Two months had passed since the iron bands were strapped to their limbs, and not once had the instructors shown even the slightest sympathy. Every day began before dawn and ended after the sun disappeared behind the mountains, leaving behind a sky veiled in smoke and silence. And through all of it, Min Jae continued to swing.
Ten thousand times a day. That was the rule.
Ten thousand slashes under the weight of twenty kilograms of iron on each wrist and ankle. The number wasn't symbolic—it was expected. The instructors would count, their cold, sharp gazes watching for anyone who slacked. If someone fell behind, they were beaten until they couldn't stand. Then they were dragged away.
Min Jae had grown used to the pain. The skin on his palms had torn and healed over so many times that it now resembled leather. His shoulders had broadened slightly, his back rippled with developing muscle. His legs, once shaky, were now as stable as stone. But more than his body, it was his mind that had changed.
He had stopped thinking about escape. That fantasy had died a long time ago.
It was clear now: the only way out was through. He had to endure, rise, become stronger than the very system that caged him—and then tear it down himself.
The training had dulled the emotions in the other children. Once, there had been cries and questions. Now, there was only silence and obedience. They all moved like machines—broken, desperate machines grinding forward with nothing but fear and the faint hope of survival to guide them.
But there were exceptions. One of them was Yerin.
She trained alone most days. Unlike the others, she hadn't chosen a weapon when they were offered. Instead, she was allowed to continue her own mysterious training. She never asked questions, never showed exhaustion, and most surprisingly—none of the instructors seemed willing to correct her. In fact, they avoided her. The other kids whispered behind her back. Some said she was already strong enough to kill with a single strike. Others claimed she came from one of the great clans and was merely here to observe.
Min Jae didn't know the truth. But he had grown closer to her over the past few months. Ever since that day they trained together, something unspoken had settled between them. A fragile trust. Not quite friendship, but more than just partnership.
He noticed that she watched him when she thought he wasn't looking. He didn't confront her. Not yet.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the children dragged themselves toward their barracks, a loud gong rang across the compound.
The courtyard filled with tired, wary children. Min Jae stood among them, sweat soaking through his training robes. Instructors—different ones this time—stepped into the torchlight. They wore black robes and white bone-like masks that completely hid their faces.
It was a different kind of silence now. Not the silence of exhaustion, but of fear.
The leading masked figure stepped forward. His voice was smooth, but unnaturally calm, like someone used to delivering death sentences without emotion.
"Today marks the beginning of the Second Gate of Hell."
Min Jae tensed. The children around him straightened, murmuring softly, some clutching at their weapons instinctively—even though those had been taken away hours ago.
"This Gate will test more than your strength," the masked man continued. "You will be judged on three things: stamina, intelligence, and instinct."
Min Jae frowned. Intelligence?
"You will not be told when each trial begins. You will not be told what the third trial is. Adapt. Survive. Or die."
The words hit like ice.
Min Jae's eyes scanned the crowd. There were new faces. Many new faces. At least thirty children he didn't recognize. Some looked hardened, their eyes dull from long exposure to pain and discipline. Others looked sharp, almost too calm—like they'd expected everything from the start.
Were they from other camps?
One boy caught his attention. Short dark hair, slouched posture, but a face that showed no hint of emotion—no curiosity, no fear, no resentment. Just indifference. Like he was born here. Bred for this.
Min Jae looked down at his hands. The scars were familiar now, part of him. He had survived the First Gate. He had trained every day. He had sacrificed sleep, comfort, even memories of his brother to focus on one thing—getting stronger. But the Second Gate loomed like a black mountain, casting a shadow even over that resolve.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned slightly. Yerin stood there, arms crossed, gaze locked on the instructors.
She didn't look surprised.
"You knew?" he asked quietly.
She glanced at him, silver hair reflecting the torchlight, blue eyes calm and unreadable. "I knew there would be more."
He didn't ask how. He just nodded. There was no point in questioning the unknown anymore. All that mattered now was getting through it.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you enter the gate. No weapons. No instructions. You will be observed. Those who fail… will not return."
With that, the instructors disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind a stunned and silent courtyard.
Min Jae looked toward the moon. It hung low and heavy in the sky, like an eye watching them all. Watching him.
He clenched his fists.
No more doubts. No more fantasies.
He would survive the Second Gate—whatever it was.
And one day… he would make every moment in this hell worth something.