Wordlessly, Damien, the grey monk, and the pale, skinny girl huddled behind a dune, waiting for the monsters to clear from the ruined village.
Damien's leg bled freely, thick crimson soaking into the black fabric of his pants—a claw wound that had sliced deep, nearly to the bone. Now that the adrenaline had faded, pain pulsed up his thigh in hot waves.
Running on it again would be hell.
His gaze drifted to the monk seated beside him, eyes closed, hands clasped in silent prayer.
But it was the monk's left sleeve that drew Damien's attention—stained dark red with blood. There was no doubt in Damien's mind that blood had formed the red X that triggered the explosion.
The wound was deliberate—self-inflicted. He had a weapon.
That meant Damien was at a clear disadvantage if it came to a fight between the three of them.
He was always at a disadvantage. Without virtue, he lacked the blessings that bolstered the Hellbound. It was a curse as much as a sentence.
Still, the girl's earlier explanation of their abilities offered a sliver of hope. Neither of them seemed built for close combat. She laid traps. The monk saw things, like Damien's arrival.
But a thought nagged him. Even if they knew I was coming, why help me? What's in it for them? Do they want something… or plan to use me?
Damien didn't trust them. He never trusted people who offered help. That lesson had been etched into his bones since childhood—help was rarely free.
Still, the situation was unique. On his own, he wouldn't survive another horde. But they had saved him, not the purple-haired girl. That meant they needed him.
With a small shrug and an exhausted sigh, Damien settled the matter in his mind.
'Leave it to fate. I'll stay close—but never drop my guard.'
He stood slowly, brushing off coarse sand from his torn, bloodied clothes. The grit clung stubbornly to the damp fabric, and the sight of himself disgusted him. But there was nothing to be done.
The girl grabbed his arm with a frail, bony hand. "What are you doing? They'll see you!"
Damien jerked his arm free. "There hasn't been any noise for a while. It's safe to assume they're gone. And don't grab me like that, stick."
She stepped in front of him, furious.
Gaunt and sharp-featured, she still carried a strange beauty. A small birthmark sat just beneath her eye, like a misplaced tear. Her voice lashed out. "Who are you calling a stick? Just because you look like a model doesn't give you the right to throw insults, you douchebag!"
A smirk curled Damien's lips, but he offered no reply. He turned and made his way up the dune without another word.
Her fists clenched. "And my name is Jenna! Call me 'stick' one more time and see what happens!"
Damien vanished over the rise in silence.
The monk rose next, folding his arms beneath his grey sleeves. He gave Jenna a calm, disapproving glance from beneath his hood—his eyes bright green, like jade in ash—and then followed.
Jenna huffed and threw her hands in the air. "What did I do, baldy?!" She stomped after them.
The village was in ruins. Tents had collapsed into piles of shredded cloth and scorched stakes. A gaping crater yawned at the entrance, surrounded by the mangled corpses of monsters, their flesh torn and rotting in the heat.
Only a few strands of purple hair remained where the girl had died, half-buried in the sand. The beasts had consumed her completely.
Damien inhaled deeply, the air smelling of iron. 'Ah, how lovely.'
While the monk knelt by the hair in prayer, Damien and Jenna scoured the wreckage for anything useful—food, water, weapons. With every ruined tent, Damien's frustration simmered hotter. Not just because they found nothing, but because Jenna wouldn't shut up.
"So… what's your name?" she asked brightly.
A beat of silence passed. Then: "Ignoring me only makes me want to talk more."
Damien exhaled through his nose and lifted the flap of a sun-bleached, half-collapsed tent. 'If I didn't need you alive, I'd take so much joy in killing you.'
"My name's Damien. Now hold this up."
She looked skyward, thoughtful. "Damien, huh? That fits. I know a lot of douchebags named Damien."
His brow twitched. "I don't care," he said flatly, shoving the tent flap into her hands.
"Rude," Jenna muttered, but held it.
He crawled inside.
The air inside was stifling—humid, rancid, thick with the stench of mildew and old sweat. It felt like crawling into a sealed tomb wrapped in sunbaked leather.
Normally, he wouldn't trust someone else to hold the entrance. It was too easy to trap someone inside. But Jenna and the monk needed him alive, at least for now.
Every Hellbound entered the trial unarmed. If they had found weapons here, so could he.
And Damien, trained by the organization, was a master of many.
He felt his way through the darkness, pushing past broken furniture and discarded debris, until his fingers touched something solid—rough, dry wood-a chest.
His heart surged. C'mon, sword…
A voice rang from outside. "Can you hurry it up? We've got a lot of tents left before nightfall!"
'God, I'm going to kill you.'
He opened the chest with a loud creak—and immediately regretted the sound. What if it was cursed? Or worse, trapped? He'd acted too eagerly.
But nothing jumped out. No spell triggered. No burn of corrupted magic.
Still wary, Damien began dragging the chest toward the entrance. He wouldn't reach in blindly. He needed light. 'Damn it. I wanted to keep whatever's in here to myself. But now Stick and Monk will see, and I'll have to share.'
He moved by touch, guided by the faint glow slipping through the tent flap.
The chest was heavier than expected—thick wood, or maybe something dense inside.
Just as he was about to slip out, the flap slammed shut.
His heart skipped. Then it opened again.
"Ha! Got you!" Jenna grinned.
Damien didn't react. His expression remained blank, but inside, a storm raged.
'Jenna… by the end of this trial, you will be dead.'
He dragged the chest out onto the sand.
"Ooh, you found something!" she chirped.
Damien glanced inside, and his stomach dropped.
Too small for a sword. Inside was a silver dagger with a black hilt, two plastic bottles of water, and a loaf of bread sealed in plastic.
Disappointing. But still useful.
He stared at the bread a moment longer, suspicion gnawing at him.
'Who lived here? And why is the bread fresh?'
This was Hell. The land might've changed, but this was no place for settlers. The food should've rotted long ago.
'No—the system must've conjured this village as a scavenging zone for Hellbound.'
He reached for the dagger.
The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind:
"Common Dagger, graded one star. Would you like to store?"
His eyebrow arched. Yes.
The dagger dissolved in his hand in a burst of yellow light. He felt it—somehow—anchor itself within him, as if now part of his soul.
He stared at his palm.
'Common dagger.'
The blade reappeared instantly, glowing yellow.
'Incredibly convenient.'
He gave the mental command to store it, and it vanished again.
"It's neat, isn't it? I found the same one!" Jenna said, summoning a matching dagger before letting it disappear.
Damien looked at her blankly, then turned back to the chest.
"You're so rude!" she shouted.
He ignored her. Every word she spoke chipped at his patience.
He reached for the bread, but no voice spoke.
Still, he tried to store it, but nothing happened.
With a low sigh, he picked up the bread and the two water bottles.
As he stood, his gaze lifted to the sky. The once-blazing blue had deepened into violet, streaked with dying light. The sun—if it even was a sun—hung low and swollen, bleeding red across the dunes.
Night was coming.
And with it, worse things.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's search the other tents."