THE ECHO OF A SCAR

The scream died in Asimil's throat before it could be born. He awoke with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs, drenched in a cold sweat that chilled his virtual skin. The soft light from the windows of his room in Clan Harmonia brought him back to reality, but the horror of the dream still clung to him like a second skin.

It had been so real. The alley. The cruel laughter of a thug. The sharp pain of a punch to the stomach, followed by the humiliation of kicks to the ground. And then, even worse, the hardened face of a phantom father, his voice ringing with soul-splitting contempt: "Besides being weak... Are you an idiot? How pathetic."

He put a hand to his cheek, expecting to feel the sting of a bruise, but his skin was intact. Yet the phantom pain was still there. An invisible scar on his psyche, the shame of a failure that felt as much his as if he had lived through it yesterday. "If you lose, you lose double," he found himself thinking, a phrase he didn't know where it came from, but one that resonated with a terrible truth.

He needed air. He dressed and left his room, seeking the bustle of the great hall to drown out the echoes of the nightmare. But in his vulnerable state, the noise and people only magnified his sense of isolation. He felt fragile, exposed.

That's when he saw her. Noelia.

She wasn't watching the hustle and bustle. She was watching him. Her gaze was intense, devoid of emotion, like a predator studying a prey to find its weaknesses. Under that gaze, Asimil felt naked, as if she could see directly into his mind and behold the remnants of his nightmare.

He swallowed saliva and moved closer, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to run and hide. — W-what do you want...? — he asked, his voice sounding weaker than he intended.

Her emerald eyes did not leave his.

— You look terrible — she stated, not as a question, but as a fact. Her voice was dry and cutting. — You look like a frightened little animal that has just escaped from a trap. —

Every word was a nail. He felt the blood rush to his face. — It's not something you need to worry about... —

— No, it's not — she interrupted him, taking a step that instinctively drew him back. — But it confirms what I've been hearing about you. That you hide. That you run away. That you stand still and let the world walk all over you. Am I wrong? —

He was silent, unable to deny the truth in her cruel assessment. She smiled, but there was no warmth in the gesture. — You remind me of my brother — she blurted out suddenly, and the word "brother" sounded like an insult. — Full of excuses. Always waiting for someone else to solve his problems. Always convinced that his "potential" was enough. —

The comparison, so personal and derogatory, left him breathless. He felt exposed, dissected. — You... don't know anything about me — he managed to stammer, but his voice lacked any conviction.

— I know what I see — she replied, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. — And what I see is a guy who gives up before he even starts fighting. A ghost who doesn't even try to be real. —

Before he could process it, she grabbed him by the wrist. Her strength was astonishing. She effortlessly dragged him toward a poster advertising a new event.

— People like you, Asimil, don't understand kind words and gentle nudges. — she said, her face close to his, her green eyes burning with a cold intensity. — They only understand one language: the language of pain and survival. —

She pointed to the sign: Survival Pit.

— There's nowhere to hide in there. There are no excuses. Either you prove you are more than a frightened ghost, or you disintegrate and disappear forever. — She paused, her smile turning into a razor's edge. — Frankly, either option sounds good to me. —

She let go. He stumbled backward, his mind a whirlwind of humiliation and panic. She had cornered him. She had dismantled his psyche piece by piece and left him with an impossible ultimatum. It was not an invitation. It was a sentence.

He looked into her eyes, expecting to see something, anything. But there was only cold defiance. And in the depths of his despair, a small, pathetic spark of pride, fueled by the pain of his nightmare, refused to be extinguished. If he was going to be erased, it would not be by her words. It would be in that arena.

He looked down at the invitation that appeared in front of him, his breathing shaky. — I accept. — he whispered, the word sounding like a surrender.

She nodded, satisfied, like a scientist who has confirmed her hypothesis. — Good. Try not to die in the first five minutes. It would be terribly boring. —

She turned and walked away, leaving him alone with the weight of a decision he didn't feel he had made. He had not defied her. She had simply pushed him into the abyss, and he, in his weakness, had done nothing but fall.

Noelia's words echoed in his head, a mixture of venom and a strange challenge. He needed to talk to someone. He needed an anchor. He went to find Sacres.

He found him in his usual shelter near the silver waterfalls, carving runes on a sword of light. — Your aura beats like a bruised heart — he murmured without looking at Asimil.

Asimil told him everything. The nightmare, the confrontation, Noelia's ultimatum and the invitation to the Pit. — I don't understand — he said, — Why this sudden interest? How does she even know my name? —

Sacres left the sword floating in the air and turned away. — It was she who came looking for you, Asimil — he admitted. — Three nights ago, after the day in the forest. She's been asking about you. She said she saw something... familiar in your eyes. —

The revelation hit him. She had been investigating him. — I'm going to enter the event, Sacres. —

His hands, glowing with healing runes, stopped. — Are you insane? You're C-4 class! The Pit is crawling with elite assassins! It's suicide! — 

— I don't care — he replied, clenching his fists. — I'm going in. —

— That girl is playing something you don't understand, Asimil. She's using you. The Pit... those who survive change, or break. —

— She has issued me a challenge, Sacres— he cut in, his voice firm for the first time. — To run away would be to prove her right. It would prove me the ghost she thinks I am. —

Sacres held his gaze, and he saw in his eyes not only concern, but genuine fear. He understood that Asimil's mind was made up. Finally, he grunted and rested his hands on Asimil's shoulders, a comforting warmth flowing through him. — Very good — he spat, his tone a mixture of anger and resignation. — If you're so eager to turn to dust, go for it. But don't expect me to pick up your fragments. —

Asimil had his doubts. Why did he go for it? He wasn't the guy to step out of his comfort zone. But stronger than doubt was an icy terror of standing still again. A phantom memory of a pivotal moment, of a friend in danger and his feet nailed to the ground.

Not again, he thought, as the invitation to the Pit was confirmed in front of him. Even if I turn to data dust, this time... I will move.