Chapter 8: Stairs, Sweat, and Suffering

[Location: Demon Nation]

[Time: Undisclosed]

Ozamas bowed before the Demon King, her posture rigid, her head bowed in absolute deference.

The chamber was dim, lit only by flickering braziers that cast jagged shadows across the stone walls.

The air was thick with something unspoken—weighty, expectant.

“What you will be a part of if you agree to my offer, is one of, if not the most well-kept secret in this kingdom.”

The Demon King’s voice was deep, steady, and laced with finality.

Ozamas kept her gaze down.

“Your Majesty, I will serve you in whatever capacity you require. Your wish is my command.”

Silence.

Then, a quiet chuckle.

“No, Ozamas. This is not about command.” 

Despite the king having his back turned to her, Ozamas could feel his gaze burning onto her through the dimness.

She heard footsteps come towards her.

And then, a hand rested on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“This is a choice. And once you agree, there will be no turning back.”

A flicker of something unfamiliar passed through Ozamas’ chest. 

Uncertainty. 

She despised it.

“My loyalty to you is absolute. That is all that matters.”

“Yes, your loyalty to me is why I chose you.” 

His voice was calm, yet firm. 

“But it was not the only reason.”

Ozamas clenched her jaw, brow furrowing. 

Then what was? 

What other trait had he seen in her?

She didn’t ask—she knew better than to question the King’s wisdom. 

But the question lingered, unspoken, as she gave her answer.

“I accept.”

The Demon King nodded. 

“Then prepare yourself. The future of our nation depends on the success of this project.”

***

The first time Ozamas laid eyes on the vat, her stomach twisted.

The chamber was cold, filled with the quiet hum of arcane machinery. 

A massive glass cylinder stood at its center, filled with thick green liquid that glowed faintly in the dim light.

And inside it—

A body.

Or, more accurately, the pieces of one.

Limbs suspended in fluid, fingers twitching with half-formed tendons, a torso marred by veins of raw mana. 

A head—unfamiliar, unfinished—floating motionless, its features not fully sculpted.

Ozamas inhaled sharply, stepping closer, staring at the grotesque, incomplete figure. 

‘What in the King’s name…?’

She had been given no explanation. 

No understanding of what she was looking at. 

Only orders. 

‘Ensure its completion.’

‘Ensure its success.’

She swallowed hard.

‘Have I been a fool to think I could bear this burden?’

The thought was unlike her. 

Doubt was unlike her. 

But as she gazed at the eerie, half-formed thing before her, she felt a rare flicker of fear.

Still, she squared her shoulders. 

The King would not have chosen her if she were not capable. 

‘Whatever this is, I will see it through.’

***

Ozamas pinched the bridge of her nose as she watched Ren trudge up the stairs like an exhausted sloth.

“Pick up the pace!” 

She barked, glancing at the charts detailing Ren’s supposed ‘development’ post-extraction. 

The numbers weren’t looking good. 

‘Too slow. Too weak. Too—’

Ren wobbled on the last step, wheezing like an elderly noble after a steep incline.

Ozamas exhaled sharply. 

‘Did I take her out of the vat too early? Is she… undercooked?’

She studied the gasping, half-doubled-over Ren, who at this point looked like she was reevaluating every decision that had brought her to this moment.

‘She’s supposed to be the King’s chosen scholar. A being created with purpose. A prodigy.’

Ren tripped slightly.

Ozamas inhaled deeply.

‘Maybe… I just have to give it time. Yes. The King planned everything. Surely, he wouldn’t have allowed for a dud. Surely.’

Her fingers twitched slightly as she forced herself into a firm nod.

‘It’s fine. It’s all going according to plan.’

***

Ren was dying.

Not metaphorically. 

Not dramatically. 

Actually dying.

Five days. 

Five days of running up and down the same cursed staircase from dawn to dusk  like some kind of tormented ghost.

Her legs were on fire. 

Her lungs were in open revolt. 

‘What was the purpose of this?’ 

Was this a test of endurance? 

Some demon kingdom ritual to break new recruits? 

A secret hazing tradition where the weak were weeded out via cardiovascular torture?

