Part 1

Chapter 8 - Trial Continued

The light that filtered through the curtains was soft, almost too soft—like the world was dimming around him. Jin woke with a jolt, his breath quick, as if he had been drowning. The room smelled too clean, too familiar. Hana's voice called from the kitchen, cutting through the stillness of the house.

"Morning, darling," she said, her tone warm, but there was an underlying tension in it. "Sleep well?"

Jin blinked, confused. His head throbbed, his mind buzzing with fragmented memories of the trial. The door. The prophecy. The faceless figures. He rubbed his temples, trying to piece it all together.

"You've been having bad dreams again," she continued, her voice almost too sweet. "You need to stop playing those violent video games. You're sixteen now, Jin. Time to grow up."

A shiver ran through him. Sixteen? He had been eighteen—no, he was eighteen when he last remembered. He had worked three jobs. But now, in this house… this wasn't real. He felt as though his body was out of sync with everything around him.

His father, seated at the kitchen table, turned the page of the newspaper, the rustling sound too loud, too sharp in the otherwise quiet room. He didn't look up as he spoke.

"Come on, Jin. You'll be late for school. Stop moping around."

Jin's eyes drifted to the door of his room. It was the same door, the same old house, the same routine. But everything felt warped. His vision flickered—just for a moment—and he could have sworn his father's face… shifted. For a split second, he saw something not quite human, a flash of shadows beneath the surface of his features, like a mask slipping, before it was gone again.

He shook his head, rubbing his eyes. Was he still dreaming? The air felt heavy, thick with something unspoken. He couldn't breathe. His skin prickled with the sensation that the walls were closing in, and the room seemed to hum with an unnatural tension.

Suddenly, a soft whisper—barely audible—brushed against his ear.

"The Trial of Corruption isn't over."

His heart slammed against his ribs. He froze, every muscle locking in place. His parents continued their conversations, their voices floating in his mind like echoes from another life. But they sounded hollow, like puppets on strings, their smiles painted on too thick.

Jin turned toward his mother, but her eyes... they were too wide, too knowing. Was this really her? Or was it the trial, warping her, distorting her into something alien?

"Jin, are you okay?" she asked, her voice too soft, like a whisper in a forgotten dream. "Why are you crying?"

Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them. He couldn't stop trembling. The world was slipping away from him. Was any of this real? Or was this just another layer of the trial?

He swallowed hard, forcing the words out, "It's just… the dream. I couldn't save anyone. You all died, and I was left alone."

Hana's smile was gentle, too gentle. "No one died, Jin. We're all here, together. So wash up. Don't be late."

But the words didn't reach him. No one died. Then why did everything feel so wrong? Why did he feel like he was choking on the weight of a thousand forgotten truths?

He stumbled to the bathroom, his footsteps unsteady. The mirror reflected a version of him that didn't seem real. He washed his face, but the cold water did nothing to clear his mind. As he left the bathroom, the sound of his father's voice in the kitchen echoed in his ears, but now it sounded… strange.

"Time to grow up, Jin. Time to grow up."

Jin's pulse quickened. He turned to face the kitchen door—only to find the hallway stretching impossibly long, the walls flickering like old film. His vision was blurring. The feeling of something closing in—an unseen presence—grew stronger.

Suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch, everything fell silent. The house was still, eerily so.

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And then, as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen—there it was. A faint shimmer in the air.

The clock on the wall ticked louder now, unbearably so, like an ominous countdown. The newspaper his father was holding flickered in and out of focus.

"Jin, you need to eat," his father's voice dripped with that same eerie calm.

Jin looked up, but his father's face was no longer there. Instead, the faceless figure from the trial appeared for a split second, standing behind his father. Jin's breath hitched, and in that moment, he realized—he was not home. He was trapped in the trial. The world he knew was crumbling.

The figures. The prophecy. The door.

The trial wasn't over. And the clock was ticking.

Part 2 – Trial's Grip

Suddenly Jin felt like someone rewind tape, and then Jin appeared again frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, his mind swirling. The clock ticked louder and louder, each second stretching on like a needle piercing the silence. He blinked, but the faceless figure was gone—replaced by his father, holding the newspaper once more. The paper flickered again, but this time, the words on it seemed... wrong. They were jumbled, as if the text itself had been mangled by some unseen hand.

