Welcome To The Real World

The vote was cast in silence, the only sound the flick of parchment being passed from hand to hand, the scratch of charcoal marking a name, and the muted murmurs of those still weighing their decisions. The cavern walls of Echohollow, damp and vast, swallowed the noise whole, leaving only an eerie stillness.

Adam smiled even as his fate was sealed. He had played his part well, but in the end, Dante had played better. When the final tally was counted, Adam gave a small, almost pleased nod before stepping away without protest, allowing a group of Shamans to escort him out. No fight. No words of defiance. Just a simple, knowing glance toward Dante before he vanished into the depths beyond.

Dante smirked, but there was something behind it. Not amusement. Not arrogance. Just quiet satisfaction.

With the preliminary test concluded, the remaining candidates were ushered deeper into Echohollow. The moment they stepped beyond the entrance, the full weight of the underground labyrinth settled upon them. Jagged stalactites loomed overhead, casting long shadows beneath the glow of bioluminescent fungi embedded in the cavern walls. The air was thick with damp earth and something more ancient, something alive in the mana-rich depths of this place. Everything felt heavier.

The cave swallowed us whole.

Hundreds of bodies packed into the cavernous space, voices a low rumble beneath the dripping of unseen water. The air was thick with damp stone and sweat, but more than that, it was thick with pressure. Competition. Ambition. The quiet, gnawing hunger of those who had come here ready to fight, to kill, to become something more.

The cavern walls stretched high, the ceiling lost in darkness, illuminated only by glowing runes carved into the stone—Runeweaver work, no doubt. Their markings pulsed like veins of light, bathing the room in a cold, bluish glow. The sheer size of the crowd made my chest tighten. It wasn't the number that unnerved me, it was the feeling. The sheer weight of all these people, all these predators, sizing each other up. I was one of them, yet I wasn't.

Dante, naturally, took it all in stride. He strolled through the throng like he was the host of some grand event, eyeing people with an amused smirk, like he was handpicking who he might screw over first.

"You feel that, partner?" he mused, tilting his head slightly as he walked beside me.

I exhaled slowly. "What?"

"That thick, heavy thing sitting on your chest. That ain't just nerves—that's hunger. Every single bastard in this room wants to be a Shaman. And every single one of them is willing to kill for it."

He wasn't wrong.

I caught glimpses of those who stood out, ones who pulled my attention despite the sea of faces.

A hulking brute stood near the back, arms crossed over a chest thick as a stone pillar. A long, jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, carving his face in two. He didn't move, didn't react to the murmurs around him—he just watched.

A girl, smaller than most, with dirty blonde hair cropped just past her shoulders and piercing hazel eyes. She exuded confidence, yet something about her posture—her right hand tucked close to her side—hinted at an old injury. She moved like someone who had already been through hell once before.

Not far from him was a girl missing her left arm, but that didn't seem to bother her. A curved dagger spun effortlessly in her remaining hand, flipping between her fingers in a blur of motion. She didn't look concerned, only bored.

Further ahead, I noticed a boy whose face was half-burned, his skin twisted into a permanent scowl. His eyes flicked over the room, assessing, calculating. He met my gaze for half a second, and in that moment, I saw nothing behind his stare—no emotion, no hesitation. Just emptiness.

Then there was the wiry man covered in ink-black tattoos, spiraling from his fingers up his neck and disappearing into his robes. His lips moved soundlessly, reciting something under his breath. A prayer? A curse?

Dante gave a low whistle. "Quite the lineup, huh?"

I wasn't in the mood for his usual theatrics. "We need to lock in our alliance before things get worse."

"Way ahead of you," he said, waving a hand. "Hal, Love—over here."

They had stayed close but quiet, absorbing the sheer size of the competition. Love was the first to step forward, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd with wary precision. Hal, though still confident, had lost some of the casual ease he'd had back on the Oblivis.

"This isn't a temporary alliance," I said, voice low. "This isn't just to survive the first trial. If we do this, we're in it together until the end. No backstabbing, no betrayals."

Hal nodded, understanding the weight of my words. "Agreed."

Love hesitated for half a second before giving a sharp nod. "Fine. But if one of you dies, I'm not throwing myself into the fire for revenge."

Dante grinned. "That's the spirit."

Before we could say anything more, movement drew my eye.

Sera Naoki.

He stood just a few paces away, arms loose at his sides, watching me with something unreadable in his dark eyes. No anger, no challenge—just quiet acknowledgment.

We locked eyes, neither of us speaking.

There was no need.

Whatever had started between us back on the Oblivis hadn't ended. It hadn't escalated, either. It just… lingered. A silent understanding that we would meet again, that we would clash again.

Sera gave me a slow, deliberate nod.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

Before I could think too much about it, a voice boomed through the cavern, silencing the murmurs.

"Candidates."

I turned, as did everyone else.

Atop a jagged rise of stone stood a figure, illuminated by the pulsing blue runes embedded into the cavern walls. Robes hung from his frame, lined with shimmering inscriptions, his posture rigid with authority.

Daniel Lott. The leader of the Runeweavers. Prime had told me about him, he didn't declare his name but it was obvious from the way he existed in that room.

His eyes swept across the sea of faces, his presence heavy, imposing.

"You have passed the first trial," he said, voice smooth yet absolute. "But that was only the beginning. Some of you will rise. Some of you will fall. Some of you will die."

A ripple went through the crowd, but no one spoke.

"This exam does not seek the strong," Lott continued. "Strength alone is a fool's weapon. We do not seek the smartest, for wit without resolve is meaningless. No, we seek something more. We seek those who will carve their names into history. Who will not bend. Who will not break."

He stepped forward, standing at the very edge of the rocky stage.

"You will face pain. You will face fear. You will face death." His voice rang through the cavern like a hammer striking iron. "Some of you will leave this place as Shamans. Others will leave in coffins. The rest will not leave at all."

The weight of his words settled over us like a funeral shroud.

"Welcome," he said, voice almost mocking now, "to the Shaman Exams."

The air was thick with anticipation. Kach glanced at Dante, whose smirk had only grown wider. Hal and Love exchanged glances, then nodded. Whatever lay ahead, they had made their choice.

Together, they stepped forward into the unknown.