Chapter 16. The Trial

"Where the hell have they gone!" the athletic young man raced through the corridors, carrying the girl in his arms.

People scattered out of their way, bewildered. Their faces flashed with curiosity, fear, confusion.

"Mumbles!" Alpha shot a glance at the guy running beside him. Barely contained fury colored his voice. "I'm going to need a very detailed account of what happened. Very detailed."

At that moment, Sumarel—who'd been barely breathing a second ago—jerked violently. Her eyes flew open, and whether from a dream impulse or muscle memory, her elbow shot up, slamming into Alpha's face as he turned toward her.

The blow connected. Bone crunched.

The world flipped. She crashed onto the stone floor before she could brace herself. The back of her head met cold stone, and a wave of pain rolled through her body.

"Are you okay?" Albrecht's voice sounded somewhere nearby, worried.

"Corridor," flashed through her clouded consciousness. The space swam, objects blurred into doubles. Every cell in her body screamed with pain.

"Well, at least she's alive," Alpha's muffled voice came from somewhere to the side. His tone made it clear—he was lying next to her.

Understanding hit instantly. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning inward.

"Emotions absent," the thought was cold, detached. "Something changed from the day of my rebirth. I no longer feel their power over me."

The memories of her dream contrasted sharply with her current state. There, in the depths of her subconscious, emotions had churned and lived their own life. Here though... It was as if something inside no longer constricted like a vise, but with freedom came emptiness.

"My behavior is abnormal. Different from everything in the previous life," the analysis proceeded mechanically, without the usual anxiety. "I was careless. Something's affecting me."

"Sumarel, are you alright?" Alpha's touch pulled her from her thoughts.

She stared into his eyes, only now noticing the blood streaming down his face. Her hand reached toward the wound on its own.

"I'm sorry" her gaze dropped, "I didn't mean to."

"Forget it, I'm just glad you're okay," he smiled as if he'd forgotten she'd just knocked him flat.

"Strange," the thought was dispassionate. "I feel nothing. Playing by technique, not soul."

She was struck by how completely she'd transformed—before and after, two different creatures entirely. Words came by themselves—correct, appropriate, measured. It was as if her inner symphony had been silenced, its director executed, and in place of music—only flawless technique remained.

"Let's get out of here," she glanced at the gathering crowd. "I don't like being the center of attention."

The gawkers were already whispering, exchanging meaningful looks. Rumors would spread quickly—that was inevitable. But while Alpha gazed at her with lovesick eyes, pleased with the unexpected progress in their relationship, she was already calculating how to turn the situation to her advantage.

Back in the room, she tended to his injury for a bit—just enough to make the right impression. Then she delicately ushered him out, citing a headache.

"Talk to the observer dogs," she asked. "And try to... minimize the spread of rumors."

Knowing his clumsiness in such matters, she harbored no illusions. If anything, his attempts would only fan the flames of gossip. But that could be useful too.

"Are you two together?" Chatterbox wasted no time. The door had barely closed behind Alpha before she was thirsting for details.

She'd earned her nickname honestly—the girl couldn't stand silence, constantly seeking someone to talk to. A social animal in pure form. They were complete opposites, but Sumarel didn't mind having her as a roommate.

With her own social skills, she'd hardly have learned much about the groups and people going through training. Chatterbox handled that task brilliantly, especially after falling under the main group's protection. Alpha, knowing about Sumarel's roommate's talkativeness, had skillfully woven her into his circle, surely expecting to gain information.

A strange symbiosis had formed around her. For Sumarel, it was... curious. Trying to put herself in their shoes was an impossible task. Then again, they were young, and youth was famous for such tangled relationships. Though adults, she knew, were guilty of the same.

"Head's pounding," she shifted her gaze, clearly indicating she wanted quiet.

"Who am I to judge?" the thought flickered. "In my past life, I killed my own mother."

Perhaps it was this detachment that created that strange attraction. She didn't judge. Accepted people as they were. Funny how readily they submitted to manipulation but couldn't bear judgment or indifference.

"If it's not too much trouble, bring some water," she addressed Chatterbox, wanting to send her away.

The girl glanced at Albrecht: "I'll go get some."

Sumarel rolled her eyes, covering her face with a pillow. Even without seeing their faces, she could feel the whole palette of emotions. When you live with someone long enough, you start predicting reactions even with your eyes closed.

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"He can't," she whispered, emphasizing the last words. "People are already gossiping. They saw the three of us."

"Oh, right... Didn't think of that. I'll bring it right away."

Waiting until the footsteps faded down the corridor, Sumarel removed the pillow from her face.

"Tell me everything that happened."

"Not much to tell." Albrecht shrugged. "You just collapsed. I ran over, trying to understand what was wrong. Alpha's assistant was in the workshop—he reported it, and Alpha came."

"Ran, more likely," she corrected in her thoughts.

"Nothing else?"

An instant's hesitation. Barely noticeable, but enough.

"Speak."

"Alpha gave you... rescue breathing. Or cardiac massage." His gaze dropped. "You were barely alive. It was necessary."

She should have shown outrage, but instead continued watching him. "He's hiding something."

