In the heart of Region 13's main city, where towering spires and bustling streets created a labyrinth of grandeur, a seemingly ordinary manor stood inconspicuously amidst the extravagance. The exterior was plain, almost deceptively so, blending into the mundane surroundings. Yet, inside, the air carried a weight of history, secrets, and an undeniable aura of power.
Charon paced within a dimly lit hall, his hunched figure casting distorted shadows against the flickering firelight. His aged face, marked by wrinkles and a perpetual frown, twisted in mild irritation as he muttered to himself.
“This will be the first and last time I supervise a screening,” he grumbled, throwing his bony hands into the air in exasperation. “And for what? A stupid flower.” His expression soured further as he rubbed his temple, sighing deeply. “Who would’ve thought mother of all beings would care about such a pointless—”
Before he could finish, a voice like a whisper from the abyss interrupted him. It was soft, yet chilling, as though it emerged from both the shadows and the air itself, wrapping around his ears.
“What’s stupid, Charon?”
Charon froze. His entire body went rigid, and a visible shiver ran down his crooked spine. Slowly, he turned, his face contorting into a strained smile that was both apologetic and utterly terrified.
Standing before him, or perhaps emerging from the very darkness itself, was a figure cloaked entirely in swirling, shadowy veils. Her pale features peeked through the shifting mist, serene and haunting in equal measure. The shadows clung to her like an extension of her being, dancing in unnatural patterns.
“M-Mother,” Charon stammered, bowing so low it looked like his back might give out. His voice dripped with forced politeness. “I wasn’t expecting—uh—what a pleasant surprise! You grace us with your divine presence.”
Nyx, primordial goddess of the night, regarded him with a gaze that pierced through to his very essence. Her expression betrayed nothing, but her aura spoke volumes: ancient, unyielding, and wholly uninterested in his flattery.
“Why are you here?” Charon asked hesitantly, still bent over.
Nyx didn’t bother answering. Instead, she made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a dismissive snort. Her hand, pale and claw-like, emerged from the darkness and gestured toward him. The shadows around her expanded like living tendrils, and before Charon could protest, they pushed him backward with surprising gentleness.
“You’re in my way,” Nyx said flatly, turning toward the opposite hallway. “I have business with Pluto.”
Charon stumbled into a lavishly decorated room as the door behind him clicked shut. He barely had time to gather himself before his gaze landed on the room’s sole occupant.
Lounging casually on an extravagant leather sofa was a man of sharp, almost regal features. His slicked-back black hair gleamed under the dim chandelier, and his piercing eyes glinted with a mischievous edge. Despite his commanding aura, his posture was relaxed, even lazy. He was wholly absorbed in the flat screen before him, controller in hand, his fingers moving deftly as he leaned forward.
Pluto, Roman god of the underworld and wealth, was engrossed in a game of Lario Cars.
Charon blinked, momentarily dumbfounded by the sight, but quickly composed himself. Straightening his posture, he bowed deeply. “Lord Pluto,” he greeted respectfully, his tone reverent.
Pluto didn’t even glance at him, his focus entirely on the game. “Mhm,” he hummed absently, fingers mashing buttons with precision.
Charon remained standing, awkward and unmoving, as the sound of virtual engines and explosions filled the air. Minutes passed, feeling like an eternity to Charon, as Pluto expertly maneuvered his character through the chaotic racetrack. Finally, with a triumphant cheer, Pluto crossed the finish line in first place.
Setting the controller down, he leaned back with a satisfied smirk and finally turned his attention to Charon. “Now then,” he said, stretching lazily, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your… persistent lurking?”
Charon cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I’ve come to report on the screening,” he began, his tone serious. “There are a few promising recruits—potential Seeds that could be cultivated into something significant.”
Pluto raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.
Charon hesitated briefly before saying, “One of them caught my attention… Ethan Eryndor.”
At the mention of the name, Pluto’s expression shifted slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. “Ah, that boy,” he said, leaning forward with mild interest. “It’s been a while since the blood of Eryndor found its way back to this realm.”
Charon nodded. “Yes, my lord. But there’s more. The Wraiths around him—”
“Interesting,” Pluto interrupted, his tone contemplative. “Those entities… Wraiths, as we call them, have always been peculiar. They don’t attach themselves to just anyone.” He leaned back, resting an arm over the back of the sofa. “Keep an eye on the boy, Charon. I’m intrigued, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Only if he survives the Hellfire Parade can he be taken seriously.”
Charon flinched at the mention of the dreaded trial but nodded dutifully. “Understood, my lord.”
Pluto waved a hand dismissively. “Good. Now, anything else?”
Charon opened his mouth, hesitated, and then foolishly added, “Perhaps you could tell me your secret to winning at Lario Cars?”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The room fell silent. Pluto’s eyes narrowed, his once relaxed expression darkening.
“Out,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
Charon paled, his eyes wide. “I-I didn’t mean to—”
“OUT!” Pluto roared, snapping his fingers.
In an instant, Charon was engulfed in a burst of golden light, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled unceremoniously on the front steps of the manor.
Grumbling under his breath, he got to his feet and dusted himself off. “I just had to say something stupid,” he muttered, glaring at the closed door before trudging off into the city streets.
Back in the open training field, an expansive stretch of land marked with tracks of dirt and lined with tall, flickering torches. The air buzzed with nervous energy as dozens of recruits milled about, unsure of what new torment awaited them.
