Hope stared at the dagger.

  His body was screaming. Every muscle, every bone, every nerve felt like it had been torn and stitched back together with fire.

  The pain in his ribs was sharp and constant. His shoulder throbbed like it had a heartbeat of its own. Blood dripped down his left arm—warm and sticky.

  But none of that compared to the weight now sitting in his gut.

  This wasn’t a fight anymore.

  This was a fucking stage.

  He looked up at the projections. The Crawlers—the ones he had killed. Their eyes were wide, confused… afraid.

  He let out a slow breath. Something cold settled in his chest.

  Not guilt. Not even rage. Just… that feeling he knew too damn well.

  Helpless.

  And now these bastards wanted to make a show of it.

  But he also understood. This wasn’t even about him. There was no sense in them going through all this trouble just for a Crawler like him. He knew what they were to the Citizens—nothing. Less than fuckin’ insects.

  No… this was about her.

  They were pissed at Eve for some reason. She wasn’t supposed to be here, maybe?

  Didn’t matter.

  What mattered was—they wanted to bite at her. Hurt her. And they couldn’t do it directly… so they’d do it through him.

  They wanted him to crawl like a starved rat. Break every piece of pride and dignity left in him. Leave her with that image—one that would rot inside her forever.

  Hope chuckled as the pain stabbed through his chest, coughing blood from the strain. A choice, they said?

  As if they’d ever care. As if any of it would change shit.

  Every Crawler out there would die anyway. He knew that too well.

  He spat blood into the sand and gave a bitter laugh as he stared up at Hector.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  The grin on Hector’s face didn’t falter, but something shifted in his posture.

  “So go ahead… kill us all.”

  Hector stood silent for a moment, head tilted slightly.

  “You know… I expected a bit more fight from you. You made it this far, didn’t you?” he said, voice quiet now. “But I guess all rats squeal the same when cornered.”

  Then—he moved.

  Fingers grabbed Hope’s broken shoulder and squeezed.

  Hope bit down a scream as his body buckled, fire shooting down his side. The bloodied fabric of his vest soaked further, torn flesh searing against the pressure. His breath hitched, came in ragged bursts through clenched teeth.

  “But if the words won’t come,” Hector muttered, voice darkening, “let’s see if the body can speak louder.”

  He stood and dragged Hope up by the arm, the motion tearing at muscle and bone. Hope kicked weakly, spit blood, but he couldn’t even raise the spear hanging limp from his hand.

  Then—crack.

  A knee slammed into his stomach.

  Hope’s body folded with the hit, bile and blood exploding from his mouth. He hung limp, ribs screaming, vision flickering.

  Another blow came—a sharp jab to the jaw. Then a kick to the spine.

  But… Hope never screamed.

  Not once.

  He tried to raise his hand, maybe channel something—anything—but nothing came. The Magika felt distant, muffled behind the haze of pain and blood loss.

  Then—fingers wrapped around his throat.

  Hector lifted him clean off the ground with one hand.

  Hope’s boots dangled. His fingers twitched. Blood ran freely from his nose, his lip, the deep slash still bleeding across his shoulder.

  And Hector turned.

  He walked.

  Carried Hope across the sand like a piece of broken meat until… they reached her.

  Hope’s vision blurred with every heartbeat, but he saw her.

  Eve.

  Still behind that invisible barrier. Her hands pressed to it. Eyes wide.

  She saw him. The blood. The bruises. The way his limbs hung, limp and twitching.

  Her jaw clenched. A tremble ran through her arms. She slammed her fists against the barrier, shouted something—but no sound came through.

  Hector stopped just a few paces from the wall. He held Hope high, like an offering.

  “Here,” he said calmly, “your little hero.”

  And then he dropped him.

  Hope crumpled to his knees with a wet thud, his head slumping forward, blood trailing from his mouth into the sand below.

  He didn’t move.

  Eve stared, eyes trembling, lips parted—but no sound escaped.

  Hector turned his head just slightly, as if sensing her eyes drilling into him. Then, without ceremony, he flicked the dagger forward. It landed in the sand with a soft, muted thud, barely inches from Hope’s broken hands.

  “This will be your last chance,” he said.

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  Without warning, a line of shimmering projections sprang to life across the sand in front of Hope’s bloodied face. They floated just above the ground, flickering with sickening clarity.

  The first was a boy tied upright to a post. A thick leather whip cracked across his back again and again, each strike peeling open another raw line of flesh.

  The second was a girl, her hands tied down to a stone table. Her eyes were wide, mouth gagged. A metal tool glowed red at the tip, then descended slowly. One by one, her fingernails were torn off.

  The third was indistinguishable, his face was mangled beyond recognition, lips torn, teeth missing. A figure cloaked in black held his head up while another forced small, jagged screws into his mouth.

  And there were many more.

  Hope stood still. His body wouldn’t move. All he could do… was stare.

  Hector crouched beside him.

  “This can all stop,” he said gently. “Just pick it up. Do what I said. And all of this—their screams, their pain—it all ends. You hold the key. Give them… hope.”

  Hope’s pale, bloodied face hung limp, chin nearly resting on his chest. His breath came ragged, uneven. He didn’t respond.

  But his eyes… they stared.

  They stared straight through the projections, past the surface screams and into the heart of it.

  One Crawler screamed as the whip tore his back open in bloody stripes. Another thrashed on a slab of stone while a red-hot tool melted its way beneath her fingernails. A third tried to bite down on his own tongue while they screwed shards of metal into his gums.

