Taking a step past the aluminum door, Rue entered the ninth floor.
"Man, what a hassle," the gray-haired man grumbled under his breath.
Who knew that walking up a flight of stairs would prove to be such a bitch.
Rue sighed absentmindedly.
"What a bizarre experience," he chuntered begrudgingly under his breath.
What a weird series of events.
Whatever the Trial entity was, Rue held a grudge against it.
What a sadistic bastard.
To make use of such an underhanded method to toy with its prey…
It was oddly fascinating.
It was strange….?
For some reason, he felt his insides shake, and he took a deep breath.
After a few seconds of deliberation, he gave a shrug.
Rue accepted the event for what it was and simply moved on.
He took a step forward.
There was no need to cry over spilled milk; after all, he had more important matters to deal with at the current moment.
The ninth floor resembled the second floor in the aspect it appeared—well… mundane—a stark contrast to the earlier eldritch pitch-black void of the stairway.
With the exception of some randomly tossed furniture across the linoleum, all else seemed normal.
However, the ninth floor possessed a keen feature the second hadn't.
There was a long glass window that spanned across the hall, granting an observer a moderately high-altitude view over the apocalyptic urban landscape of the city.
Walking towards the window, Rue methodologically looked over the vista.
As he had seen from the ground level, the view of the city left little to the imagination.
The rubble piled high on the asphalt and pavement came from the mostly destroyed—once grand—spires of concrete and steel dotted around the small city space.
In the outermost distance of his vision, Rue saw a vast silver barrier that stretched across the limited city space, restricting it to a mere area of ten kilometers in length and width.
Somewhere unknown to Rue within this limited area was Minho.
Looking over the city scape, Rue from the side of his vision, noticed a reflection.
His reflection.
It was him.
A spritelike youthful-looking man, with unruly curly gray hair, odd eyes, and an expressionless face…
Rue unconsciously frowned.
"Why does my complexion look so stiff all of a sudden?" he questioned rhetorically.
Considering it momentarily, he brushed it off, steering his thoughts away from the topic with unending discipline.
Shifting his attention, Rue spared a brief glance towards the hovering violet panel diagonally left to the front of his gait.
[Time passed since the Trial's initiation: 30:22… 30:23]
Half an hour had passed.
Glancing at the time briefly, he quickly changed his focus and looked at the mini-map.
Using the map to search for his current location, he found, with the aid of his marker, that he was in the southern sector of the small city space.
After putting the information to mind, he made a mental roundabout back, skirting his focus back to the ninth-floor's corridors.
He walked down the silent hall.
His feet rhythmically moved in an unconscious sync.
Each time one of his feet grazed the ground, a dull noise echoed loudly as the only noise on the level.
Passing by some ajar doors leading into cubicle office spaces, furniture, and windows.
He had reached the end of the hall.
In front of him was a closed wooden door.
The doorknob was a shiny bronze, and the fake golden nameplate firmly bezeled near the door's top read the name of the space's previous occupant.
["Skyler White"]
'...'
He pushed down on the knob.
From its hinges from the door guided itself open, revealing behind it a solitary executive office.
The desk was in an "L" shape, crafted with expensive-looking wood.
Perched behind the fine desk was a simple onyx spinning chair.
The office's décor was scarce, hardly being decorated unless you accounted for the limited number of poorly arranged—out of place—holiday ornaments the original occupant had placed as a means to compensate for the bland appearance.
Rue walked into the office without a second thought.
The door closed behind him.
Heading straight to the desk, Rue picked up a prism-shaped nameplate with the previous recipient's name, walked back to the door, opened it fully, and propped the bottom gap at the base of the door open using the nameplate as a makeshift doorstop, mounting it in place permanently unless an external source said otherwise.
Examining his handiwork, he gave a nod of content.
With his task finished, he ambled back for the black spinning office chair behind the L- desk.
Taking his seat onto the chair, Rue leaned back, kicked his feet up on the desk, and made himself at home.
He wanted to play the long game against his opponent.
As the saying goes "Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet."
Whose patience would be bested first.
It was his strategy.
A strategy he had devised after spawning into the city.
From the get-go, Rue, after reading Minho's profile, had pretty much known he stood no chance against the bastard when it came to hand-to-hand or simply any form of melee combat without his Initial.
Going into a battle in his current state was akin to suiside.
There was a fundamental difference between Rue and Minho.
Minho had religiously trained in powerful spear arts since the First Destination till the Fourth.
Always honing his craft.
Shedding rivers of blood.
Splitting skin.
Receiving lectures from the finest—all in an attempt to perfect his spear art.
To make his spear and he one.
A unity.
An abradable kinship between steel and man.
Rue, on the other hand… had only trained in weaponry arts until the Third Destination—anything after that was put on the back burner.
That was 60 years ago.
Sixty years was a long time.
His priorities shifted.
And to say the least, martial arts weren't necessarily the focal point of his attention.
After Rue had reached the Fourth Destination, he had begun to explore the capabilities of his Life-related Initial.
What the hell even was it?
How could it be used?
After dabbling with his Initial for some time, these questions began to shift—to change.
What were the possibilities of his Initial?
Years passed.
And unknowingly, Rue had vastly out-aged his peers.
For example, the mean age of an individual within the Fourth Destination was 35 with a standard deviation of 5 years.
You do the math.
Rue was within a very… VERY small margin of people around his age in the Fourth Destination—literally being within the 100th percentile. He was an extreme outlier far above the logical mean.
Simply said, Rue didn't primarily focus on mastering any weapon arts.
Sure, he knew some, but he wasn't particularly exceptional in this regard.
But they were never his forte.
Weapon arts weren't the reason why he was as powerful as he was in the Fourth Destination, but his adaptability over his body.
His Life-related Initial was ironically the reason for his strength.
Rue hated it, but… at the end of the day he had to admit it was amazing.
With Rue's mastery over his body, Minho held his mastery over the polearm.
After all, who would win.
a man whose greatest weapon is his body, but his body is restricted—leaving him weak,
or a man whose greatest mastery is the spear?
If they were to fight in the first Trial, Minho would win 87 times out of 1.
Rue was kind of screwed…
With this said—this was if they were to fight.
All he had to do was bide his time, and fuck around, while Minho searched for him.