Chapter 17. The Choice

The echo of the man's voice had barely faded when the platform split open beneath their feet, plunging the subjects into the reservoir with cursed water. The cold struck like a hammer, but that was just the beginning—pressure intensified, as if invisible vices were crushing their ribcages. The water here served merely as a conduit for something far worse—an energy that hungered to breach the body's natural barriers.

"Open your eyes!" the command thundered through the water, magically amplified so the words slammed directly into consciousness.

Sumarel tried to resist, but her eyelids jerked open on their own. Agony pierced her eye sockets like burning awls, as a measured pounding took hold in her skull—deliberate, stroke by stroke. Self-preservation instincts made her eyes squeeze shut again and again. Suddenly, an invisible force clamped around her head, forcing her eyelids wide open.

"So mages can do this too," the thought flickered through her mind. "Control others like marionettes from afar, regardless of any barriers."

Through the murky water, she could make out the silhouettes of other subjects. Some faces remained impassive masks, but minute muscle spasms and barely perceptible tremors betrayed their true state. One of the guys was clearly at his limit—his fists pounded frantically against the reservoir walls in a panic attack.

"Didn't manage to grab a breath before the fall," Sumarel assessed instantly.

But no one else showed any intention of giving up. The other subjects were surely watching their comrade's agony with cold satisfaction—one competitor already out of the game. Sumarel harbored no illusions about human nature under such conditions. Altruism and mutual aid only worked in long-term relationships built on reputation and public opinion. Here, in isolation and brutal competition, only the predator's strategy proved effective. These young people might not consciously realize it, but on a basic, instinctive level, everyone followed the most efficient approach.

"Well done! Thirty seconds have passed," the curator's voice oozed satisfaction.

Sumarel knew her limit—ninety seconds max before critical oxygen deprivation. From the start, she'd followed the only viable tactic: complete muscle relaxation. In situations like this, every second counted, and any unnecessary tension shortened precious time. Ignoring the waves of pain, she observed the others while methodically relaxing one muscle group after another.

The second guy began showing signs of oxygen starvation—his movements turned chaotic, eyes rolling back. And again—no one reached for the reservoir walls.

"Pity," a cold thought skimmed across the surface of her consciousness.

She faced a choice: try to save them, making the first move toward capitulation and possibly earning allies. Or... let them all die. Watching their behavior, she rejected the rescue option. They weren't ally material—too weak, too selfish. Besides, the safe middle ground with three survivors was the worst possible outcome—it offered no advantages. The man in the white blindfold hadn't orchestrated this spectacle for nothing. He was looking for someone special.

"Sixty seconds down! Remember how terrified you all were? My, what progress you've made!" The curator's voice rang with undisguised satisfaction.

"One's dead," Sumarel noted dispassionately. "Two others—almost."

At that moment, the guy who'd had the misfortune of catching the curator's attention at the beginning hammered against the glass reservoir—the signal of surrender. Only she and one other subject remained.

"The die is cast," the decision came instantly.

She turned inward, continuing to relax her body. From the corner of her eye, she caught the last survivor stretching his hands toward the glass in a desperate gesture.

"Amazing!" The man's voice practically radiated joy.

Sixty-one... seventy-six... eighty-five... ninety-four...

She continued counting seconds, watching as the bodies of the recently living swayed lifelessly in the water. Those still clinging to consciousness pounded desperately on the glass, as if trying to reach her in their final throes—useless efforts that only hastened their demise. But Sumarel remained motionless, continuing to count seconds until oxygen began running out. Her diaphragm jerked in spasms—harbinger of the moment when the body would instinctively try to exhale carbon dioxide and inhale anything in return.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Lost within herself, she seemed detached from everything happening. Only her body existed, nerve impulses, electrical signals racing through neural networks. The others had already lost consciousness, but that didn't matter—clinical death hadn't arrived yet. Since she'd chosen this path, she had to see it through to the end.

The count continued until her mouth opened on its own in a reflexive motion. Cursed water flooded in. Laryngeal spasm, throat burning like acid, sharp pain piercing her lungs. Her body lunged toward the glass in panic, but she seized control, pulling her hand back. She had to go all the way—to unconsciousness.

