Chương 57: Mounting Tension

Lloyd stood frozen at these words. But to the Swordsman himself, it seemed to make no difference at all. He moved on down the rows, continuing to utter the same word over and over — flat, indifferent, like a machine that never tired, as though human fates meant nothing more to him than lines in an endless list. The white emptiness around them seemed to hold its breath, listening to this monotonous verdict repeating again and again, as if the very air had become saturated with the endless echo of that single word.

— Eliminated. — Eliminated. — Eliminated. Lloyd slowly turned back around. Most of the Players stood in complete bewilderment, sweat pouring off some of them in streams, trailing down their temples and necks in dark tracks, while others were openly furious at the Swordsman's decisions — their faces betrayed poorly hidden anger, fists clenched tight, eyes glaring from beneath lowered brows.

Some stood hugging themselves, as if trying to still an inner trembling; others silently mouthed words, counting the survivors left in their row. The white emptiness around them seemed to soak up all this fear, all this confusion, growing heavier and more oppressive with every passing minute, and the even, featureless light overhead seemed to thicken, growing heavy like a sky before a storm.

Lloyd could feel that weight settling somewhere in his chest, mixing with the pounding of his own heart, and he clenched his fists without meaning to, trying to still the traitorous shaking in his fingers. Suddenly Lloyd stopped hearing that phrase, which had repeated so briefly and yet felt so endless at the same time, stretching out, it seemed, into eternity itself.

The Swordsman walked back to his wooden chair and sank into it with a heavy exhale, crossing one leg over the other with the same lazy carelessness as before, as if everything happening around him was nothing more than a tedious routine, repeated over and over, as if hundreds of shattered fates meant absolutely nothing to him. — Everyone who's eliminated, thank you for participating. That's all— The Swordsman never got to finish.

A shout rang out from the crowd, sharp and defiant, tearing through the tense silence like the crack of a whip, echoing across the entire white void. — Hey, old man, I'm starting to think you've completely lost it. Everyone turned toward the source of those words, and a wave of whispers rippled through the crowd — startled, frightened, tinged with some unhealthy curiosity, as if everyone had held their breath at once, waiting to see what would happen next, hundreds of eyes converging on a single point.

— Is everything here decided randomly? With a snap of your fingers? I don't agree with this. The owner of such outrageous words was dressed entirely in black — the thick, close-fitting fabric seemed to swallow the light around it, the same way the flames of that strange man back in the first hall had done. His face was covered by a white skull mask, its hollow eye sockets staring straight at the Swordsman with an eerie, inhuman calm.

He aimed his scythe directly at the man — the long blade glinted in the even, featureless light, as if anticipating imminent use, and the scythe itself looked so massive that it seemed strange this lean-looking guy could even wield it. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. — Who do you think you are? That you can just throw me out like that?

The Players slowly turned toward the Swordsman, waiting for his reaction, and in that collective movement there was a building tension, as though the whole crowd had drawn a single breath together.

Here and there, similarly indignant faces began appearing throughout the crowd, as though the masked man's boldness had lent courage to the rest — someone started whispering louder, someone else crossed their arms demonstratively, and somewhere in the back rows a lone nervous chuckle rang out, quickly swallowed by the general silence.

The Swordsman merely watched in silence — first the guy with the scythe, then the outraged crowd — and there was something heavy in that silence, something oppressive, as if he were weighing something important, considering whether this was even worth his time. His gaze slid over the faces slowly, methodically, as if memorizing everyone who'd dared to question his authority even for a moment.

Then he let out a long, weary sigh, full of something like philosophical indifference — the sigh of a man who'd seen rebellions like this a hundred times before and already knew exactly how it would end. — Well then. Seems like a lot of you are unhappy. The entire crowd of Players fell silent instantly — so abruptly that the silence felt almost deafening, as if someone had flipped a switch and cut the sound throughout the whole hall. Even the breathing seemed to stop all at once.

The Swordsman, in turn, pointed a finger at the whole crowd at once, sweeping his hand in a wide arc, slow and lazy, like a conductor before the start of a symphony. — Those of you who disagree with my decision, raise your hands. Beside Lloyd, a hand shot up, then another, and then an entire forest of hands rose one after another, as if by chain reaction, as if one person's courage instantly spread to dozens of others.

It seemed even those who hadn't been eliminated raised their hands anyway, swept up in the shared wave of protest, some collective, almost animalistic sense of solidarity flaring up in that faceless white void. Lloyd, however, didn't dare raise his — something inside him warned that this was a bad idea, that behind the Swordsman's feigned indifference lurked something far more dangerous than simple irritation, something better left undisturbed.

The Swordsman surveyed that forest of hands with a gaze both ferocious and calm at once, slowly scanning the crowd, as if counting every raised hand and memorizing each face one by one, filing the information away for something more important that would happen later.

And then he suddenly rose to his feet, the chair creaking as he stood — the sound, the only one in the ringing silence, seemed unexpectedly loud, echoing across the white void, sending chills down more than a few spines, and several people in the front rows flinched involuntarily. — I'll give you a chance. Attack me.

Lloyd could physically feel the crowd being swept up in a wave of fear, hope, and complete bewilderment all at once — the emotions blending into a single thick, almost tangible cloud hanging over the rows of Players, as if the very atmosphere had grown denser, heavier, charged with anticipation. Someone let out a nervous giggle, someone else stepped back, trying to melt into the crowd, while others leaned forward instead, as if genuinely believing in their chance, eyes lighting up with sudden, desperate hope.

— If even one of you can move me so much as a centimeter, I'll count it that every single one of you passed the first stage. Lloyd's eyebrows shot up.

"Everyone? He's clearly lost his mind. Literally a wild beast in human form. How was someone like this ever allowed to run an exam." Lloyd studied the Swordsman — his relaxed, almost careless posture, his calm, confidently bordering-on-arrogant movements — and couldn't help thinking that behind this feigned indifference lay something far more terrifying than mere self-assurance. Something primal, something feral, lying in wait. But the Players didn't hesitate for long.

Already one of them had broken from the crowd, charging straight at the Swordsman with his scythe raised, and the white emptiness around them seemed to hold its breath for a moment, waiting to see what would happen next.