Standing at the front of a large group, Gabriel, with his arms crossed and an unrelenting gaze, began addressing the teams under his supervision. His voice, sharp and firm, carried effortlessly over the murmurs.
“You’re probably wondering why we’re doing this,” Gabriel started, his piercing golden eyes scanning the crowd. “Why does someone like you—a spirit now shackled to flesh—needs to understand the physical. You’ve been given bodies, yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re bound by the rules of mortals. Your stamina, your agility, even your limitations—they’re all influenced by how you perceive them.”
He paced as he spoke, his black boots crunching softly against the dirt. “Physicality isn’t just muscles and endurance—it’s will. It’s how you shape your spirit to match the body you’ve been given. The stronger the will, the more this borrowed form becomes an extension of you. Understand this: even if your legs falter, it’s your spirit that carries you forward. If you’re tired…” he paused dramatically, turning to face them directly, “…you aren’t tired at all. It’s an illusion. One you need to break.”
A few recruits exchanged skeptical glances, but none dared to interrupt.
Gabriel’s expression hardened. “And the only way to break that illusion is to push yourselves. Ten laps around the field. No exceptions.”
Groans erupted from the crowd. A few muttered curses under their breath, while others simply sighed in resignation. Gabriel raised an eyebrow and shouted over the noise, “If you have enough energy to complain, you have enough energy to run. Move it!”
Herbie, always the loudest, threw his hands into the air. “TEN LAPS?! Are you trying to kill us, man?!”
“Then die running!” Gabriel shot back with a grin.
Despite his outburst, Herbie was the first to bolt toward the starting line, his short legs pumping with surprising speed. The rest of the recruits followed, some reluctantly, others with grim determination.
The group quickly divided itself into natural layers. Herbie was in the lead, his small frame a blur of motion as he sped ahead of everyone else. The other recruits found themselves in the middle, some pacing themselves, others struggling to keep up. At the very back was Ethan, panting heavily and stumbling over his own feet.
Running, it turned out, was far harder than he’d anticipated.
Ethan’s legs felt awkward, uncoordinated, as if they belonged to someone else. It wasn’t that he lacked strength—his form, though unfamiliar, was functional enough. The problem lay in his control. Having spent most of his life unable to use his legs, he now had no memory of how to move with ease or fluidity. Each step was a gamble, his body jerking forward in uneven strides.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as he watched Herbie race ahead with ease. Of course, Ethan thought grimly. Even Herbie’s good at this.
But there was no time to wallow. Gritting his teeth, Ethan focused on keeping his balance, his breaths shallow and ragged as he tried to find a rhythm.
As he rounded his second lap, a voice called out beside him. “Hey, Ethan!”
He turned his head to see Iris jogging effortlessly beside him, her long ponytail swaying with each step. She was clearly holding back her speed to match his pace.
“You okay?” she asked, her tone light but tinged with concern.
“Define ‘okay,’” Ethan panted, wiping sweat from his brow.
Iris chuckled. “You’re doing better than I expected, honestly. Thought you’d trip over your own feet by now.”
Ethan shot her a dry look. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, I’m just saying—it’s impressive, considering your, uh…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “…circumstances.”
Ethan appreciated her attempt at tact, even if it didn’t make the situation any less frustrating. “Yeah, well, I’ll take what I can get.”
Before Iris could respond, Herbie’s voice rang out from ahead. “Keep up, slowpokes! We’re not getting a medal for last place!”
Iris groaned. “Does he ever shut up?”
“Apparently not,” Ethan muttered, though a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.
As they neared the halfway mark of their laps, Yin Xue appeared on Ethan’s other side, her expression calm and unbothered despite the pace. She glanced at him briefly, her sharp, dark eyes assessing.
“You’re dragging your feet too much,” she said matter-of-factly. “Focus on lifting your knees higher.”
Ethan glanced at her, his brow furrowing. “Easier said than done.”
Yin Xue shrugged. “Figure it out. Or don’t. Your choice.”
“Great pep talk,” Ethan muttered sarcastically.
Yin Xue smirked faintly but said nothing more, picking up her pace and leaving him behind.
The laps dragged on, each one feeling longer than the last. Ethan’s legs burned, his chest heaved, and his vision blurred with sweat, but he refused to stop. He couldn’t. Even as the others pulled further ahead, even as Herbie lapped him twice, he pushed himself forward, step by agonizing step.
By the final lap, Ethan’s mind was a haze of exhaustion, but he managed to cross the line with a staggering gait. Collapsing onto the ground, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky as his breaths came in labored gasps.
“Not bad,” Iris said, standing over him with a hand on her hip. “You didn’t die. That’s a win.”
“Barely,” Ethan muttered, closing his eyes.
The recruits slowly gathered back around Gabriel, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Most of the group looked worse for wear, though a few—like Herbie and Yin Xue—seemed relatively unfazed.
As Gabriel scanned the recruits, his gaze lingered briefly on Ethan. Something about him caught his attention. While the others’ shadows stretched long and singular across the dirt, Ethan’s shadow seemed… off.
There were two.
For a split second, Gabriel’s golden eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition passing through them. But he said nothing, turning his attention back to the group.
“Well done,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of approval. “For most of you, anyway. Get some rest while you can. Tomorrow’s going to hurt worse.”
Ethan didn’t hear the warning, too focused on catching his breath. But as he lay there, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that something—or someone—was watching him.