The silver Knight

They stepped into the room, the air damp and heavy, swallowing sound like a muffled drum. Their steps echoed faintly, lost in the cavernous darkness that stretched endlessly around them. For a moment, it felt as though blindfolds covered their eyes, though it was merely the unbroken black that stripped them of sight.

"Welcome, gentlemen," came a voice, rich with a measured, almost theatrical cheer. "I'll take you to the place where the exam begins."

The voice was familiar, too familiar.

"This voice..." Kaizen murmured, his tone wary, his instincts sharpening.

"Of course, it's him," Rai replied in a low, knowing voice.

A flicker of light cut through the dark, the stranger revealing himself by the soft glow of a candle. The flame wavered, casting erratic shadows on his face—face they recognized instantly.

"You!" Raze barked, his anger rising with the pitch of his voice. "You're the liar who misled us!"

The man didn't flinch. If anything, he smiled. "Apologies for the deception," he said with a shrug that bordered on mockery. "It was necessary to test you. And, by the way, I lied about the time too. There's still half an hour before the exam begins."

Without another word, the man shifted the candle, its faint flame guiding their eyes to a staircase carved crudely into the black stone floor. The steps plunged downward, vanishing into a gaping void. The flickering light barely reached the first few steps, leaving the descent cloaked in impenetrable darkness. He descended first, his movements deliberate, the light in his hand painting the uneven walls with erratic shadows. A chill hung in the air, sharper with each step, carrying the faint, musty scent of damp stone and earth.

The four exchanged glances before following, their footsteps echoing in the confined space. The stone steps were rough beneath their soles, jagged in places as if worn down by countless others who had taken this same descent. The air grew colder, biting at their skin, and with each step, a sense of unease crept over them. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint drip of water in the distance, a steady, rhythmic sound that added to the tension.

"I've heard people try for ten years and still fail," Giro muttered, his voice breaking the quiet as he let out a lazy yawn, as though indifferent to the gravity of his words. The air carried his breath in visible puffs, dissipating quickly into the black.

"And some even die," Kaizen added, his tone edged with a dark amusement. His eyes glinted in the candlelight, and for a moment, the shadows on his face seemed to deepen. "Isn't it fascinating?"

Rai's lips curled into a smirk, the same subtle expression mirrored on Raze's face. Neither said a word, but the energy in their silence was palpable—a shared thrill coursing between them, raw and instinctual, a reaction that needed no elaboration.

"Of course," they said in unison, their voices low but brimming with unspoken excitement.

The path leveled out, opening into a narrow corridor carved into the rock. The walls were uneven, scratched with marks that looked deliberate—scratches that could have been the remnants of desperate fingers or some ancient writing lost to time. The candlelight danced across them, casting fleeting patterns that seemed alive. The ground beneath their feet was damp now, patches of water pooling in the grooves of the stone.

A cold draft swept past them, carrying a scent that was hard to place—metallic and faintly sweet, like blood diluted with time. The smell lingered, faint but undeniable, seeping into their senses and quickening their pulse. Raze sniffed the air, his brow furrowing briefly, but he said nothing.

Ahead, the man's steps slowed. He paused, tilting his head as if listening for something. His candle burned low, the flame flickering weakly as if struggling against an unseen force. He turned back to the group, his expression unreadable. "We're almost there," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rai glanced over his shoulder, half expecting something—or someone—to be trailing them in the shadows. Nothing moved, but the weight of the unseen pressed heavily on his chest. He turned back, his focus sharpening. Whatever lay ahead, it was waiting for them.

At the bottom, the man stopped, turning toward a recess in the rock—a crude, hollow box carved into the wall. "One by one," he instructed, "place your hand inside."

There was no hesitation. Rai moved first, his hand slipping into the box. A strange tingle ran across his wrist, and as he pulled it free, his skin glowed faintly gold. There, floating above it, was the number 890.

"So, this is some kind of ID," he said, holding his wrist up to the light. "890 means there are 889 people ahead of us."

One by one, the others followed. Raze: 891. Kaizen: 892. Giro stepped forward last, pulling his hand back to reveal the number 894.

"Wait, 894?" Giro's voice was sharp, disbelief coloring his words. "Why not 893?"

"Someone took it just now," the man said simply.

Giro stiffened. "What?" His eyes darted to the box, as though searching for proof of the impossible. "I didn't see anyone else here—no one touched the box!"

