"Not again…" an older man muttered, a trembling hand pressed to his chest.
Reality returned.
Arlen dropped to his knees on damp soil. The impact knocked the air out of him. For a second, all he could do was cough, hands sinking into the mud.
When he lifted his head, the first thing he saw was a pair of bare feet backing away.
"What… what is this…?"
The voice shook.
Arlen pushed himself up slowly, feeling the world settle around him.
They were in a village.
Small. Built from old wood and worn stone. Low houses with thatched roofs. Dirt paths. Crooked fences barely holding in scrawny animals.
No magic circles.
No altars.
Nothing that marked this as a "trial."
It was a place people lived in.
Alive.
The villagers stared at them like they were a tear in the world. Eyes wide. Hands clutched to their chests.
Before Arlen could wonder what not again meant, the forest screamed.
Not a roar.
Something wet. Twisted. Branches snapping from the inside. Something that shouldn't move—moving.
The birds took off all at once.
Then they appeared.
They weren't animals.
They had four limbs, but their bodies were too long, too angular. Their skin looked like burned leather, cracked, as if something dark seeped through from beneath. Their heads were narrow, no clear snout. Dull red eyes that reflected nothing.
Only intent.
They ran wrong.
Like the world rejected them with every step.
"Monsters!" someone screamed.
Chaos erupted.
Villagers ran. Some of the transported did the same. Others froze, unable to process what they were seeing.
A boy stepped forward.
He was shaking, but he raised his fists.
"We have to do something!" he shouted. "If we attack together—"
He didn't finish.
One of the creatures lunged, its movement clumsy but brutal.
Arlen saw the impact.
The boy's body slammed into a wooden wall. The sound that followed wasn't a scream.
It was a crack.
And then nothing.
Arlen stepped back.
His heart pounded hard enough to hurt. He didn't think. Didn't process. He turned, looking for somewhere to hide.
He saw a half-collapsed house. One wall gone, the inside exposed. He ran for it without looking back, stumbling over debris, and dropped against an inner wall.
His breathing came in short bursts.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
From there, he saw everything.
A villager shoved his daughter toward a nearby house.
"Run!" he shouted.
He didn't get to turn.
Two creatures reached him. One tore into his shoulder. The other dragged him down.
Arlen looked away just as the screams cut off.
A transported girl started screaming.
Not a battle cry.
A raw, desperate sound.
"No! No, no, no…!"
It rang through the village like something breaking.
The creatures turned at once.
Three. Four. Five.
All of them toward her.
Arlen wanted to cover his ears.
He didn't.
He watched as they threw themselves at her. The scream broke into a choked gasp.
Then nothing.
Another transported ran past the ruined house, a knife in his hand. He saw a child trapped under a fallen beam.
He hesitated.
Just a second.
Then he kept running.
The child didn't scream.
He just reached out.
Arlen tried to move.
His body didn't.
He clenched his teeth.
No one had warned them it would be like this.
But some part of him had expected it.
He saw others grabbing whatever they could. Shovels. Axes. Makeshift spears. They didn't fight well. They missed. They got hurt.
But they didn't go down as easily.
Blows that should have broken bones only forced them back. Bites that should have killed left them bleeding, but alive.
Something in them resisted.
The villagers saw it.
And joined in.
A man drove a spear into a creature's side. A woman lit a torch and smashed it against another. The creatures shrieked. Not in pain. Something closer to frustration.
One by one, they fell.
No final strike.
No hero.
Just exhaustion, blood, and bodies on the ground.
When the last monster stopped moving, the silence was worse than the screams.
Arlen didn't come out right away.
He stayed where he was, back against the wall, hands still trembling.
He took a breath.
Once.
Twice.
Still alive.
When he finally stepped out, the village wasn't the same.
Bodies lay scattered.
Villagers.
Transported.
Dark stains soaking into the earth.
Some cried quietly. Others stared at nothing. No one celebrated.
Arlen looked down at his hands.
No blood.
He hadn't fought.
He hadn't saved anyone.
And still, he was there.
On his feet.
While others who had tried to do the right thing… weren't.
A weight settled in his chest, something he couldn't name.
No voice came.
No grand message followed.
Just a quiet certainty, pressing in:
The ones who survived weren't the bravest.
Or the most just.
They were the ones who, for some reason, kept breathing.
And Arlen didn't know if that said something good…
or something terrible about him.