Damned Lands

After the dust settled,

What greeted them was not silence.

It was laughter—loud, unhinged, echoing across the metallic square like a broken record.

From the far end of the yard strode a man clad in a dark grey military uniform, pressed to perfection. His chest bore the symbol:

⌘

With a cross embeded inside.

Jet black—outlined in deep, arterial red.

Luke froze the moment he saw it.

 That's not Blackwing.

Not Sigma-Black either.

Field officers don't even carry symbols… and there's no way this guy is the Sovereign Seat known as 'The Harrower.' Too unhinged... too joyful. No—he must be…

An OBSIDIAN Command.

Luke's thoughts raced as the man stopped before the crowd, arms spread wide like an entertainer on a stage.

This guy... was the voice during the Thinning. The one who laughed while sending thousands to die.

Then, with an exaggerated bow, the man announced:

"HAHAHA! WOW! SO MANY OF YOU SURVIVED!"

"LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF—"

"I AM BUT A CRAZED WHELP LIKE ALL OF YOU!"

"I AM ARET DWAYNE. AN OBSIDIAN COMMAND, IN CHARGE OF THIS BARRACK FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE!"

His smile was too wide.

His voice too bright.

His eyes? Too empty.

"MANY OF YOU MIGHT REMEMBER ME FROM THE OPENING OF THE THINNING—"

"BUT LET THE PAST BE THE PAST! FROM NOW ON, YOU SHALL REMEMBER ME AS…"

"YOUR! COMMANDER! HAHAHAHAHAH!"

Aret's laughter rang louder than the sirens.

It wasn't even 6:01 a.m. and he sounded like he'd swallowed a lightning bolt and washed it down with madness.

Luke squinted, unmoving, tension lining every muscle. His mechanical hand clenched without him realizing—claws slightly slipping out, then retracting again.

 Why is someone like him in charge? Why not someone like Julian or no...I shouldn't consider Murrel.... Why him… now?

 This can't be random. These survivors were gathered here on purpose. The most stable? The most useful? Or maybe... the most broken?

Aret continued to laugh, arms still raised.

The symbol on his chest gleamed briefly as light hit it—a crimson cross embedded within the ⌘, crowned in black

Luke swallowed.

That symbol... it's not just for show. That's authority. High clearance.

And if he's OBSIDIAN… he can do anything he wants to us. No questions. No limits.

Then, Aret stopped laughing. Abrupt. Too fast.

He stared directly at Luke.

Eyes sharp now. Cold. Clinical.

As if all that joy had never existed.

And then he smiled again.

"OPENER.

WE HAVE PLANS FOR YOU TOO. HAHAHAH."

Luke blinked, heart skipping a beat.

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

Because suddenly… Aret wasn't laughing anymore.

Then murmurs could be heard

 "So he's the Opener."

"The Opener… It's him?"

"I thought he'd be taller."

"Didn't they say he made the Maw bleed?"

Whispers swelled like a tide—shock, awe… and fear.

Luke lowered his head slightly, expression unreadable.

Way to blow my cover.

I was just another survivor a moment ago.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.

"We will now begin the tests, please fall in line and listen to commands , otherwise your trip to the experimentation area will only hasten."

Aret said in a serious tone. This shocked all of them because they didn't expect the man who couldn't stop laughing suddenly change in an instant. 

With a hiss of doors and the hum of pressure-sealed locks, dozens of Field Officers stepped into the yard.

Some wore sleek silver armor, adorned with cables, ports, and spines of tech along their backs like armored insects.

Others donned stark white lab coats, boots echoing against the steel floor. Data slates in hand. Cold eyes behind surgical lenses.

The survivors stiffened.

Even Caelan's back straightened.

He whispered to Luke without turning his head:

 "That many officers this early… They're either scared of us. Or planning something worse."

Luke didn't reply.

He didn't need to.

From atop the platform, Aret Dwayne raised one gloved hand—and when he spoke this time, his voice was razor-sharp.

"WE WILL NOW BEGIN THE TESTS."

Gone was the laughter. Gone the madman grin.

His tone—controlled. Icy.

"FALL IN LINE."

"OBEY ALL COMMANDS."

"ANYONE WHO FAILS TO COOPERATE…"

"WILL HAVE THEIR TRIP TO THE EXPERIMENTATION AREA HASTENED."

Silence.

Not a word. Not a breath.

The survivors, rattled and uncertain, slowly moved into formation. The sound of boots scraping across steel replaced their earlier whispers.

Luke stepped forward, hands by his sides—his mechanical arm twitching faintly with restrained tension.

He glanced across the group.

So it begins again.

More tests. More blood. But at least now… I know what I'm walking into.

He caught sight of one of the younger boys nearly collapsing as he stepped forward—eyes unfocused, knees weak.

Without a word, Luke reached out, steadying him.

"Stand strong," he muttered under his breath. "We survive this too."

