Belial was never meant to lead.
He knew it, and everyone around him knew it too. His presence was quiet and deliberate he needed to be a shadow behind the flame. And that flame was Shun. From the moment they arrived in this camp, Belial had always respected shun, not out of fear, but out of conviction. Shun carried something none of them did: a gravity, a quiet strength, a magnetic pull that made people look twice, and then believe.
Belial respected that. In fact, he admired it. In a different life, one with fewer monsters and more dreams, Shun would've been the protagonist. The chosen one. The hero of tales sung around bonfires. But this wasn't that kind of life.
This world was a horrid blade, and it cut deep.
Still, Belial played his part. He'd spent the last few hours before sundown briefing Shun on the first stage—the terrain, the known dangers, the whispers of what lay beyond the crystalline ridge. He made the maps, the notes, even the type of monsters that were there. He gave Shun everything, then stepped aside, his role as the silent guide fulfilled. He wasn't the one to rally the troops or ignite their hearts. That was Shun's domain.
As the final glint of sunlight melted into dusk, Shun stepped forward, the flicker of campfire light dancing across his sharp features. The air grew still, heavy with anticipation. The soldiers—thirty-five souls, battered and weary from their arrival in this unforgiving world—watched him, waiting.
"We're moving," Shun announced.
A ripple of hesitation coursed through the group.
They hadn't expected to leave yet—certainly not now. The base, with its crumbling walls and meager supplies, was no paradise, but it was familiar. Safe, or at least as safe as anything could be in a world where the ground itself seemed to pulse with malice. But there was something in Shun's voice, something unshakable, a quiet certainty that silenced doubt. Despite the questions clouding their eyes, the soldiers trusted him. Maybe not fully. Maybe not yet. But they trusted him enough to follow.
Belial took his place at the rear of the column. Always watching. Always calculating. His mind churned through the variables—the terrain, the weather, the morale of the unit. He noted the way some soldiers gripped their weapons too tightly, betraying their fear, while others walked with a forced swagger, as if bravado could shield them from what lay ahead. He saw it all, but he said nothing. His role was to observe, to anticipate, to ensure Shun's vision became reality.
The unit moved through the brittle landscape. Shattered stones crunched beneath their boots, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness around them. The wind howled like a grieving widow through narrow crags, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and something metallic, like blood long dried. For a while, no one spoke. The silence was a prayer—or perhaps a question none dared to ask aloud.
It was Kaz, one of the younger soldiers, who broke it. His voice was unsteady, betraying his youth. "This road… this is the one that leads to the base, right?"
Shun glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "We're taking a detour," he said simply.
A beat passed. Then Toren, a young man, mid-twenties, his frame lean but toned, with a scar running down his left arm. "A detour? You mean the Valley of Death? The place crawling with hordes of mirror beasts? You're leading us straight into the crystalline gorge?"
Shun stopped. The rest of the unit halted behind him, their breaths visible in the chill air. The moon was beginning to rise, bathing the jagged cliffs in a ghostly glow that made the landscape feel like a dream—or a nightmare.
He turned to face them, his eyes scanning each of their faces. The wind picked up, flapping cloaks and stirring ash from the ground. Then he spoke—not loudly, but with power, each word landing like a stone in still water.
"Every one of you came into this world the same way. Broken, lost, confused. You were promised power, adventure... closure. But this world doesn't give anything freely. You have to take it."
He stepped forward, his voice rising with purpose. "This is not just a path. This is the crucible. The first stage is going to be a nightmare. And you don't get to wake up from it until you fight. Each of you must kill at least one mirror monster. Not for glory. Not for command. But for survival. For evolution."
His gaze hardened, his eyes like twin blades. "Kill one, and the stage will register you as a participant."
There was a pause, a thick silence where you could almost hear their thoughts turning. The weight of his words settled over them, heavy and unyielding. Kill or be killed. Fight or fade. This was the truth of the world they'd been thrust into, and Shun wasn't offering them false hope or empty promises. He was offering them a chance—a brutal, bloody chance, but a chance nonetheless.
