The wheel begins to slow again... and stops at the next symbol: Apollo.
"Damn it..." he muttered to himself. "Does that neutral option even exist? Or are the tasks just cycling through?" Tazold asked in a frustrated voice.
"Do you question the authenticity of the trial?" the shepherd replied. "There was the same chance for this as for any other task."
"No... But there's always been a different task each time... Could it be that this time too…"
The shepherd averted his gaze from him and turned toward the abyss.
"A woman who slaps to ease a betrayed heart still loves more than the one who walks away silently... Anger doesn't always result in harm… And harm doesn't always stem from anger... Sometimes it's just the heart screaming because it has no other way to speak. There are a thousand shades to our intentions... That's why... here, the essence of the evil in your intent will make it harder to pull back the string of the crossbow," the shepherd concluded.
"And now, let the measurement of pulling force begin!"
The giant scale emerges once more, and from the sky, weights begin to fall:
20, 30, 45, 65… 75…
"90 kilograms! That means you'll need 900 newtons of pulling force to fire it," the shepherd declared.
Then the wheel disappears again into the depths, and in its place, a massive crossbow rises—crafted not by human hands, but by the Nephilim who lived before us. In its dark, gleaming material, the spirits of tens of thousands of years of history and mysticism reside. It stands stretched between two columns, solid, immovable, waiting for the task, ready to be used again.
"I... I don't quite understand..." James whispered.
"When we cause pain to others, it can come from anger, ignorance, cowardice, selfishness, defense... or even from distorted forms of love," Louis answered. "So after causing pain, it's the motivation that makes it harder here..."
"So it isn't the same as hurting others? That can't be right... How could I hurt you by accident?... I just don't get it... It's not the outcome in question here, but the moment or feeling when something irreversible begins? But thoughts aren't sins..."
"But a thought that leads to sin... becomes sin itself..."
"If I win this game…" Tazold thought, excitement trembling in the air around him, "then your points are finished."
He walked to the center of the arena and reached for the arrow beside him. It was so heavy that he needed both hands to hold it until it was loaded into the crossbow.
"You have three attempts in total. Let the game begin!"
The warriors watch the arena tensely—some squinting, others shifting restlessly, unable to sit still. Tension crackles in the air.
"A lot depends on this moment for us..." Dimeny whispered.
Tazold cannot miss. This is not just a game. This trial could cost us our souls…
"Just one shot..." Tazold muttered under his breath, clenching his fist.
He took a deep breath, gripped the crossbow's string with his fingers, and moved his upper body backward. Pressing his heels into the ground, he tried to step back with the string in hand. But his steps faltered… the string almost pulled his entire body back…
Fuck... I won't let these bastards win...
Step one… step two… each foot dragging after the other, slowly but surely… As his life hung in the balance, fear began to dredge up long-buried memories into his mind, like the pulsing vein on his forehead sending blood into his muscles.
The string suddenly slips from his hand, making such a snapping sound that the players startle, shaken.
He reaches for his ear and looks at his hand, on which bright red blood is dripping between his fingers. Holding his shoulder in pain, he falters and staggers while the ringing in his ear drowns out everything around him…
The spirits of the arena attack his memories again, which flash before his eyes once more...Even stronger.. As if his life was already flashing before his eyes.
The residents of the housing estate
thugs and petty dealers. Alongside impoverished elderly folks and single mothers, souls weighed down by life.
A young boy walks home on a cracked sidewalk, torn backpack on his shoulder, dark shadows under his eyes—just like the shadowy entranceway from which three boys spring—thin, but fast and strong. They're foreign looking and barely speak the language. One holds a stick, another's already reaching for his bag and his pockets.
"Hey! Get the hell outta here!"
In the cramped, suffocating air, a punch flies just like the insults when the boy swings his hand.
"You piece of shit..."
And moments later, the world tilts sideways for the boy as the others strike back...
Thud. Thud.
Blood runs down his chin, his nose broken… But he gets up… As mocking laughter echoes in his ears, he stumbles and watches them run off with his stuff.
Fuck... What's Dad gonna say when he finds out...?
On the living room floor, a man lies still, a needle beside his arm, an expression of stony emptiness on his face.
Dad…
At School
School grows more chaotic. Every corner holds a shadow, every glance a threat.
Ring-ring...
Finally time to go home... Maybe this time I'll be able to talk to Dad... he thought to himself.
On the way home, three older boys step onto the sidewalk beside him. At first, he's scared.
Then one of them extends a hand.
He was white, black jacket, short-cropped blond hair.
"They won't hurt you if you're with us," he said calmly.
---
At night, in front of a bar:
Music blared from inside, mixing with the shouts of drunk people.
They waited outside the gate for the others.
"Heyyy, we're here! Let's go!"
Entering through the door, a rundown bar opens before them. In the crowd, a group of dark-skinned boys sits in the corner...
"Hey… Look at that… Those filthy faces think this is their place..."
The young men shoot threatening glances back, but stay silent.
Then one of the boys walks up to them…
"Hey… What the fuck do you want?"
"We just wanna drink like anyone else. Chill out..." one of them says. "But if you don't back off and leave us alone, we can't promise there won't be trouble..
"Please... Don't judge by skin color... People of all kinds can have a dark side, right? So what you guys represent makes no sense.. Bye..."
"Tazold? You hear how this piece of shit talks? My wife ran off with a dark-skinned bastard just like this one... I won't let them get away with it again..."
His hand reached for a bottle...
Voices rose, along with fists ready to strike… Screaming turned to chaos, pain, and violence... Blood splattered the floor among fallen bodies...
The sirens arrived. Faces covered in dust, sweat, and blood... But their shame ran far deeper than their wounds—shame that couldn't be washed away.
The cuffs clicked shut.
Tazold looked back one last time at the man lying on the floor.
Most of them had been his own kind...
---
The prison walls do not teach. They harden.
The days are long and agonizing...
But I'll get out of here... I will!
Tazold pulled out a white plastic bag hidden between law books and novels—inside were the writings: rituals, invocations, black magic.
Finally... I got it... I hope they were telling the truth in here...
The most powerful people in the world got their strength and the untouchability from these...
Sitting on a worn metal bed in his cell..whispering into the dead of night:
"Take my soul, just get me out of here! Spare me from this suffering, and in return, I go to war against all that is sacred… I beg you, I beg you!"
"Ayza ihn Lehiot Zahier, Dar ihn varachael..."
Quoting ancient incantations once sealed in his own blood with his right hand, he falls into a trance—
Only the moonlight bears witness.