All around them, the officers began shouting:

"TEST ONE—PHYSICAL TESTING , 2 TRIALS."

"TEST TWO—PAIN TOLERANCE, 2 TRIALS"

"TEST THREE—SIN RESONANCE, 1 TRIAL"

"TEST FOUR—PSYCH EVAL, 2 TRIALS"

The survivors shifted, hesitant and confused.

Aret's voice boomed again:

"MOVE."

And like cattle before the slaughter, they moved.

They were all divided into lines.Line 1 was where Luke was assigned. 

Line One stands in tense formation. All boys. All survivors.

The room stinks of sweat and fear. Hundreds of eyes are locked on the first trial—their own futures being mirrored in real time.

Luke scans their faces. Most are younger 

than him—some barely out of childhood. A few, like Caelan, stand like hardened stone, masks worn so long they've forgotten their real faces.

Then the first trial begins.

A frail boy—barely fifteen—steps forward at the Field Officer's bark.

He flinches at the heavy clang as the gate behind him slams shut.

Aret Dwayne watches overhead, arms crossed now, no longer smiling.

"BEGIN."

The course explodes to life.

Flames shoot across the path. Panels tilt. 

Rubber pellets fly.

The boy runs.

He stumbles, recovers. Jumps. Crawls. Then—a hidden piston catches him in the ribs and launches him sideways.

Snap.

The sound is unmistakable. Bone.

He screams.

A moment later, a drone swoops in and plunges a needle into his neck.

He goes limp.

Gasps ripple across the rest of the line.

Another drone slides in, lifting him like a sack of meat. The boy's foot drags behind, twisted unnaturally.

"NEXT."

The second boy runs. He makes it to the final stretch before a net of barbed cable lashes him from above. His shirt and skin peel in one motion.

He screams until he can't.

"NEXT."

One by one, they go.

Some crawl out bleeding. Others don't make it out awake. A few are pulled straight to the side by lab-coated officials and not seen again.

---

Then the Officer shouts:

"LUKE. OPENER. YOU'RE UP."

Whispers surge. A mix of curiosity and dread.

Caelan throws him a glance—but doesn't speak. His trust, hard-earned, sits heavy on Luke's shoulders.

Luke steps forward.

He rolls his mechanical shoulder. The new arm whirs faintly. The needle-like claws glint beneath his skin.

The gates slam behind him.

No running. No turning back.

I have to show them.

Body...

Let us show them what years of gymnastics, parkour, and desperation do to a person.

Luke thought about his past once again but it was only for a moment, now he needs to step up once again.

Aret speaks from the intercom above, voice neutral:

"Let's see what the Opener can do."

"BEGIN."

The second Luke's boot hits the starting 

panel, the course adapts.

Flamethrowers hiss from hidden vents. Blades snap out of floor plates. An overhead arm slams down with bone-breaking speed.

Luke doesn't hesitate.

He dives under the first obstacle, rolling across steel mesh as fire licks his back. His new arm digs into the ground for traction, claws slicing sparks from metal.

They're watching. Every breath, every motion. I have to be more than them. Stronger. Faster. Alive.

A rotating wall slams forward—he leaps, 

vaulting sideways, narrowly missing a spinning blade that would've torn his side open.

He lands, crouched, panting.

Then—

Gas. Colorless. Silent.

 Psionic dampening?

Luke holds his breath and sprints forward. The last stretch is lined with sparking wires and what look like pressure pads.

He weaves between them.

A sharp bang behind—a panel collapses, nearly pinning his heel.

30 seconds.

He clears the final line. Slides to a stop, gasping for breath.

Silence.

Then—

"TIME: 0:30.16."

Aret Dwayne laughs above.

"HAHAHA! OUR LITTLE OPENER'S STILL ALIVE! GOOD!"

A door opens. Luke steps out, and immediately, med-techs swarm him.

They jab his arm with a thick blue syringe. His lungs seize for a moment. Blood 

rushes to his brain. Pain vanishes.

"Vital restoration. No time for recovery. You'll be needed again."

A lab coat mutters, already moving to the next.

---

Meanwhile—

Those who failed before Luke are now back in line. Their legs stitched. Arms bandaged. Ribs rebraced.

Some limp. Others twitch.

But none protest.

Because above them, the Field Officers 

stand still as statues—and they know what happens to the ones who resist.

"TRIAL TWO: COMBAT PAIRINGS."

Aret claps once, sharp.

"Every one of you will fight. Not to kill. But to break. If you can't fight, you're dead weight. If you hold back—expect an early trip to the experimentation wing."

The first pair is called.

Two bloodied boys, one still limping, are thrown into the ring.

Luke watches as they hesitate.

Then the wall hums—

A surge of voltage crackles through their collars. Both scream. One collapses in a seizure. The other immediately attacks.

No more hesitation.

---

 This isn't training. This is culling. This is what pride demands.

Luke tightens his fists.

He knows his turn will come again.

And he will not hold back.