"If any of you want to go back to the base, you can," Shun said finally. "Lira will guide you back. No shame. No punishment. You live to fight another day."
Lira, a wiry woman with eyes that seemed to see too much, stepped forward. She was a guide through safer lands, if such a thing even existed anymore. Her presence was a lifeline, a way out for those who weren't ready to face the valley.
A few soldiers stepped away. Not many. Maybe five. One of them, a young man with a face still soft with hope, looked back at Shun, his eyes pleading for something—reassurance, perhaps, or forgiveness.
Shun met his gaze but said nothing.
Most of the others didn't look back at all.
And when the dust settled, thirty remained. Thirty souls with uncertain hearts and trembling fingers, but eyes that burned with something new. Resolve. Fear, yes, but also a spark of defiance, a refusal to let this world break them.
"These thirty," Belial murmured to himself, watching from the rear, "they'll be legends...or they'll be corpses."
He hoped for the former. But this was the Valley of Death. Hope had a tendency to bleed out here, seeping into the cracked earth like so much spilled wine.
The unit pressed forward, their footsteps muffled by the shifting ash. The terrain changed as they approached the valley—sharp crystalline formations jutted from the earth like fractured memories, their surfaces catching the moonlight and throwing it back in jagged, disorienting patterns. The air grew cold, electric, as if the valley itself were alive, its pulse thrumming just beneath the surface. The soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, their breaths coming faster now, visible in the frigid air.
Belial's senses sharpened. He noted the way the crystals seemed to hum faintly, a vibration that set his teeth on edge. He cataloged the positions of the soldiers, the ones most likely to break under pressure, the ones who might surprise them all. He watched Shun, who moved with a predator's grace, his empty scabbard slung across his back, its surface etched with runes that glowed faintly in the moonlight. Belial didn't know what the scabbard was or what it did, but he knew it was important. Shun never went anywhere without it.
The valley loomed closer now, its entrance a narrow gash in the earth, flanked by towering crystalline spires that seemed to shift and shimmer, as if mocking the very concept of solidity. The soldiers slowed, their instincts screaming at them to turn back. But Shun didn't falter, and so they didn't either.
Then came the sound.
A low sound, like glass vibrating just below the edge of hearing. A distortion in the world itself, a ripple that made the air feel wrong, heavy, as if it were pressing down on their chests. Belial felt it first, a prickle at the base of his skull, a warning honed by years of surviving in places no one should survive. He opened his mouth to speak, but Shun was already raising a fist, signaling halt.
The first mirror monster emerged from the crystal fog, its form a twisted mimicry of a human. Its body was a grotesque amalgamation of jagged crystal and writhing, organic matter, its limbs too long, its movements too fluid. Its face—or what passed for a face—was a cruel mockery, shifting and reforming to reflect the features of whoever stared at it. Kaz, standing closest, let out a choked gasp as the creature's face became his own, distorted and wrong, its eyes hollow pits that seemed to drink in the light.
And then came the second. And the third.
Insanity...this was way more than Belial thought.
The soldiers froze, their training warring with their fear. The air was thick with the sound of the crystals, the sound growing louder, more insistent, as if the valley itself were waking up. Belial's hand drifted to the longsword, his mind racing through contingencies. They were outnumbered, exposed, and the terrain was against them. But retreat wasn't an option—not now, not with Shun at the helm.
Shun turned, his empty scabbard brimming with energy, its runes flaring brighter now, casting an eerie glow across the soldiers' faces. He didn't shout, didn't need to. His presence was enough, a beacon in the gathering dark.
"Tonight," he said, his voice cutting through the hum like a blade, "you stop being weak. Tonight, you mark your place in this world."
He raised the scabbard, its light pulsing in time with the valley's hum, and these thirty individuals were about to enter their first nightmare, in this world they were about to face...
Their first stage.