Intuition screamed it. She remembered her Weaving sessions, how it had begun transforming, gaining new dimensions. She had no doubt—whatever had happened in her absence, it could be connected to the rune.

But she didn't have the paper with her now. And the first to notice the drawing should have been Albrecht—given his fanatical attitude toward runic art.

"He can't lie to me," the thought beat in her consciousness as she reviewed his reactions.

"Alright. Thank you," she turned away, feigning exhaustion.

Going to the workshop now was impossible.

"9333."

The dog's voice sounded emotionless.

"Yes," she answered without enthusiasm, understanding—this visit wasn't random.

"Come out. Follow me."

Such a command was impossible to disobey. Exchanging glances with Albrecht, she followed the guide. The direction was predictable—training with the cursed water hadn't stopped. There was logic hidden in the seemingly random selection of people for the procedures.

The room turned out to be larger than the previous ones. Multiple tanks lined the walls. Six subjects were already waiting—some she knew by sight, others she'd glimpsed in passing. From their appearance, their slumped shoulders and dead eyes, it was clear—not everyone was here willingly. Physical exhaustion read in every movement.

"Information about the fainting reached them," she stated the fact.

The principle of this place had long been clear: to break or weed out the weak, focusing on the sturdy middle-rankers. The standouts, apparently, became white blindfold holders. Looking at the assembled group, the conclusion was obvious—they doubted her. Wanted to test her strength.

"Undress. Follow procedure."

The voice came from the shadows—the one responsible for trials stood there, white blindfold visible in the darkness.

She undressed mechanically, studying the others. Many had skin mottled with bruises and scars—traces of previous "training" and "friendly" sparring with others. Thin, emaciated bodies. They'd hardly endure the trial peacefully.

The man in the white blindfold stepped into the light. In the violet lamp rays, his face became a sinister mask. Tangled dark curly hair, sickly pale skin. His gaze slid from one subject to another, as if appraising merchandise.

The immaculate gray uniform hung oddly on his unhealthy form, as though he cared more for the trappings of power than the body that wore them.

"You're not the timid type," he approached, studying her from head to toe. "Could've sold yourself for more."

His gaze traveled her scrawny form with practiced calculation.

"Why did you come here?"

She didn't meet his eyes, focusing on the unfamiliar symbols on his patch.

"To find something greater than myself and my surroundings."

A lie, of course. But he needed a foothold for psychological pressure—she gave it to him.

"Your face," a hand landed on her chin, turning her head, "expresses nothing."

He crouched down, peering into her eyes.

"You're lying to me, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

Dry response. Gaze to the side.

"Lying is bad," fingers squeezed harder, causing pain.

"I don't know why I came."

She raised her gaze, meeting the man's brown eyes.

"Still lying," a smile stretched his thin lips. "You'll be my favorite."

Patting her shoulder, he moved to the next one.

"You're trembling," he tilted his head, studying the subject. "Come on, I'm a good person," the smile widened. "Handsome too."

A finger slid through the curls, twirling a strand.

"The gods send trials through their angels to those who are worthy," he slapped the test subject's chest. "What, you think you're unworthy? Why are you trembling?"

Next in line—a guy covered in scratches and abrasions.

"Now that's better. Who scratched you up like that?" a finger traced the fresh wounds. "Did you fight with a cat?"

He pressed on a bruise and a stifled groan escaped.

"Look at the skinny over there... I said—look!"

Roughly grabbing his chin, the man in the white blindfold turned the guy's head toward Sumarel.

"Ready to die. See?" A timid nod in response. "So why are you trembling over your pathetic life, huh?"

"I don't value it, honored one..."

He wasn't allowed to finish. A blow to the solar plexus knocked him down.

"You need to demonstrate, not flap your tongue!"

Sumarel watched the dogs in black blindfolds from the corner of her eye. Their faces displayed a whole range of emotions—fear and admiration warring with envy and relief—grateful to be observers, not participants.

The hierarchy was obvious. Black blindfolds had no rights even toward recruits—an element of submission and discipline. They moved quietly, almost invisibly, not interfering in camp affairs.

Rigid hierarchy permeated every level. Like any organization, power and results were what mattered. Those lacking raw strength could always play politics and form alliances.

Her trial would be harsh—that was obvious. The strange man in the white blindfold had already marked her as a potentially profitable investment. All that remained was to survive what would follow.

"Change formation. Face each other," he commanded.

Mechanisms sprang into motion. The tanks rearranged from a line into a circle. Now, once submerged, the test subjects would see each other.

"Move!" the command sounded especially threatening to the guy still trying to catch his breath after the blow.

Climbing onto the platforms, they heard:

"Today we have a game," he turned to the console operator and nodded, smiling. "Gets a bit boring otherwise, don't you think?"

His palms moved rhythmically, as if dancing.

"You won't be pulled out until everyone gives up at once. That's the first rule. You can tap on the tank as a sign of surrender."

The smile on his face turned predatory.

"On the other hand—if three subjects don't die, punishment awaits you. As for what exactly—well, that's the surprise."

The man in the white blindfold froze. Stifling silence hung in the air. No one dared even breathe.

"Ah, that's a bit boring. Hopefully one of you will shine. Begin!"

Mechanisms hummed. The platforms began descending.