Within the vast Empire known as the Aurelian Imperium, there exist two primary groups of people: Chosens and non-Chosens.

  Those who the Goddess blessed with a magical Core, and those who were not.

  A demeaning discrimination, perhaps. One might argue that every life held individual merit, and that people, in all their uniqueness, could not be so broadly categorised into two insultingly arbitrary groups.

  But let’s just ignore all that for now. Equality holds little place in a world at war, anyway.

  A non-Chosen would refer to the common folk. Some were rich, some were poor. Some were smart, some less so. But the common thing about common folk is that, well, they were common — normal people ruled by common sense.

  They did not use magic, they did not break the laws of physics on a whim, and they did not go out of their way to fight demonic hellspawns born from the depths of another dimension.

  That was the Chosen’s job. Chosens could use magic.

  And magic was, in all senses of the word, complete bullshit.

  Most Chosen could laugh in the face of physics the moment they finished their Goddess Trial and received their first Copper Core. The average Hero would have the poor law of energy conservation begging for mercy by the time they reached the Jewelled Ranks.

  At the truly absurd extremes of Chosen reality-bending power, even Death itself gets degraded from an existential threat to more of an inconvenience, albeit a very expensive one that required bribing the Goddess to reverse the fundamental rules of the universe.

  Indeed, unlike the common folk, common sense did not apply to Chosens. Being a Chosen meant one could tell common sense to jump off a cliff, and common sense would be forced to obey.

  What’s even better is that anyone could become a Chosen, no matter how young, old, weak, or incompetent they were. So long as one passed the Goddess Trial and received their magical Core, they would be elevated to the same pedestal as those shiny Heroes.

  There was, however, just a minuscule little clause — a tinsy-tiny catch that came with the Goddess-infused blessing of phenomenal physics-defying power.

  Chosens had to go out into the world and fight the horde of demonic hellspawns flooding into reality. If they did not do that, they would die.

  This was not an exaggeration; a Chosen would literally just die if they did not hit their quota of demon killing each year.

  It was like taxes, but instead of paying a heavy fine for missing their annual due-by date, the Goddess would smite her Chosens down with Divine lightning for not coughing up their murder tithe.

  The worst part? The worst part was that every advancement of the Chosen’s magical core — from the basic Metal Cores like Copper or Iron, all the way up to Jewelled Cores like Ruby or Emerald — levied an increasingly heavy tax on the Chosen's demon-murdering duties.

  In other words, the stronger the Chosen were, the more the Goddess expected them to kill.

  And it was not like they could stop growing stronger, either. The more demons they kill, the stronger their magical core becomes. And since they couldn’t stop killing without getting smited by heavenly punishment at the end of the year, they couldn’t stop becoming stronger either.

  And so they, the Chosen, become stuck in an endless loop, with their Divine-mandated murder quotas ever-increasing each time one advances in magical rank.

  Remember that unfortunate point about the proportional relationship between a Hero's strength and their level of general batshit craziness? This is that, but multiplied tenfold.

  So it was that the Aurelian Empire suffered from an overpopulation of insane, overpowered, and depressed Chosens — all who were just barely kept in check with state-sanctioned religious dogma and a staggering amount of monthly therapy sessions disguised as confessionals in Churches.

  A good thing our protagonist did not believe in therapy, then. His confessions would have only driven the priests mad before they exorcised him.

