The next four days for the trio were hellish. They spent every waking hour battling monsters across constantly shifting terrains—dense jungles, arid deserts, jagged mountains, and even swampy wetlands that reeked of rot. Each fight tested them in new, brutal ways. Early in the week, they lost repeatedly. Their bodies bruised, spirits battered, but they learned, adjusted, adapted, and retaliated with each failure.
By the end of the week, they stopped losing.
Now, they were confident, maybe even a little cocky. There wasn't a single grade two monster the Academy could throw at them that they didn't think they could bring down.
And yet, a nervous weight pressed down on his chest as Damien lay on the stiff cot in his room aboard the airship carrying them to the Island Trial. The air was too cold, the ship's humming too loud, the metal walls too close. He couldn't tell if it was the looming prospect of dying at a monster's claws or the knowledge that this trial would shape the rest of his life.
He stared at the dull ceiling above, the vibrations of the ship's engines humming through the floor beneath him.
The Island Trial was the dividing line. Those who impressed the Captains of the Ten Squads would be drafted into their ranks, ascending into the elite. The same applied to the unawakened cadets still competing in their version of the tournament.
There were only thirty draft slots. And over eighty cadets remained, both awakened and not. A little over a third would get the glory. The rest? They'd be shipped off to serve as standard soldiers—grunts stationed on conquered islands or manning defenses along the mainland, holding the line against outbreaks.
Technically, the undrafted had the safer job, but only technically.
Flying beasts, underwater leviathans—some monsters didn't care about borders. They escaped their islands in search of food and blood. Grunt soldiers worked endless shifts, earned scraps for pay, and died anonymously.
'If I'm going to die at a monster's hands, I might as well die rich!' Damien clasped his hands together in mock prayer, the edges of a smirk tugging at his lips.
"No need to pray to me. I live in your head, you know," came the smug, ever-uninvited voice in his head, sounding entirely too pleased with itself.
'That wasn't meant for you! You're a very annoying, maybe-god thing that mooches off my soul. Definitely not someone worth my praise.'
Of course, he was lying, but he couldn't let the voice know that. It would never shut up if he let even a sliver of genuine appreciation slip. Still... deep down, Damien did feel grateful.
The voice had given him strength. A way to protect his friends. A chance to make sure no one he cared about died again.
'I don't care if I die during this trial… or afterwards, but Summer—and even Luka—have to survive.'
He raised a hand slowly toward the ceiling, fingers outstretched as if trying to grasp something far above him.
'Such a lofty task. Do you think you're up for it?' the voice asked, unusually serious. The shift in tone caught Damien off guard.
'It doesn't matter if I am. I will it so, and if it's my will, nothing can stop me.' His voice was steady, lips curving faintly into a smile. 'Besides… I don't think I could handle another death.'
Before the voice could reply, a crackling message burst through the intercom, cutting through the air.
"Will all contenders report to the front deck dressed in your battle-ready uniforms... we have reached the Island."
Damien shot upright, landing on his feet with practiced grace. No need to change—he'd already put on his uniform earlier. It was a skin-tight, dark blue bodysuit that clung to his form like a second skin. Unforgiving in air and space, but surprisingly flexible and breathable.
He remembered the briefing. The advisor told them each suit was embedded with a tracking device and would constantly relay vitals to the control room. That small detail had eased the nerves of many cadets—it seemed Captain Wade wasn't lying when he said their safety mattered.
Still, that knowledge only did so much.
As Damien stepped into the hallway, the air felt heavier. Every footstep echoed. Around him, dozens of Deviants walked silently, their faces pale, eyes wide, expressions drawn tight with fear. Anxiety hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
Damien felt it too. His heartbeat thumped louder with every step.
Then, he saw her.
Cassie Lennox.
She stood a few feet behind and to his left, tall and poised, as calm as ever. Her raven-black hair shimmered beneath the fluorescent hallway lights, but it wasn't her hair that caught Damien's attention—it was her eyes. Cold, crystalline blue. Piercing. Unwavering. Not a trace of fear in them, only focus and confidence.
Damien exhaled slowly.
'If Cassie isn't scared… then why should I be?' he thought, a bit more steel entering his spine.
Of course, clarity never lasted long.
"She'd probably kick your ass, you know," the voice said with a mischievous giggle, like a schoolgirl delighting in gossip.
Damien burst out laughing.
The sound echoed down the hallway, earning him plenty of strange looks. None more intense than the one from Cassie herself. She turned her head slowly, gaze locking onto his, her brows lifting slightly.
Her stare hit like a thunderbolt—calm, calculating, curious. Her head tilted, eyes narrowing, trying to figure him out.
Damien flushed, but for some reason, he didn't look away.
There was something peaceful in her eyes. Beautiful, yes—but also sharp. Dangerous. A blade hidden in silk, and yet, he found himself staring longer than he should have.
Before he could glance away, Cassie spoke. Barely audible, "You have nice eyes."
He blinked for a moment, stunned. He had never spoken to her before—hadn't even heard her voice. Why now? Why this?
Still, he wasn't about to make it weird.
"Thanks... so do you," he said, managing a warm smile.
She returned the smile, soft and brief, then walked past him toward the deck, her footsteps light and unhurried.
Of course, his soul parasite couldn't help itself.
"Wow. Never expected you to be such a lady killer. That's two now—Summer and Cassie. I'm sorry to tell you this, my little goblin, but managing two girls at once might be harder than the trials."
Damien's face turned crimson. He looked up toward the ceiling, shaking his fist with cartoonish frustration.
"They're not my girls! Summer and I are just friends! And those are the first words Cassie's ever spoken to me!" He exclaimed
To the other Deviants walking past, he looked absolutely unhinged—arguing with the air, blushing like a fool, and shaking his fist at nothing.
The voice cackled, delighted at the public humiliation.
Damien forced himself to focus, pushing the voice's laughter to the background as he stepped through the metal doors. A blinding light hit his eyes, and then he was standing among seventy-two Deviants—all clad in the same sleek uniforms, all looking toward the front of the ship.
And there, standing before them, was their advisor—the lieutenant of the Sixth Squad.
He was short—barely 170 centimeters—and... unfortunate-looking. One eye was missing, a deep scar stretching down from the socket. His nose was too big, his lips too thin, and his greasy black hair hung like clumps of seaweed.
'Finally, one man I don't have to be jealous of,' Damien mused dryly.
"Oh, I think he's got you beat, little goblin," the voice said sweetly.
Damien stared at the sky again, as if that was where the voice lived. 'Hey, we share the same body, asshole. You're just as ugly as me.'
He turned his gaze back to the lieutenant, ignoring the voice's ramblings about how he was once beautiful and how cruel fate stole his looks.
The lieutenant's voice rasped across the deck, hoarse and dry like he hadn't touched water in weeks. "Now that we're all here... let's begin."
The tension exploded like a wave crashing down. Everyone around Damien stiffened. He could feel the shift in the air—Deviants hardening their hearts, sharpening their minds. The nerves remained, but now they were laced with purpose.
And Damien? His lips curled upward, a grin forming across his face.
He welcomed the pressure.
'About time.'