"Jin," his father's voice broke through the fog, calm and distant. "Hurry up. The world waits for no one."

Jin's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He was suffocating—this wasn't right. His mind screamed for answers, but the room had transformed into a nightmare of confusion. He didn't know where to look. His gaze darted between his father, his mother, the walls—everything felt alien, off-kilter.

The air grew colder, and Jin shivered involuntarily. The room began to pulse, as if the very foundation of the house was alive. He could hear the faint echo of whispers—low and guttural, a chorus of voices blending into one, saying only a few words over and over:

"He is not who he seems."

His heartbeat quickened. The words felt like a punch in the gut. Jin's throat tightened as panic surged within him. He was no longer sure of who he was, let alone where he was. The world—his world—was beginning to unravel, and he was powerless to stop it.

He turned and fled. The hallway stretched out in front of him like a dark tunnel. Each step he took felt like he was sinking deeper into an abyss. His footsteps echoed, louder than they should have been, bouncing off the walls with a sharp, discordant rhythm.

"Jin!" his mother's voice rang out, high-pitched and urgent. "Don't go! Stay with us! You're not well, please!"

He spun around, but no one was there. The house felt suffocating, its very walls closing in on him. The familiar surroundings—his home, his life—were now twisted, mocking him. Jin's vision blurred, his heart pounding in his chest.

The whispers grew louder, growing into a cacophony of voices. And then, for just a moment, he saw it—the door. It stood before him in the hallway, the same door that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. But now, it was different. The surface gleamed with an unnatural light, and a massive eye had been carved into it, staring directly at him.

Jin's pulse raced as he stepped toward it, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding. This was it. He knew, somehow, that beyond that door lay the truth he had been running from. The Trial was not over. It was only just beginning.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered just above the golden door's surface. The moment his skin brushed against it, the world around him fractured.

The familiar sights of the house dissolved into the swirling purple mist, just as it had in his dream. His feet lifted from the floor as if gravity no longer held any sway over him. He gasped for air, but the mist filled his lungs, suffocating him as his vision faded.

A sharp, metallic sound pierced the air—like chains clashing together. Jin's eyes snapped open, and the purple haze was gone. He was no longer in the hallway. He stood on an altar, cold stone beneath his feet, surrounded by towering figures cloaked in shadow.

Before him stood a giant door, the same one he had seen before. The massive eye on its surface stared at him with an unblinking gaze, as though it could peer into the deepest parts of his soul. He couldn't look away.

Then, the whispers began once more—louder, more insistent.

"Do you fear the truth?"

Jin swallowed, his throat dry, his pulse erratic. He felt a weight pressing down on him, like the very air around him was thick with judgment. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead.

A voice broke through the murmur of whispers, deep and resonant, as if coming from the very core of the world itself.

"You stand at the crossroads of destiny, Jin. You must decide. Will you remain a fool, lost in illusion, or will you face the truth and walk the path laid before you?"

A cold shiver ran down Jin's spine. The voice seemed familiar, but it wasn't his own. It came from the darkness, where only shadows lingered. The figures around him shifted, becoming more defined, but still faceless, their features concealed beneath layers of shadow and mist.

Jin felt the weight of their gaze, but there was no escape. He was trapped in the heart of the Trial.

His mind raced. What did they mean by "path"? He was just a teenager—wasn't he? No, he had to be. He couldn't be a hero. He couldn't—

"The path is chosen for you, Jin," the voice intoned. "It has been since the moment you set foot in this world. The path of the Abyss Walker awaits. You will bear the burden of what comes next, for the fate of this world hangs in the balance."

Jin's heart skipped a beat. Abyss Walker?

A cold hand gripped his chest, and his vision flickered. The mist seemed to grow thicker, swirling faster. In the distance, the massive door creaked open, revealing a vast and endless void beyond. The air smelled of decay, of something long forgotten. Jin's blood ran cold.

The voice echoed once more, louder this time, drowning out all other sounds.

"The Trial of Corruption has begun, Jin. And you... you are the key."