  Or tried to, anyway.

  ~~~~~~

  3 years after the orphanage…

  “He’s nine.”

  “I can count, Hardin. I raised him myself.”

  “He’s a kid, Elen. He shouldn’t be here.”

  “He’s mingling quite well with the other aspirants, don’t you think?”

  Trial Overseer Hardin would strongly disagree, given how the pale-haired mutant child was currently being glared at by the twenty or so other Chosen Aspirants who had gathered by the testing ground entrance.

  All of them were practically twice the child’s age and height, and packing far more weight and muscles than the scrawny mutant’s fifty or so pounds.

  “I can’t allow a kid to go into the Trial, Elen,” the Overseer protested. “Much less an underweight midget like him. He’s going to die in there.”

  The woman simply shrugged. Gone was the motherly persona the matron once wore, who had dressed herself in tender smiles and broad aprons while she was at Footfall’s orphanage. Now she wore armour and travel apparel, the exposed skin of her neck and arms showing deep scars and iron-hard muscles.

  “You know I won’t bring an ordinary kid all the way here from Footfall just for fun, Hardin,” Elen said. “I had him in the orphanage for three years. I trained him under my watch. He’s more than ready. If not for the Trial’s age restriction, I would have brought him here years ago.”

  Nine years old was the bare minimum a person needed to be for a magical Core to be granted through the Goddess’s Trial. Hardin didn’t understand why the Goddess would be cruel enough to allow such youths to fight demons, but such matters were beyond his station.

  He merely oversaw the Goddess’s Trial within her training grounds — one of several hundreds scattered across the Aurelian Empire, turning mundane folks into magic-wielding Chosens.

  Assuming, of course, they passed the Trial.

  “You realise most people don’t even take the Trial until they’re eighteen, right? You could at least wait until he’s fourteen. Let him grow a little while giving him time to enjoy his childhood,” Hardin argued. “Having to curse him with this burden so early in his life… It’s inhumane.”

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  Elen was quiet. She watched the white-haired boy below from her balcony, positioned to overlook the training grounds. The Matron observed the nine-year-old inspecting his weapons and armour with a professional ease seen more in Chosen veterans, unlike the other aspirants who could barely hide their nervousness beyond boisterous laughter or arrogance.

  “He’s ready,” Elen repeated quietly. “More importantly, he needs this.”

  She remembered his words, soft-spoken yet earnest.

  “Do you think even a monster can be a hero?”

  To hold him back any longer would be a mistake.

  Hardin sighed. “Dammnit. Fine. It’s outside my decision anyway, since you are the one who sponsored him. But I hope your conscience can take it if he dies in the arena, Elen.”

  ~~~

  Nine-year-old Eri White — a surname given by the orphanage he stayed in for three years, on account of his northern origins — listened attentively as Overseer Hardin read out the rules of the Trial.

  “It’s simple: we will release a few weakened Copper-ranked Demons into the grounds, and all any of you have to do is kill one of them to receive your first magical Core and become a Chosen,” the man instructed the group. “Once you are done, head to the centre of the grounds. A portal will take you out of the zone.”

  Kill a demon, earn the Goddess’s Blessing, and gain a Core to become a Chosen. Simple enough.

  The rest of the Aspirants seemed to think along those lines, given how they were beginning to relax.

  “Make no mistake, although the trial is simple, it is not safe,” the man continued, making sure his tone was severe enough to convey the threat. “Even a weakened Copper-ranked monster can kill you in an eyeblink if you let your guard down. There is no one to save you either; once the Trial starts, the Goddess enacts a barrier, and no one else is allowed to enter the training ground.”

  “If you are wounded, do your best to attend to the injury and keep moving. Once the trial is finished, we have priests and medics on standby to heal you. But remember, we can’t bring back the dead, so it’s essential that you stay alive and get out fast, even if you’re in really bad shape,” Hardin grimly stressed, ignoring the paling faces of the aspirants. “Another thing is that everyone only gets one chance at this. You can’t retake a Trial if you fail, even if you go to another training ground or kill a Demon outside. So if you leave the grounds without killing a single Demon, you will never again have the chance to receive a magical Core from the Goddess for the rest of your life. Ever.”

  “We have some basic First-Aid supplies put aside.” The man pointed to a table in a corner, laden with bandages and trauma kits. “No healing potions, unfortunately — the war has not been kind to Church supplies — but feel free to take anything you need if you don’t already… have…”

  Hardin trailed off when the white-haired mutant child suddenly walked over to the supply table and examined the contents.

  Without a word, he took out a pouch and started brazenly stuffing everything inside.

  [Basic Medical Supplies x5 Added!]

  Once he was done, the boy returned to his place among the baffled aspirants, as if nothing had happened. When the boy noticed Hardin staring at him, the child simply said, “Free loot.”

  Hardin waited for an elaboration, but none came. The man sighed.

  “There are more medical supplies if anyone needs them,” Hardin pressed on, before frowning when he saw the mutant coming forward again. “Anyone except the boy. My staff will give them to you later, before we commence the trial. Now, if I might continue my explanation…”

  Hardin then went on to explain the basic rules: no killing each other, avoid lingering once they receive the Blessing, and in general, try to be a decent human being and help each other if things get too heated in there.

