'GOD'

"Seven Sins?"

Luke's mind echoed the words like a whisper trapped in a cathedral.

He didn't understand what it meant.

This wasn't lucid dreaming anymore—

This was something else entirely.

Panic stirred beneath his ribs. But he held still.

No sudden movements. No emotion.

Even a twitch might be noticed here. Might matter.

He calmed himself. Focused.

If there are seven… which Sin am I?

But before he could follow that thread, the Figure spoke again.

"You find yourselves voiceless, do you not?"

The voice was not loud.

It was calm. Smooth. Royal.

But each word struck like a decree chiseled into the bones of reality.

"This is not error. It is judgment."

"Speech is a privilege of the proven.

And as yet, you have proven nothing."

Luke's entire being stiffened.

He wasn't just listening.

He was being made to listen.

"Your thoughts are loud. Your confusion, louder still."

"Know this, and know it well...

You were summoned not by chance, nor by whim.

Each of you stands here by the weight of your past—your choices, your failures, your essence."

The Figure stood unmoving, yet all light bent around him.

A radiant shadow. A monarch of void and flame.

Luke tried to dissect the meaning—draw threads of logic.

But it was like wading through smoke.

Something clouded his mind.

A fog that was not natural.

Metaphysical suppression.

Even thought was bound under this presence.

"Yes. Be angry. Curse my name, if you have the nerve."

"But do not delude yourselves with notions of rebellion."

"You are dust before me."

The air tightened.

An unseen weight bore down on them, forcing necks to bow.

"I am not a god you may flatter.

Nor a demon you may bind.

I am beyond the measures of your world."

"I permit you this audience not out of kindness… but out of purpose."

Luke gritted his teeth. His hands trembled beneath the table.

He wasn't weak. But this wasn't fear of death.

This was being made aware—for the first time...

That he was truly small.

"Your paths are already carved."

"Each of you is Sin, born in flesh. Your Path was chosen long before you arrived."

"You will advance.

You will suffer.

You will strive.

And if you prove your worth... then—

Only then—shall you earn the right to ask."

The words didn't echo.

They settled.

Like divine law carved into stone.

Luke wanted to process it.

Wanted to understand.

But he was not allowed.

"This audience shall not repeat itself unless one or more of you earns the privilege."

"Even if only one of you remains, the table shall gather again."

The Figure turned away—though he never moved.

And then—softly, cruelly—he spoke once more:

"For now, this congregation is adjourned."

"Farewell… my Seven Sinners."

A pause. A breath. Then—

"May you endure."

And then, like a dam breaking—he laughed.

A deep, echoing, imperial madness that split the dark like a crown cracking in flame.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAH!"

...

Luke jolted upright—chest heaving, throat dry, skin clammy with sweat.

But it wasn't just his body that screamed.

His mind was splintered.

His spirit ached, as if stretched too far and barely stitched back together.

Something had touched him in that dream.

Something vast.

And it had called him by name—

Even though it never said it aloud.

Pain sang through every nerve like shattered glass in his veins. It didn't just hurt—it screamed. It roared. His skin burned, muscles spasmed, bones ached like cracked marble barely holding together.

Luke clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. A single outburst could mean questions. Attention. Weakness. No.

No one could know.

He needed silence. Even if it meant violence—against himself.

He dropped to his knees. The concrete was cold beneath him.

"Hhk—"

With trembling fingers, he wrapped his 

hands around his own throat, squeezing. His breath hitched. He felt the pressure build in his head, a storm behind his eyes.

"Ngkh...!"

Thud.

His skull slammed against the floor.

Again.

THUD.

"Ggh—hh...!"

A grunt forced its way from his lungs. The taste of blood filled his mouth. The world spun. Tears welled—not from emotion, but sheer physical rebellion.

THUD.

THUD.

His forehead split open.

"Nnhh..."

But he kept going.

It was better than screaming.

Better than letting them hear the thing that was clawing inside him.

Eventually—finally—the light at the edge of his vision dimmed. His grip loosened. His body slumped to the side.

Silence.

Not peace.

Just unconsciousness.

From across the room, a boy with jet black hair glanced over, eyes cold with apathy. He scoffed under his breath.

"Hope you stay down, fucking Opener."

---

Elarin's POV

The nightmares hadn't left. They lingered in her breath, clung to her like smoke.

But it wasn't the dark that woke her.

It was the sound.

She hadn't meant to listen—but it was impossible not to.

Thud.

A grunt. Choked. Violent.

THUD.

She sat up in the corner, pulling her knees to her chest, eyes wide.

