaustion.
He didn't move for nearly an hour. Couldn't.
Even blinking felt like a task too heavy to bear.
But through the haze, a memory clawed its way back into focus—the old man in the Trial, the one who pushed too hard. Who used the last of his Zani... and died with a hollow chest and empty eyes.
That could have been him. Almost was.
He clenched his jaw, frustration mixing with a creeping fear.
This power—this lie-for-reality thing—wasn't a gift.
It was a loaded weapon. And right now, he was the one standing in front of the barrel.
"I have to learn," Sylas whispered to the ceiling. "Manipulation. Control. The psychology of belief. Human behavior..."
If lies make reality, then understanding belief is the first rule of survival.
But his thoughts were broken by the growl of his stomach—a primal reminder of something even more important.
"Food first," he muttered, dragging himself up with what little strength he had. "Then the rest."
Because without strength, even gods can die.
-----
The cafeteria was filled with warmth—roasted spices in the air, the soft clang of metal trays, the quiet hum of voices. It was nothing like the Trial. No blood. No screams. No monsters dragging corpses through ash.
Sylas sat hunched over the table, pale skin ghost-like under the fluorescent lights. But his hands moved fast—tearing into chicken legs, slurping ramen, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his sleeve. Three kilograms of meat. Two bowls of broth. An entire liter of cola that hissed and bubbled like acid down his throat.
He ate like a starving animal—and in truth, he was.
Not for food.
For life.
Zani was gone, drained to dust. His body, pushed to the brink during the Trial, needed to rebuild. It screamed for fuel. For blood. For strength.
He could hear the whispers around him.
"That guy's gonna burst."
"Wasn't he in the ICU a day ago?"
"He's a Ranker…?"
Sylas ignored them. He chewed like it was war.
But as he reached for the next skewer, someone stood across the table. Three men—formal, with sharp coats and sharper eyes—placed an envelope before him. Thick paper. A golden crest. Cold silence.
No words were needed.
Sylas stared at the seal. His hand trembled as he picked it up, breaking the wax.
Inside:
Invitation to the Academy of the Tenmares.
A place where only Rankers—those who survived the Trial—were allowed. Not for comfort. Not for dreams. But for reality. To prepare for what *would* come again.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak.
His chest burned.
He knew the truth: the Trial wasn't over. It never ended. One day, it would pull his soul back into that nightmare—and if he entered again as weak and clueless as last time, there would be no lucky escape. No last-minute salvation. Just a quiet death in the dark.
He gritted his teeth, crumpling the invitation slightly in his fist.
"I need to learn," he whispered to himself. "Not just power. Not skills. But how people think. How they lie. How they survive."
He thought of the old man. The one who died when his Zani ran dry.
He thought of his own hands—shaking, empty, too slow when it counted.
Not again.
Sylas rose slowly, pushing his chair back with a sharp screech. He looked down at the letter once more, then tucked it into his coat.
This wasn't about pride.
It was about survival.
"I accept."
His voice cut through the cafeteria like a blade. Not loud. But final.
Because next time the Trial came…
He would be ready.