  The twenty or so aspirants were a mixed bag, as the groups always tend to be. Arrogant second sons of nobility from the Great Houses, disillusioned village peasants, or downtrodden townfolk in desperate need of gold.

  Everyone had different reasons for pursuing the Chosen Blessing. What most didn’t understand was the danger involved in simply becoming Chosen.

  It was not uncommon to see aspirant batches reduced to less than half their numbers by the end of the Trial.

  Hardin didn’t tell them that. He was not allowed to. The Church needed soldiers now more than ever. Better to throw the aspirants into a trial of blood and bet on them coming out alive, rather than scare off potential Chosens.

  The price of a few unworthy corpses was worth the exchange, in the Church’s eyes.

  “Now, before we begin, as a final question: does anyone want to opt out of the trial? This is your last chance,” Hardin said, hoping quietly that anyone would sensibly take the offered branch and escape the Goddess’s clutches while they still could, particularly the boy.

  As always, none came forth. The Overseer sighed.

  “Then good hunting to you all. And may the Goddess watch over you.”

  [Tutorial Dungeon Start!]

  [Kill Demons and earn your place as a Chosen!]

  [New Bonus Objective: ‘No One Left Behind’]

  [Ensure all participants make it out of the Trial alive as Chosens!]

  [New Bonus Objective: ‘A Good Start’]

  [Eliminate the Dungeon Boss!]

  ~~~

  Despite the name, the training grounds weren’t an open field, per se.

  It was a roofless labyrinth of walls, shattered buildings, and rundown structures. A maze where one could lurk, sneak, or ambush should the need arise.

  In other words, it was a pretty poor terrain for the Chosen Aspirants, who were entirely unaccustomed to guerrilla warfare. Or any kind of warfare, really.

  “Which idiot designed this mess?” one of the nobles hissed nervously as the magic barrier went up, trapping the aspirants in the maze. “It’s almost as if they want us to die. I swear, I will have my father hang whoever is responsible after this…”

  “Unless your father can hang the Goddess, I would suggest giving up on the idea,” another aspirant grunted. “They say the Goddess controls the terrain for her training grounds. Remember, this is technically Holy Land we are stepping on. The Empire does not command the magic in this place.”

  “Everyone, shut up! I can’t hear them coming!” Another noble ordered, adding to the anxiety of the group.

  Only the white-haired boy remained calm, daggers drawn and crouched low.

  [Observation Skill Active!]

  The group bickered among themselves, unsure of how to proceed. Some wanted to advance into the labyrinth and hunt the Demons, others argued to stay put and form an advantageous defensive position instead. Their clamour grew in volume and intensity until a sharp voice suddenly cut through their ranks.

  “We have drawn aggro,” the mutant boy announced — a hard, flat edge that somehow rang clear within the chaos despite his tone’s relative quietness. “Three mobs heading our way on the left. We have about 10 seconds until contact.”

  The mutant boy pointed to one of the nobles who had been shouting earlier. “You. You are the closest and the loudest. You have drawn the most aggro. Take up the left flank and use your shield to tank the first wave of attacks. This will give our weaker members the chance to flank and perform critical hits while the enemies are distracted.”

  [Rolling Persuasion…]

  [Persuasion Check failed!]

  The noble puffed up in indignation. “Who are you to command me, mutant peasant?! I ought to have you punished for such blatant disrespect—”

  The noble never finished. The wall of the desolate wooden shack behind him burst apart as a red-skinned Imp pounced and landed on his back.

  There was no time to scream before the winged Demon raked its claws over the young man’s face.

  Blood sprayed. Horrified screams rang out, none louder than the noble’s agonised wails. Two more shadows fell upon the group as more imps leapt from the roof of the shacks and descended upon the group of aspirants, shrieking in inhuman howls.

  [Arte detected: Demonic Screech]

  [Rolling Willpower Check on Party!]

  Nobody could move. It was all happening too fast. The nightmarish demons paralysed everyone with their ghastly ferocity and appearance. For most of the aspirants, this was the first time they had seen a demon, much less fight one. Nobody could move.

  Nobody except for one.

  [Eri White: Willpower check passed!]

  A flicker. A flash. And suddenly, all three demons fell to the ground, their clawed hands clutching their punctured throats as black blood poured from fatal wounds.

  Eri White tsked, flicking the black bile off his dual daggers. “Knew I shouldn’t have made Charisma a dump stat.”