The Final Gavel

[The first Chapter is a bit slow but it's necessary from chapter 2 the pace increases and the world deepens.]

A lean young man lay on the ground, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements, and his eyes stared up at the sky without focus. Dark, unwashed hair hung to his ears, framing a face that looked too thin for his age.

Rem.

In front of him, the Crawler King lay dead. Its black chitin shell was split open along the head. A dull grey orb, cloudy like old glass, stared blankly from the wound. Black ichor seeped from the gash in its maw and spread across the stone beneath it.

In Rem’s hand, the Serpent’s Kiss still dripped with the monster’s blood. The blade was narrow and curved, more like a long fang than a sword. He could feel the vibration of the kill traveling up his arm, a faint tremor in the metal.

He had stabbed it. He had killed it.

Then, in the darkness behind his eyelids, white text began to form.

[ABYSSAL GUARDIAN: CRAWLER KING — TERMINATED.]

[USER CONDITION: CRITICAL.]

[DEADLY DESIRE FOR SURVIVAL: RECOGNIZED.]

[ACTIVATING FULL SYSTEM…]

The white letters dissolved into the air like smoke. New words took their place.

[SYSTEM FRAMEWORK: THE DEAD 13TH GOD.]

[DESIGNATION: THE ARBITER.]

A final line etched itself beneath the others, deeper and heavier than the rest, as if carved into stone instead of light.

[REMIDIUS. WELCOME TO THE FINAL GAVEL.]

The letters faded. The sound of his own breathing came back, rough and loud in his ears.

Fourteen days earlier…

Rem sat on a bench of cold, rusted iron in a place that tried to look like a hospital waiting room but smelled like a morgue under a layer of bleach. The walls were a pale green that had yellowed with time. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead with a low, annoying hum.

He wore a simple grey t‑shirt that hung off his frame, black trousers, and worn-out sneakers that had lost most of their sole. His shoulders were slouched, hands wedged between his legs to stop them from shaking. He stared at the scuffed floor tiles and counted the cracks, waiting for his name to be called.

Then the itch came. A familiar, jagged scratch deep in his throat.

Rem reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled white handkerchief, and pressed it to his mouth. The cough that followed was loud, wet, and exhausting. It rattled his ribs and made his vision blur for a second.

The woman sitting beside him didn’t say anything. She just gathered her son closer and began to move.

Rem lowered the handkerchief, saw her retreat, and before she could turn away, he coughed again—deliberately, harshly—into the open air between them. Not a fit. A statement. She flinched, clutched her son tighter, and hurried to a bench on the far wall, leaving a wide space around him.

Rem pulled the handkerchief away. It was stained with bright, fresh red.

He looked at it for a moment, then thought, That was my last clean rag.

Coughing blood wasn’t new. He had been doing it since he was a kid in the Warrens, the subterranean slums where medical treatment was unaffordable, almost a myth. He didn’t know if it was a disease or a curse, and frankly, he could finally afford to find out. That was why he was here: to learn whether he still had years left, or if his time was closer than he wanted to admit.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He stood up, legs heavy, and walked to the disposal bin by the wall. He tapped the pedal with his foot.

The lid hissed open, revealing a pile of other bloodied rags. He tossed his last spare in and walked back to his seat.

As he turned, his gaze caught a recruitment poster peeling off the wall. It showed a pristine white tower piercing a golden sky, with bold letters beneath it:

“BECOME AN AWAKENED. ENTER THE DIVINE TRIAL AND SERVE THE GODS.”

Rem felt a cold irritation rise in his chest. The image felt like an insult.

The world outside this clinic hadn’t been ordinary for a long time. Decades ago, monsters and nightmares that defied physics had descended on humanity. People called it the Gloom. Nations fell. Cities burned.

Humanity had stood no chance, so they prayed. They screamed to the heavens, and the Twelve Celestial Gods answered.

They gave the world the System—a divine framework linked to their own power—to create soldiers capable of fighting back. The Divine Trial was the factory that produced these Awakened. But it was only for the “Blessed.” It wasn’t a world Rem belonged to.

His throat itched again. He checked his pockets; they were empty. With a grimace, he coughed into his elbow. It was a short, dry hack, but he wiped his sleeve anyway.

The lady and her son shifted again, giving him even more distance.

Rem glanced at them, but the woman fixed her eyes on the floor, refusing to look directly at him. He looked away, unbothered. He was used to this. His sickness scared people off.

Things had improved slightly since he moved to the city. He had a small job working from home as a reviewer of cheap novels and academic papers. It paid enough for a one-room apartment and the supplements that kept his condition manageable.

He didn’t spend much on food because he barely had an appetite. One meal could sustain him for a day. That explained the skeleton sitting under his skin.

“Remidius.”

The voice was soft, cutting through the sterile hum of the clinic.

Rem turned. A nurse stood by the office door. He held her gaze a second longer than he should have.

She wore a nurse’s uniform that fit her perfectly. Her orange hair was pinned neatly under her cap, and her eyes were a soft, startling blue.

She was beautiful, Rem thought. He didn’t usually look at women this way—he knew exactly where he stood in the food chain—but there was a warmth to her that made him pause.

“Are you coming in, sir?” she asked, her tone tinged with the fatigue of waiting.

Rem stood up quickly. “Yes. I am.”