The hall plunged into silence. Even the curator had ceased his commentary. But Sumarel didn't care—she was focused solely on achieving her goal, staking her life on it. It wasn't enough to simply give up now. She had to lose consciousness—only that would make the right impression.

The spasms intensified, her mouth opening again and again, letting in more water. The liquid invaded her body, and every cell seemed to ignite with pain. In delirium, her consciousness seemed to split.

"Think you're strong?" the voice in her head sounded mocking, almost cheerful.

Water burned her throat, lungs compressed in agony.

"I shouldn't have to sacrifice others to achieve this. Hasn't the same been done to me?" part of her consciousness answered, resisting.

Her body jerked convulsively. The cursed water penetrated deeper, corroding from within.

"To kill—that's the law of survival. All are equal, we're merely drops of God's will. No one's better—all are equal," the mocking voice grew clearer against the fading consciousness.

Her heart skipped a beat. Or two. Time stretched and compressed simultaneously.

"I should save them. Not for them—for myself. Otherwise I'll die with them."

Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. The bodies in neighboring reservoirs no longer moved.

"Killing is survival's only law. We're all the same—just droplets in God's ocean. No one's special—everyone's equal," the mocking voice sharpened as consciousness dimmed.

"I don't agree!" a final surge of reason.

But it was too late. Her gaze slid over the bodies floating silently in the neighboring reservoirs. She closed her eyes, not even noticing that the magical compulsion no longer worked.

On the edge between life and death, as consciousness fragmented into pieces, strange symbols blazed before her inner eye:

[Category: Multiplicity]

[Specialization: ? — understanding expanded]

[Available weaving fragments:]

[1. Limit (Class — Transcendent)]

[To acquire first-tier ability requires: ???]

[2. Breakthrough (Class — Transcendent)]

[To acquire first-tier ability requires: ???????]

The symbols pulsed, as if trying to imprint themselves on the dying mind. But Sumarel, lost in her death throes, no longer perceived these records. Darkness rolled in waves until consciousness finally extinguished.

image [https://i.imgur.com/AG7YgXT.png]

A sharp inhale tore through the darkness. Eyes snapped open, body instantly tensing, ready to counter any threat. But there was only an empty room, dimly lit by a narrow strip of light from a small barred window. A simple bed, a black wardrobe melting into the shadows in the corner. On a chair—a neatly folded uniform. The air carried the stale smell of cigarette smoke.

Quick check: clothes in place, no damage or signs of interference. Her body and insides ached.

Fragments of a dream still clung to the edges of consciousness—some inscriptions, numbers, symbols. Details slipped away, but a strange feeling remained... satisfaction? Achievement?

Since her rebirth, dreams had become frequent visitors—always connected to symbols, as if someone was writing about her for her in a language she couldn't decipher.

"Need to find a way to increase dream awareness," Sumarel frowned. "This is definitely connected. The dream repeats, but each time it slips away, as if someone erases it and rewrites it anew."

Setting aside thoughts of dreams, she focused on recent events. The reservoir of cursed water, losing consciousness from hypoxia. Her throat still burned with unpleasant fire, her chest ached with every breath.

"Maybe I should have saved them?" the treacherous thought slipped through her consciousness.

"I'm going insane," sobriety followed immediately. "It was the right decision."

But doubt wouldn't retreat, returning again and again with nagging persistence.

"They would have died anyway—they were too weak," she closed her eyes, summoning their faces to memory, the smallest details of their expressions in those final moments. "No, that's self-deception. No one deserves death."

Memory suddenly conjured Benjamin's image—that amusing optimist she'd spent so much time with in her past life. Their petty adventures, food thefts, attempts to survive in the cruel world of the Lower City. Their schemes were a coin toss—miraculous wins followed by catastrophic setbacks.

"He wouldn't have done this," Sumarel covered her face with her hands, pressing her palms into her eye sockets.

A flash of memory—her own reflection with iridescent eyes, gone before her mind could grasp it.

"It doesn't matter," she gathered her will into a fist, raising her gaze. "I'm getting distracted."

Displeasure with herself showed on her face.

"Emotions drag you into the Abyss."

The door burst open, flooding the room with bright light from the corridor. In the doorway stood a familiar silhouette—the man in the white blindfold, the trial curator.