• The Guilty One

Deep breaths, heavy breaths, scared eyes. Deremiah felt his heart pumping as he clutched tight on the corrupted sword. Even though he had already accustomed its weight to his strength, it was somehow heavier now under the pressing panic pounding in his chest.

His knees were bent instinctively, his slanted elbows and hunched back completed the odd, uncertain stance that he had taken as his eyes darted around the scene.

They couldn't lock on any particular image. Everything was a blur of movement; there were figures charging at each other, blades clanging against other blades, and the repulsive sound of flesh meeting steel.

Deremiah fought to maintain his calm. This was difficult of course because he hadn't been ambushed before. In fact, up until his clash with the Gatekeeper, he'd never been in a real life-or-death fight.

Keeping this in mind, he knew he had to be ready to defend himself. He dried his sweaty palms on his shirt and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

The others, however, were ruthless.

Deremiah caught sight of Misty stopping a strike with her hand, and advancing forward as she surged her blade into the person's torso over and over again.

When the person slumped to the ground, she lowered her neck in time to dodge another attack, then cut down the participant with a fluid slash, her face cold and detached, as if she were merely trimming a hedge.

Alfis had a greatsword that he used like a hammer, cleaving through an attacker while his brother, Dane fought by his side. Faya moved around like she was enjoying herself, a playful cruelty as she averted strikes and retaliated with a halberd which was fluid in her hold.

Deremiah was frozen, lost for words at how merciless they were.

However, in his daze, he was conscious enough to notice one of the attackers darting toward him, dagger raised high.

His instincts kicked in, and he threw himself to the floor as usual. The attacker wheezed past him as the edge of his weapon missed Deremiah's head by a breath.

Deremiah saw that the attacker wasn't able to slow down and they ran into Mist, who had appeared like a specter. She sliced her sword left and then right, tearing the ambusher from neck to torso. Heartlessly.

Blood sprayed, the dagger fell, and the body crumpled at Deremiah's feet.

Deremiah's eyes widened. 'This is savage.' He crawled backwards and staggered to his feet. As Mist continued with the battle, he continued to move backwards, chest heaving, only to collide with something solid.

"Ehhhh!" A shriek escaped his lips as he spun around, his sword swinging clumsily. The other person did the same, and Deremiah saw that it was Pallock, the fat one.

"W-what are you doing here?" Deremiah asked, lowering his blade slightly.

"Sorry! Sorry!!" the boy hid his face and scurried off to hide somewhere else.

Deremiah raised a brow. 'What is it with that guy?'

He heard a thud and understood that the fight had come to an end, especially after the chilling silence that followed.

Deremiah turned to see the others standing over the fallen attackers, wiping blood from their blades and armor without any kind of expression on their faces. Clearly, this was something they were used to.

Alfis rifled through the belongings of the slain, his expression impassive. Faya hummed softly as she rummaged through a pack, a cheery smile on her face and disturbingly so, given the carnage.

Deremiah's legs felt weak as he took in the scene. Bodies littered the ground, lifeless and silent. Blood was everywhere. He'd never seen so much blood in all his life.

"They're all dead?" he asked. A foolish question that bordered on disbelief and perhaps some hope.

The Trial Leaderboard answered his question. It appeared suddenly, projected into the sky like a flat, holographic tower. Nine foreboding hums accompanied it as nine names turned red and vanished from the list. Nine lives extinguished. Nine participants gone.

Deremiah felt his heart grow heavy. "They're actually dead. You killed them. All of them."

Alfis looked up from his looting, irritation vivid across his face. "What are you talking about, slummer? They attacked us first."

"Yes, but…" Deremiah's voice faltered. "You were stronger than them. You didn't have to kill them. You could've just subdued them."

Alfis looked at Faya and the rest of the team. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Faya shrugged.

Mist sheathed her sword and stomped towards Deremiah, standing close as she often did as she stared into his eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked, trying to be stern but also warm. "You're one of us now. You can't start unnecessary arguments." She gestured to the fallen attackers. "These participants could've come to us to form an alliance, to work together. Instead, they chose to attack and steal our supplies. Why do you think they did that?"

Deremiah swallowed hard. "Because you're nobles. They knew stealing from you would give them better supplies and armor to survive the Trials."

Mist nodded. "Exactly. And we were defending ourselves and what's ours. They asked for this. What did you expect us to do?"

Deremiah stared at her. She was right. She was absolutely right. His eyes drifted to one of the fallen attackers, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing, blood dripping from their agape mouth.

It's just the manner in which they'd been slain. The nobles didn't even give them a chance. No mercy, no hesitation.

'Ugh! What am I even saying? What is my point here? The ambushers were going to kill us too, weren't they? Shouldn't I be glad that they saved me?'

'What is this I'm feeling now? Guilt?'

Yes, it was guilt. And it twisted in his chest, sharp and unrelenting.

These young people were attacked because they were so desperate to survive, and that was because of the system he'd created. The nobles as well were ruthless because of the world he had shaped. This bloodshed, this desperation; it all traced back to him. You created this, Deremiah.

It was easier — back in his old life — when they were just structured alphabets and imaginative characters that felt real only in his head. But now that he could see them, see their sufferings, see their deaths, it felt too real. And somehow, it turned into a burden.

They were no longer characters, they were humans, and they were killing themselves because of what he did to them.

"Stop it," Mist said, her voice cutting through his spiraling thoughts. "Stop feeling sorry." She didn't even know what he was thinking, not really, but her tone showed that she understood that he was being sympathetic.

"It's either kill or be killed in the Trials," Alfis said bluntly as he rose to his feet. "You're a slummer. You should know that mentality."

Mist shot him a sharp look. "Enough of that, Alfis. His name is Deremiah, not 'slummer.'"

Faya chimed in, a hand on her hip. "Yeah, Alfis. I know you don't like the guy, but at least get his name right."

Alfis glanced at them all, his jaw tightening. His gaze shifted briefly to his younger brother, Dane, who stood silently at his side. "Whatever," he muttered before walking away.

Mist gently tapped Deremiah's hand. "Come on," she said, her voice softer now. "Morning's coming. We need to start cutting trees for the bridge."

As they dispersed, Deremiah took one last look at the dead body of the participant who had attacked him earlier. 'Kill or be killed.'

His eyes darkened and he followed after them.