That sound wasn't sleep. It wasn't a dream.

It was pain.

Real.

Deliberate.

And then—nothing.

The silence afterward was worse.

Morning eventually painted the room in 

grey light. She didn't want to get up. But something gnawed at her.

Luke.

She crept over to where he lay sprawled on the floor. Her stomach twisted.

His throat was ringed in dark bruises. His forehead was caked in dried blood. He looked like someone had tried to strangle and bludgeon him.

No.

He had done this.

Her chest clenched.

"Luke…?"

She nudged his side. No answer.

"Luke, wake up…"

---

A soft nudge pulled Luke from the haze.

His eyes fluttered open. Instinctively, he smiled. "Good morning, Elarin. How was your sleep?"

But her face—God, her face.

Worried. Hesitant. So young, but already carrying the haunted stare of someone older.

"Umm… sir—no, Luke… what happened to you?"

His hand went to his throat, wincing at the pain. Then to his forehead—wet, crusted. He looked down.

Bloodstains.

Ah... shit.

He forced a laugh. "I, uh… slipped. Bad dream. Sat up too fast. Banged my head. Dumb, right?"

It sounded hollow. Even to him.

Elarin didn't reply right away. But she didn't question further.

She just sat down next to him.

Not to pry.

Not to comfort.

Just to stay.

And somehow… that was enough.

.....

Elarin's POV

"I slipped," he said.

No.

That's not true.

I've seen people slip.

Slipping doesn't leave hand-shaped bruises around your throat.

Slipping doesn't carve blood into the floor like a silent confession.

Slipping doesn't sound like someone trying 

not to exist.

You did this to yourself, Luke.

And I don't understand why.

But I know what it's like to lie.

To say "I'm fine" when you're not.

To laugh when you want to scream.

To hide things so people won't ask the kind of questions that lead to punishments.

I know what it's like to choose silence over survival.

So I won't press.

I won't say "I know you're lying," because I remember what happened the last time I said that to someone.

But still…

Why lie to me?

You're the only one here who doesn't look at me like I'm some broken thing that needs fixing—or some test subject that failed.

You speak gently. Smile even when it doesn't reach your eyes.

And now you're pretending you're fine, when you're bleeding on the floor.

Why?

Maybe because you think you have to be strong for everyone else.

Maybe because someone, somewhere, 

taught you that showing pain is the same as showing weakness.

I won't break that illusion for you.

Not yet.

But I saw it, Luke.

I saw what you did to yourself.

And whether you want it or not… I won't unsee it.

So I'll sit here.

I won't touch you.

I won't ask again.

But I'm not walking away either.

You lied to protect something.

And maybe, one day… you'll trust me enough to tell me what it was.

...

Luke didn't say a word.

He didn't want to escalate anything—especially not in front of Elarin, not when she was already watching him like she knew.

So, in silence, he stood up.

His knees wobbled slightly, blood trickling down his temple, but he didn't falter. With a slow breath, he grabbed the hem of his already stained shirt and tore it in one rough motion—rrrkkk—ripping a strip wide 

enough to use.

He folded the cloth once, then pressed it tightly against his forehead, wincing as the fabric stung the wound.

This'll have to do for now

He thought grimly, tying the makeshift bandage behind his head.

No time for dignity. Only survival.

Just as he tightened the knot, the heavy iron door creaked open with a groan of rusted hinges.

CLANG.

Boots echoed on stone. Armor clinked.

The knight from yesterday strolled in like 

he owned the place.

"Good morning, you lot!" he boomed, voice too bright for the grim setting. "Hmm… honestly? I'm shocked none of you died last night. Haha!"

His laughter bounced off the walls like a joke in a morgue.

Luke's jaw tightened.

The knight's eyes lazily scanned the group, stopping briefly on Luke's blood-streaked face. But he didn't comment. No concern. Just amusement.

"Unlike the other cellars, you kids are the most docile of the bunch. No screaming, no mutilation, no creative deaths. Quite the boring little hive, really."

He clapped his hands once, the metal gauntlets ringing sharp.

"Now now, up! Form a line. We're going to the bathroom. Wash yourselves up—we wouldn't want to show a bad image to the Superiors, now would we?"

He grinned, white teeth flashing behind his helm.

As if this was normal. As if it was fine that children were tested, broken, watched. As if blood on the floor was just part of a daily routine.

Luke didn't move immediately.

He could feel the others rising around him, quiet as ghosts. Elarin stood too, her eyes 

never leaving his. No words passed between them.

Just shared understanding.

Play along. Stay low. Don't attract the blade.

Luke exhaled slowly and stepped into line.