The air in the great hall felt… wrong.

Rows upon rows of desks filled the space, each one occupied by someone who had survived the nightmare of the forest. There were hundreds — maybe even thousands — of them, their heads barely visible above the neat lines of identical wooden tables.The desks were spaced precisely one meter apart, not too close, not too far, just enough to make the proximity feel suffocating. Avin's eyes darted around, tracing the rhythm of the arrangement — too organized, too intentional.

"Why are the spaces so small?" he thought. "Surely they have a way of making them farther apart. There's no way this is by accident."

His gaze drifted upward to the high platform at the front of the hall. There, seated behind a long obsidian table, was the silhouette of the examiner — the figure whose presence filled the room like a second gravity. Avin couldn't make out his face, not yet; the man sat half-hidden behind the desk, his head lowered as if reading something unseen.

Then, as if sensing their collective anticipation, the figure stood.

He was tall — impossibly tall — dressed in an immaculate black suit that shimmered faintly in the cold light. His posture was straight, inhumanly rigid, and when he looked down, there was not a hint of warmth in his expression.

"Congratulations for making it this far," the man said.

He didn't raise his voice, yet it filled the entire hall, echoing as if the walls themselves carried his words. Every sound — the faint breathing, the creak of wood, even the heartbeat in Avin's ears — vanished. All that existed now was his voice.

"This," the figure continued, "is the Special Theoretical Exam — personalized for each of you. Please allow me to explain the rules that you are… obligated to follow."

He spoke politely — disturbingly politely — his tone smooth and composed, almost too much so. There was no malice in his voice, but there was also no humanity. Every syllable was measured, as if spoken by something that understood speech but not empathy.

Avin's stomach tightened. There was something off about him.Not the kind of off that came from arrogance or cruelty — something deeper. Like he wasn't entirely real.And maybe it was the poison, or maybe it was his blood betraying him once before, but Avin felt the familiar itch of distrust rise again.

The man's voice cut through his thoughts."For the rules," he said, "you must remain silent at all times.Avoid cheating in any form."

He paused.

"And cheating," he said, "can take many forms, such as—"

Someone coughed.

It was quiet — just a small, dry sound — but in the silence of that hall, it echoed like thunder. Every head turned, even if only slightly.The man on the platform froze.

Then, slowly, his neutral expression sank into something resembling sorrow — a sad, almost disappointed look that made the silence unbearable."The rules," he said quietly, "are absolute."

He lifted his hand.

Avin barely had time to process before a loud rustling came from behind him. He turned his head just enough to see — the man who had coughed was rising into the air, his body pulled upward by an invisible force. His arms flailed, legs kicking in panic, a choking sound bursting from his throat.

Avin's eyes widened. "Oh no…"

He had seen this kind of thing before — in the forest, in the challenge — people being removed before the game even began. He already knew what was about to happen.

The figure clenched his raised hand.

The man in the air gasped violently, his hands clawing at his own neck, trying to breathe. He struggled for several seconds before his movements slowed, his body going limp as his fingers loosened and dropped. The overseer gave a final squeeze — and then opened his palm.

The body turned to dust.

Tiny, glittering particles drifted to the floor where he had once stood, and then — nothing. The air itself swallowed the remnants.

"So as I was saying," the figure continued calmly, as though he had merely adjusted a chair. "You must not speak. You must not turn your head. Your eyes will remain on your paper once the test begins. To look elsewhere — even once — is disqualification."

He took a step forward. The air changed.

The entire hall grew heavy, thick with invisible weight. A wind seemed to blow from nowhere, sweeping through the room despite the closed walls. The man's hair lifted gently, exposing the faint glow beneath his fringe — an intricate symbol carved into the skin of his forehead.

An eye.

Not a real one, not exactly — it was flat, carved like an ancient mark, but it pulsed with eerie blue light, alive and watching.

"I am always watching," he said.

The air shivered.Avin swallowed hard. He could feel the gaze, even from across the hall — like a thousand invisible threads of energy weaving through the air, connecting the examiner's eye to every soul present.

And then, the man smiled.

It was the first expression he had shown since entering the room — and it was aimed somewhere behind Avin.

The smile wasn't kind. It was small, sharp, knowing.

Avin's instincts screamed at him to turn — to look behind him and see who had caught that smile. But something deep inside, something that had kept him alive this long, told him not to.His conscience whispered: Don't move.

Even if the test hadn't begun, even if it was harmless curiosity — he couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk anything.He wasn't sure what his family would do if he failed this — or if failure even meant leaving alive.

A scraping sound cut through the tension.

Desks — the sound of wood grinding on stone.Behind Avin, three people were being pulled toward the front by some unseen force, their feet dragging helplessly across the floor. They were lifted, then dropped to their knees before the platform, their heads bowed as if pressed down by an invisible hand.

"Spirits," the examiner said. "And telepathy."

The three looked at each other in confusion, mouths opening in protest — but before a single sound escaped, the person on the far left began to convulse violently. Their body shook unnaturally, limbs twisting, until they collapsed to the ground.Then, just like the man before, they turned to dust.

Avin's pulse quickened. He didn't understand what he was seeing — what was this? Some sort of curse? Punishment? A lesson?

"These two," the examiner continued, looking at the remaining boy and girl, "were using telepathy."

His tone was casual, almost academic. He raised one finger and touched the boy's forehead.

A soft popping sound echoed through the hall. Then the boy began to expand. His body ballooned grotesquely, skin stretching, eyes bulging.And then — pop.

He exploded.

Blood splattered across the desk beside Avin. He flinched violently, his breath catching in his throat. The room stank of iron. Someone screamed — a small, stifled sound — and immediately, that person disappeared into dust.

Avin's heart pounded in his ears. "What the fuck is wrong with this place…?" he thought. "Every teacher here is insane."

"Luckily," the overseer said calmly, brushing his suit sleeve as though dusting off dirt, "I am merciful."

He turned his head toward the last remaining student — the girl. She trembled, staring up at him with wide, wet eyes.

"This is your last warning."

He waved his hand lazily.The girl's body lifted and flew across the room like a rag doll, slamming into her seat so hard the desk cracked. She gasped for air, trembling, but alive.

The overseer smiled faintly and looked out over the room once more.Avin, meanwhile, could barely keep his composure. His mind was racing — trying to understand what kind of power this was, how he was doing it, how far his control reached.

"I just wish I could see…" he muttered under his breath.

And then it hit him.

See.

He could see.

"Maybe…" he whispered, focusing what little energy he had left into his eyes. His vision shimmered — a dull vibration echoing in his head — and then suddenly, he saw it.

He wished he hadn't.

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