  Hope’s hands twitched. Blood ran from his busted lips. His ribs screamed. But it was the heaviness in his gut that almost broke him—the knowledge that no matter what he did, no matter what he chose… these people would still be tortured and killed. If not now, then later. If not this batch, the next.

  And now they wanted him to play the hero in their fucked-up little play. Crawl in front of the girl. Humiliate himself. Break what was left of him, so she could watch it and carry that scar. Not because it meant anything. But because it amused them.

  Because pain, apparently, was a form of art now.

  Hope breathed in deep through his nose, the air thick with iron and grit and rot.

  And for a moment… all he felt was disgust.

  Not just at Hector… but at the whole damn world.

  After several seconds passed, he finally twitched his hand and slowly moved it toward the dagger in the sand.

  Slowly, he gripped it. It felt… cold and heavy.

  His bloodied hand tightened around the handle as he dragged it toward him. He caught his own reflection in the blade. It was the third time in this world he had stopped to look.

  Full of blood. Tiredness. Weakness. A half-dead Crawler in the flesh.

  He wanted to chuckle at it all, but his body barely let him.

  “Good, Hope. Good. These Crawlers… they will remember,” Hector said from behind, his voice smoother now.

  As he spoke, the projections shifted. The tortures paused—whips halted mid-air, hands froze, screams fell silent. All of it… waiting. Waiting for him.

  Hope gritted his teeth. Then, using strength he didn’t know he still had, he began pushing himself up.

  The pain was unbearable. His body shook, trembling under its own weight. Every muscle screamed. Every nerve begged to stop. All his senses shouted the same word: Collapse.

  And yet…

  Hope slowly stood.

  He stood—frail, bloodied, skin pale and streaked with sweat and sand. His arms hung limp, his chest rose shallowly, blood still dripping. But he stood.

  And then, inch by inch, he raised his head.

  He locked eyes with Eve, just beyond the barrier.

  She stood frozen in place, fists clenched and pressed against the invisible wall between them. Her mouth was moving, shaping words he couldn’t hear.

  Hope’s chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts. Blood dripped from his chin, pattering onto the sand below—each drop marking another second he couldn’t afford. And yet, as he stared deep into her eyes, his vision blurred further.

  Suddenly, the black in her pupils expanded, stretching unnaturally—spilling out and swallowing the sky above.

  The sand beneath his knees vanished.

  In its place was an endless expanse of green—trees, cliffs, and mountains stretching as far as he could see.

  The pain in his body vanished too.

  And he… he was somewhere else.

  Did he die?

  He looked around, but something was wrong. He couldn’t feel his limbs. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, even.

  He wasn’t in his body.

  He was… somewhere else entirely.

  “Nice spot, huh?”

  What the—

  Hope heard a voice.

  Soft. Calm. Almost lazy.

  He was sure it was the first time he’d ever heard it—and yet… it felt familiar.

  Hope couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t even blink. But his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead.

  He was standing on a cliff. Whoever had spoken stood beside him—he could sense that much, though he couldn’t see them.

  Below, a breathtaking landscape sprawled beneath the clouds—verdant forests, shimmering lakes, mountain peaks bathed in golden light. Beautiful, really.

  “Something like this is what our planet used to look like. Our home,” the voice kept saying. “Even in all the cosmos… I have never seen anything come close to it.”

  Our… home? Who was this man?

  “Well, it should be happening anytime now,” the man said. “Pay attention.”

  Hope was confused at the surreal nature of it all, and yet he felt oddly comfortable for some reason, like this was where he was supposed to be.

  And then it happened—

  A massive bird emerged from the treetops far below, wings wide as a house, gliding effortlessly upward through a shaft of sunlight. Its feathers shimmered with iridescent hues—deep cobalt near the base, fading into white-tipped gold that gleamed as it twisted and soared.

  Its flight wasn’t frantic, or forced. Just… free.

  Hope watched in stunned silence as the bird spiraled higher, cutting through clouds with a grace no words could hold. It rose above the cliffs, higher still, until for a moment it hovered directly before the sun. A silhouette against the light.

  Hope didn’t know why—but something inside him cracked.

  Something deeper.

  Something like… longing.

  He extended his arm towards it and…

  Wait, how?

  He stared—and there was indeed a hand reaching toward the bird above. But it wasn’t his.

  The hand was smooth, tender… and very small.

  Then he heard a soft chuckle from behind.

  “Hits deep, doesn’t it? That freedom in the sky.” A few slow steps followed, the sound of boots brushing dry stone. “Seems someone is eager to fly too.”

  Fly?

  Did he…?

  …

  Yes.

  Yes, he did.

  He wanted that freedom. He wanted to escape the cage, to break the chains, to explore the horizons and move as his will set him.

  To soar above it all.

  He… he wanted it.

  Whsssh.

  A sudden gust brushed his cheek. The soft thunder of wings beat overhead—deep, powerful, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat against the wind. Not harsh. Not loud. But steady. Free.

  Whsssh. Whsssh.

  And slowly—he nodded.

  “Then go ahead…”

  The voice whispered now, like breath scattered by the sky.

  “Fly…”

  “…Hope.”

  Whsssh.

  The wings flapped once more, echoing in the vast quiet, then faded into the clouds.

  And the world—shifted.

  The cliffs vanished.

  The forests dissolved.

  The pain returned.

  The fire in his nerves reignited.

  The green afar became the scorched desert below.

  And the shimmering lake turned into the image of a girl.

  A girl with her eyes wide open… as she looked—up.

  And then Hope felt it all.

  He looked down.

  He was flying.