Rai's expression darkened, his voice low and measured. "I felt something, for just a moment. A brush against the back of my shoe. Someone was here."

"Someone besides us?" Raze asked, his grin widening. "Interesting." His head tilted, cradled in his palms, as if savoring the thought.

Giro turned to Kaizen, expecting an answer. But Kaizen, expressionless as ever, said nothing. He simply began walking, leaving Giro to stew in his unease.

The room they entered next was stifling, its black stone walls and rough stone floor exuding a cold, unyielding presence. Frost clung to every surface, a thin layer of snow lining the walls and drifting lazily from the unseen heights of the ceiling. The faint sound of snowflakes hitting the ground was the only reprieve from the suffocating silence, broken only by the whispers of the crowd. Hundreds of eyes turned toward the newcomers, their gazes sharp, laden with judgment. Rai felt the weight of it but shrugged it off, his attention pulled to something else, something far more compelling amidst the oppressive stillness.

At the center of the crowd stood a man. His presence was a storm in still air. Tall, his pitch-black hair spiked upward like jagged spears, defying even the thought of movement. A silver star-shaped chain glinted against his dark cloak, and his lips curled into a smile that held no warmth, only cunning.

In his hand, he held another man by the throat, the struggling figure's feet dangling uselessly. The gold on the attacker's wrist caught the light—2. A nearly imperceptible number, but unmistakable. The victim clawed weakly at his captor's arm, his fists landing feeble punches before his head lolled to the side, lifeless.

"Never dig into my life again," the man said with a soft, almost musical laugh. He dropped the body unceremoniously, his grin unbroken as he turned away, a predator satisfied with his kill.

"Interesting," came a voice close to Giro. The hairs on his neck stood on end as he turned, finding himself face-to-face with someone who shouldn't be there.

"Zane Asuma," Giro whispered, his voice tight.

Zane stood too close, his hand hovering near Giro's neck. His presence was suffocating, a silent threat that left Giro uncharacteristically shaken. He didn't need to look at Zane's wrist to know—the 893 glinted in the dim light, mocking him.

Rai struggled to process what he was seeing, his gaze darting between the two figures locked in an unspoken tension. Giro and Zane—it was uncanny. The same sharp-cut features, the same intense eyes that carried a shadow of something unspoken. Yet, where Giro's dark eyes were half-lidded, perpetually drowsy and unreadable, Zane's burned cold and piercing, like shards of obsidian. They both wore identical black kimonos, simple yet imposing, the fabric flowing with a stark elegance that belied the raw energy crackling between them.

Their hair added to the eerie resemblance, yet the differences were stark enough to draw a line between them. Giro's hair was a disheveled mess, falling where it pleased, mirroring his languid demeanor. Zane's was the opposite: sleek, well-kept, hanging in a straight line to his neck, with a sharp curtain of it veiling one eye as though to conceal whatever was hidden in his gaze.

"You followed me," Giro said, his voice low, almost incredulous. "Why?"

Zane smirked. "Because you have what I need." His hand inched closer, the tension between them palpable. "I'm in the final stages of mastering the Dark Veil. You can't stop me."

"What are you planning to do with the Dark Veil?" Giro's voice carried a weight it didn't often have, sharp with unease.

Zane tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening, though it never reached his eyes. "That's not something you need to concern yourself with… brother."

"Brother?" Raze stepped forward, wide-eyed. "Hey Giro! Shall I punch him?!" He laughed, but the sound felt hollow against the tension in the room.

Giro clenched his teeth, his voice breaking through the unease. "This isn't a joke, Raze. He's the kind of villain who'd destroy the world in an anime."

Zane laughed, a low, sharp sound, more a dagger than a melody. "Tch… for that, I need the license first. I'll clear this test, and then I'll deal with you."

He turned sharply, his kimono flowing like liquid shadow as he strode past Giro. The crowd, silent until then, parted without hesitation, the tension he exuded enough to clear his path.

Rai stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Giro's shoulder. "Tell me what happened, and we'll handle it. Together.", he said quietly , his voice steady.

Raze and Kaizen joined them, forming a circle around their fallen comrade. Giro looked up at them, their warmth pulling him from the cold grip of Zane's shadow. Together, they formed a quiet circle of resolve and made a silent promise—to clear the exam, to gain their licenses, and to face whatever lay ahead.