He walked into the office. It was small and smelled like the rest of the clinic: disinfectant, metal, and something faintly sweet underneath. A man sat at a mahogany desk, writing something into a file.

He was chubby, with dark brown hair and a bushy beard. His glasses hung precariously on the tip of his nose.

Rem pulled out a chair and sat. His eyes drifted to the nurse standing behind the doctor. She caught his stare, looked confused for a moment, then looked away.

The doctor opened a file.

“Mr. Remidius…”

Before he could continue, Rem’s throat betrayed him. He coughed.

The hitch was violent. He doubled over, hacking, trying to maintain some shred of dignity.

“Here.”

The nurse was there in an instant. She pulled a pristine white handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to him.

Rem looked at her face, then at the clean white cloth. His hand twitched toward it, then stopped. He looked from the clean linen to the faint red already smeared on his own sleeve.

“No,” he said.

He turned his head and coughed, sharp and final, into the crook of his arm. When he looked back, his sleeve was stained, but her handkerchief was still clean.

“I’m fine.”

She slowly withdrew her hand. Her professional smile faltered for a second into something like pity, or confusion. She gave a slight, formal nod.

“I’ll be at my next station if you need me, Doctor,” she said, and slipped out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The doctor waited for the click of the latch before turning to Rem.

“Mr. Remidius. Your reports for all the tests I asked for came in this morning. I’ve gone through them.”

He paused, adjusting his glasses.

“While your blood shows no trace of conventional pathogens, your illness isn’t a disease. It is the result of a Stigmata.”

“What?” Rem rasped, confused.

He knew what a Stigmata was. He’d read every book on the System he could find. A Stigmata was a mark on the iris—a golden glow that indicated a divine spark, the potential to become an Awakened.

“It is a Failed Stigmata,” the doctor said, sliding a scan across the desk. “A spark that failed to catch fire. Instead of granting you power, it is rejecting your physiology. It is abnormal. A divine defect.”

Rem stared at the scan. In the center of his iris, there was a faint, sickly grey-yellow glow.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He had a Stigmata? But it was broken?

“If I had known this sooner, I would have entered the Trial long before,” he said.

“I haven’t done much research on this presentation,” the doctor continued, “but I advise you to continue the supplements. They suppress the rejection. You might not have as much time as you think…”

The doctor kept talking, but Rem’s mind filtered it into white noise. A single, dangerous thought had taken root in his brain.

From what he had read, the System didn’t just give powers. It rebuilt the body. It forged a physique capable of channeling divine essence. It made you a warrior.

If I got a System… it would fix the illness. I would be cured. I could live. I could eat real food. I wouldn’t have to cough up my soul every morning.

“Mr. Remidius.” The doctor’s voice snapped like a whip.

Rem blinked, refocusing.

“Have you been listening?”

“All of it,” Rem lied smoothly.

“Good. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah. Suppose I entered the Divine Trial. What’s the probability I could come out with a System? I don’t plan on entering, obviously. Just curious.”

The doctor scoffed. “You’d be insane to enter. But theoretically? A Stigmata is a mark, not the power itself. A weak, failed Stigmata would likely result in a weak, useless Aspect. If you survived the Awakening at all.”

“I see,” Rem said.

He stood up to leave. He reached for the doorknob.

“Mr. Remidius,” the doctor called out, his voice grave. “I hope you aren’t thinking what I think you are. If your illness is caused by a god’s rejection, imagine stepping into the Trial—a holy ground where their presence is absolute. It wouldn’t end well. For your sake… do not enter.”

Rem turned back. He put on his brightest, most practiced smile.

“I’m not that foolish, Doctor.”

“Good.”

Rem nodded—a nod that meant nothing—and walked out.

He stepped out of the clinic and onto the busy street.

The sun was bright, casting long shadows against the pavement. He stood on the steps, the phantom feel of the clean handkerchief he’d refused still lingering in his empty hand.

The doctor thinks I’m a fool, Rem thought. He thinks I’m going to go home and wait to die.

He looked down at his stained sleeve. The faint smell of blood stung his nose.

It was a simple equation. Stay here and die a slow, painful death. Or enter the Trial, face the nightmare, and either die quickly or be reborn.

Rem squeezed his fist. The decision wasn’t even a choice. It was an instinct.

This is a chance to survive and I want to live.

The thought wasn’t a hope. It was a demand. A desperate, clawing hunger that rose from the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly, the world seemed to freeze.

A strange pressure descended on him, heavy and cold. His vision flickered, like a screen losing signal.

Rem froze.

In front of his eyes, a string of pale, bone-grey runes wove itself out of thin air, sharp and angular, like cuts in the light.

[DEADLY DESIRE RECOGNIZED.]

Rem’s breath hitched.

[SYSTEM: DORMANT ACTIVATION.]

[GOAL: ENTER THE DIVINE TRIAL TO BECOME AWAKENED]

The text hung in the air for a second, then shattered into silver dust that drifted away and vanished.

Rem stood on the steps, staring at nothing. The noise of the street returned, but it sounded distant, as if he were underwater.

He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking, but for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid.

Something had answered him. Something had heard that ugly, desperate want to live.

He didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse. He didn’t care.

A grim, thin smile cut across his face.

Fine. Let’s see.