Nothing was what was supposed to happen
Nemo expected death to be numb, cold, and still—like swimming in a sea of eternal darkness, severed from all signs of life and any stimulation that suggested he still existed in this wretched life of his.
Even if what he did was in a moment of desperation, without thought for the consequences—as if something had seized control of his entire being like a marionette, forcing his body to obey its new master's strings—the peace that followed was infectious. Undoubtedly, it was euphoric at some point.
Then, all at once, the sensation of being suspended in that viscous liquid enveloping him vanished. He plummeted, as though an invisible, ethereal hand had snatched him from a sea of clouds and hurled him into a freefall.
The wind whipped against his face, so fierce he couldn't even open his eyes. His oversized tracksuit flapped wildly, and he felt his glasses slipping away. Instinctively, he shielded his eyes with his forearms, managing only a sliver of vision, And what he saw froze his blood.
The ground—white and featureless—rushed toward him. The initial feeling of despair, then peace, had passed, and now, for the first time since the incident in the hangar, he felt raw fear.
Squeezing his eyes shut unconsciously, he braced for the impact that would kill him in a far bloodier, messier way than before. But it never came.
After a few seconds, he dared to look again—only to find himself hovering mere centimeters above the ground.
His breath hitched in surprise. He flailed like an infant struggling in water before finally touching down with a soft light *thud*.
*"Aww,"* he muttered, disoriented.
Gathering himself, he wobbled weakly to his feet, his breathing ragged as if he'd run a marathon. His glasses, now cracked from the fall, sat crookedly on his face. He sighed, adjusting them, though the fracture made them nearly useless.
Taking in his surroundings offered no relief—just an endless white vast expanse stretching in every direction. Even the sky was white, as if illuminated by the ground itself. The sheer uniformity overwhelmed him, nauseating, as though the world sought to blind him.
'What's happening? I am sure I was dead.' Nemo thought.
The situation was so bizarre his mind short-circuited. How could death feel so… lifelike?
Then, the first change came.
The ground flickered. The sky dimmed.
What followed made Nemo's mind go blank, unable to process and comprehend the enormity and severity of the unfolding event.
As the light wavered, a monotone, feminine voice echoed—directionless, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The ground, the air, his own mind—he couldn't tell.
The words themselves didn't register, not resonating with him. Only a sound, detached from the meaning it tried to convey.
"Aspirant, your trial awaits."
The voice was calm, solemn, laced with a superiority that bordered on disdain. But none of it mattered.
Because in the next instant, the light vanished. Darkness swallowed the world turning it pitch black—save for a single path, glowing faintly, leading to a door that hadn't been there before.
It pulsed with liquid-white light, like molten lava, flaring in sporadic bursts from time to time.
The sight was mesmerizing, terrifying, and incomprehensible.
Nemo stood frozen, jaw slack, eyes dull, mirroring the eerie glow. Goosebumps prickled his skin, reacting to the door's oppressive aura.
A flare licked and caressed Nemo's face, snapping him from his trance like state. He shook his head, gaze locking onto the path ahead.
He didn't understand, but heard a calling. Something or someone *called* to him, urging him forward, lulling him into walking throught the door.
Instinct warred with reason.
But this place, this gate, and that monotone voice and the calling he kept feeling, they all seemed too familiar, that it was hard to believe.
According to the scattered articles he'd read in his spare time, this shouldn't be happening. Unless he was a *Fledgling*—someone injected with the universe's essence and trained since childhood—trials like these were impossible.
He was no privileged heir. No scion of an influential clan. No wealthy elite who could afford the Essence Serum. He was just a dweller of a remote asteroid, forgotten by empires, clans, And powerful entities alike.
So how?
A problem for later.
Right now, he stood before the door—a god-given opportunity to change his life. *If* he survived that is.
He reached out, fingers trembling toward the radiant liquid-fire light, snaking gently on the door like the surface of the sun.
One step. Then—
'What am I even doing?' He hasitated in the last moment.
His fist clenched. jaw tightened.
Those who undertook trials were *prepared*—drilled since childhood, equipped with every resource to maximize their chances in the hope they could progress as much as they can.
And here he was: broken glasses, tattered headset, dirtied clothes and a wrench.
A frail looking body, Hungry and thirsty, Probably suffering from some illness due to starvation and bad hygiene, Lacking the basic necessities for survival.
He chuckled bitterly. "Not too shabby, huh?"
Looking down, he sighed.
"It's not like I have a choice now do I ?. Permanent death if I stay here … or I walk through that door and pray whatever's inside doesn't kill me too fast."
Another hollow laugh.
"Especially since I'm only fifteen. If I'd known the serum was in my blood, I'd have waited until sixteen before I ..... Ah I see—I had to go and kill myself. And to think I used to mock people who snapped like this. The irony hahahaha"
Trials were meant for those *sixteen* or older. Any younger, and death in the maze meant *true* death—no second chances.
Had he waited one more year, even the barest success inside the trial's maze would've secured him a modest place in a universe that devoured the weak.
Alass, There's no remedy for regret, and there's no changing the past.
Steeling his resolve, He stepped forward—no longer hopeful, just resigned to a fate he cannot grasp nor control.
A desperate gamble. The last he'd ever take.