He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. It felt like he was suffocating, his lungs tearing with each breath he took. Tiny particles slashed the inside of his chest with each inhale and exhale. It was agonizing. It was so painful he wished he was dead.


    But no. he couldn’t die, not yet, not before making him pay. Only then could he succumb to death.


    Weylin startled awake. He coughed and coughed, trying to expel the sand lodged in his throat. He got up on his knees, his fingers digging into the sandy surface of his exile. He shook his head, sand cascading down his face like an avalanche.


    Where was he? Wasn’t he back in his hometown?... or a cheap replica of his hometown.


    He blinked, watching his surroundings with squinted eyes. Sand was all he could see—sand and sand, all the eyes could see. Mountains of sand spread to the horizon.


    He sat there waiting for something to happen, anything, yet nothing did. Silence was his only companion. He leaned back, his eyes gazing at the reddish sky ahead. From the position of the sun, he could ascertain it was the middle of the day, though the reddish hue told him otherwise.


    “The heck is this?” he whispered despite knowing no one would hear him. But a second later, his thought proved to be wrong.


    The voice of the master of scales whispered in his ears,


    [This is the first trial.]


    The voice was devoid of emotions and monotone, unlike what he had come to know about the teal-haired deity. Still, it was a bit comforting to hear a familiar voice—and also vexing.


    “What am I doing here?”


    [Candidate has been chosen to pass the trials.]


    That, he already knew.


    “What is required of me to do?”


    [Candidate must pass the first trial.]


    Weylin frowned. Didn’t she already say that?


    “How do I pass the first trial?”


    [Candidate must figure this out for himself.]


    His frown deepened. So she wasn’t going to be helpful. Figures. When were deities ever helpful? They only took and took and took, never giving anything in return.


    He sighed and stood up. After a while of watching the never-ending expense of sand, he chose a random direction and started walking. Something told him he wouldn’t want to be caught in the open come night.


    After hours and hours of walking, thirst and hunger started eating away at his strength. The raging sun didn’t help matters either. He stopped, wiping the sweat that had collected on his forehead.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Why was he feeling hunger and thirst? Didn’t he abandon his mortal body back and his world and was merely a wandering soul? He sure didn’t require any sustenance back in the master of scales’ domain. He thought it was due to him being a soul. But with the gnawing hunger making itself known, he started doubting everything he came to know these past years.


    “You—” He paused. “What should I call you?”


    Despite the disembodied voice sharing the teal deity’s voice, he doubted it was he speaking to him.


    [I am a system designed purposefully for the trials.]


    That he already guessed. But before he could say anything, the monotone voice continued,


    [System is here to record your progress.]


    So, not here to guide him or lend a helping hand. Just to… record his progress.


    He scoffed. So far, all deities have proven to be the same cruel, heartless beings, looking down on them for worship and entertainment. Nothing more.


    Good. In fact, it was better this way. Like this, he knew how to act in his best interest.


    Still, there was no hurt in trying to get some answers from it.


    “Am I required to eat to survive in these trials?”


    The system took a while to answer. Certainly debating whether it would get any benefit from answering him. Would the deities prefer to have their candidate die before the first challenge of starvation?


    [Candidate must figure it out for himself.]


    He snorted. Of course. What else had he thought?


    He walked and walked, eyes roaming around the sand, searching for anything that would satiate his hunger. Nothing was in sight. Not even a sign of life emanated from his surroundings. No matter how much he stretched his senses to cover a larger field, the only answer he got was nothing. There was nothing alive except for him.


    What kind of trial was this? Were they getting some sense of glee watching a human starve to death? How was this any different from his world? People were dying by the masses each day, either torn apart by monsters or struck down by the deity’s wrath.


    Why create an illusive world when the real one would be more suited to their bloodthirsty tastes?


    As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, something strange happened. The night sky wasn’t its usual darker color; it was the deepest shade of red, as if something had bled all over the sky. There was also that suffocating feeling. As if the very air he was breathing was being sucked away by something. He took a deep breath, regretting his action instantly as the heavy air settled inside his chest. He coughed, giving a light tap to his aching lungs.


    What other things did the deities have in store for him?


    He didn’t have to wonder for long. Soon, clicking sounds resounded in the distance. Weylin watched with wary eyes as two silhouettes approached him. He cursed under his breath. He had nowhere to hide. There was nothing but a vast expanse of sand with no chance for shelter. He hoped that whatever was making its way toward him was friendly and not hostile.


    Who was he kidding? The deities wanted nothing but blood.


    He readied himself, cursing a thousand times for his lack of a weapon. The sword from the last illusion had disappeared along with everything else. And now here he was, in the open, with nothing to defend himself.


    Nothing but his powers, that was, which were plenty of protection on their own. But he had wanted to keep them as a last resort.


    Oh well, nothing in life, or death in his case, went according to plan.


    As the silhouettes neared him, he paused, his brows furrowing as he looked at their state. They looked human and on the verge of dying. They stopped when they saw him. Then they lunged toward him with jerky movements as if they weren’t in control of all their limbs.


    Weylin jumped back, evading the rusty blade clutched in the hand of one of his attackers. His eyes widened as he looked at them, really looked at them.


    Their skin was grey and withered. Their eyes sunken in their skulls, milky white and unseeing. But it wasn’t all. They had gaping wounds that had long stopped bleeding.


    They looked dead. No, they were dead. They were nothing but moving corpses.