"People cling to life like it's sacred, but up here, survival feels more like a curse than a blessing."
It was ironic how people feared the beasts below, when the endless horror humanity inflicted upon itself was far more terrifying.
Rhys's eyes widened—they were bloodshot, his eyeballs almost bulging, and he couldn't blink even as tears stung his eyes.
Time seemed to flow very slowly, almost unmoving. The moon shone brightly in the dark sky. The branches of the trees swayed with each gust of wind, and leaves fell to the ground, some landing on the earth, others drifting into the shadows deeper within the forest.
Darkness filled Rhys's vision.
And then, in the next moment, he could see everything again.
Blood.
There was so much blood everywhere.
He dropped to his knees and picked up a human head, torn from its body by their ruthless oppressors.
"Mother," he muttered as he placed the head near his heart, hugging it as if he wanted to give her some warmth.
…
Willowgrave District, Third Layer
Rhys opened his eyes.
His gaze met the sunlight peeking through the grayish clouds.
That dream again. His jaw clenched as he sat up, pressing his back against the trunk of a dying willow tree. Rocher's little backyard was his favorite spot to take a nap during the day.
He heard footsteps and saw someone approaching.
"The vehicle has arrived," the young man informed Rhys. He had platinum blonde hair and the palest blue eyes, almost translucent. There was a slight crease in his forehead, and one of his hands was clenched at his side.
"You can always choose not to go, Keith," Rhys told his friend, fixing his crumpled shirt as he rose from the ground.
"I am nervous, yes—afraid, even," Keith admitted quietly, and then his voice turned firmer. "But it doesn't mean I don't want to go."
"What did Rocher say when he found out?"
Rocher wasn't exactly like a father to them, nor did he try to be, but he was the closest thing to a guardian they had. The old man had long known what Rhys would do once he reached the legal age, but the same couldn't be said for Keith. Even Rhys had been surprised when Keith told him two months ago about his decision.
Rhys didn't try to stop Keith. He never had the intention to. He wouldn't want anyone stopping him from doing what he wanted, either.
"He was surprised, and I suppose, a little angry," Keith answered as they walked toward the back door of Rocher's house. "He hadn't expected it. He didn't stop me. I knew he wouldn't but he didn't seem very pleased."
Keith smiled. "He doesn't show it, but he's worried. He probably thinks I'll have it harder than you."
Rhys stopped by the back door of Rocher's house, turned around, and stood still. He took a moment to stare at the little backyard. The old willow tree. The rusty swing. The grassy ground. The blue sky above it.
He might have a chance to return, if luck was on his side—but it would take a long time.
Everything was about to change.
For the better? That, he doubted.
He smirked at the thought.
"That never crossed my mind," Rhys told Keith. He didn't glance at him, but he could see Keith watching him from the corner of his eye.
"It takes more than physical strength to survive in the world we live in. Besides, unless you're on your deathbed, it's never too late to work on your weakness."
One last glance and he turned around and entered the house through the back door without looking back.
They exited the small, brick house through the main door and saw what was waiting for them outside.
A large, brown-painted vehicle with an open cargo bed stood at the front. A few civilians were already aboard – others who had apparently sealed their fates the same way Rhys and Keith had.
Two soldiers sat with them, while two others stood nearby. One of them spoke as Rhys and Keith stepped into view.
"Rhys Ryder and Keith Fritzgald?"
"Yes, sir," Keith answered, his voice slightly shaky. The man in front of him was huge, probably several years older, and looked like a soldier down to his bones.
From the Willowgrave District, they were being transported to Frostshire—the northern district in the Second Layer, where the cadet base was located.
It had been a long journey that had taken days.
Rhys wasn't sure how he had fallen asleep on the final day of the trip. But when he opened his eyes, he couldn't remember falling asleep at all.
And now, he was in a cell.
Alone.
How did he get here?
The cell was four-cornered, with steel bars on every side. The floor was about nine square meters wide. It reminded him of the district prison he had visited a few times before, visits that hadn't been intentional.
Outside the cell, he could see nothing but darkness. The only light came from a small lamp on the ceiling, casting a pale glow over the cold, concrete room.
Rhys was on his feet, alert, ready to call out to anyone who might hear him.
But before he could speak, something caught his eye to the left.
On the ground was a box. Something like a toolbox.
He opened it and found four items inside: A stone as large as a fist, a dagger, a short bamboo stick, and a note carved into the underside of the lid.
Rhys's gaze followed the etched letters:
[To officially become a cadet, you must survive this trial.]
That was when Rhys heard a noise.
He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the northern side of the cell as the steel bars slowly lowered, opening the way for a guest from the shadows.
It stepped into the cell, four limbs on the ground, teeth sharp and bared, its eyes glinting with a predatory hunger.