She had theories.

Theory One: Ozamas was punishing her for existing.

Theory Two: The stairs led to a secret underground passage, and if she ran long enough, she’d unlock the final boss of this nightmare by clipping through them. 

Theory Three: This was all an elaborate prank and the Demon King was secretly watching, laughing his ass off.

Ren’s foot caught on a step, and she barely avoided face-planting. 

‘Oh. Just let me die again.’

She cast a desperate glance toward Ozamas, hoping for mercy. 

What she received was a critical stare and a clipped, “Again.”

Ren whimpered.

She had never wanted to strangle someone more in her life.

‘What the hell was this all for?!’

***

Ren collapsed onto her bed with the grace of a dying fish. 

Limbs sprawled, chest heaving, every muscle in her body screaming for mercy. 

It had been five days. 

Five endless, torturous, stair-filled days.

Five days of running up and down the same damn steps while Ozamas watched her like a disappointed drill sergeant.

Five days of exhaustion so deep she was convinced her soul had already ascended to whatever afterlife existed in this world, leaving only a husk behind.

And finally, finally, she had been granted a reprieve.

“You did well today,” Ozamas said, arms crossed as she leaned against the door.

Ren wheezed. 

“I did terribly.”

Ozamas nodded solemnly. 

“Yes, you did.”

Ren groaned.

“To be honest,” Ozamas continued, her tone matter-of-fact, “you’re far behind the other two Scholars. You’re barely meeting any of the expected milestones.”

Ren cracked one eye open. 

“Milestones? You mean the milestones where I die on these stairs and my ghost has to continue the exercise in my place?”

Ozamas sighed. 

“I know it seems pointless, but physical capability matters. Demons won’t respect someone who can barely lift a spoon without passing out.”

“Okay, but, hear me out—is running up and down the stairs really the best metric for that? Surely, there are other ways to measure competence. Maybe we could try lifting weights? Practicing combat techniques? Studying tactics?”

Ozamas stared at her.

“…You collapsed halfway up the stairs earlier.”

Ren scowled. 

“That was one time.”

“That was four times, Ren.”

Ozamas pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Listen. The reason I have you running is because if I let you go outside like this, the other demons will tear you apart. Not literally—well, hopefully not literally—but they won’t follow someone who can’t even handle basic physical activity.”

Ren made a face. 

“I don’t see why. I’m supposed to be a Scholar, not a gladiator. Shouldn’t my worth be judged on my intelligence?”

Ozamas raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes. And do you think they’ll listen to your intelligence if they think they could snap you in half like a twig?”

Ren opened her mouth, then shut it.

“That’s what I thought,” Ozamas said smugly.

Ren let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto her mattress. 

“Fine. But you can’t expect me to like it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a moment, there was silence. 

Ren’s mind wandered as she stared at the ceiling, her body still recovering from the sheer ordeal she had been put through.

“What about the other Scholars?” 

She asked. 

“What are they like?”

Ozamas frowned slightly. 

“I don’t know much about them. They aren’t very forthcoming, but they’re formidable in their own ways.”

Ren hummed thoughtfully. 

“I wonder if they’ll be friendly.”

‘Maybe they’re from another world too?’

Ozamas gave her an unreadable look but said nothing.

Ren sighed again, staring at the ceiling. 

“Well, I hope they’re nice. It would be good to have allies in this whole mess.”

Ozamas tilted her head, “You should worry more about whether you’re capable of surviving, not whether they’ll be nice to you.”

Ren groaned again. 

“Right, survival. My favorite thing to struggle with.”

Ozamas shakes her head as she sets the table. 

She carries in a familiar bowl of pale broth, barely cooked pork, and mushy grains.

Ren paled.

“Dinner time,” Ozamas announced cheerfully.

Ren’s eye twitched. 

‘No. No, please. I’ve already suffered today. Don’t make me do this.’

Ozamas pushed the bowl toward her. 

“Eat up. You need your strength.”

Ren stared at the abomination before her.

Ozamas watched as Ren picked up her spoon with the sluggishness of a prisoner walking to the gallows. 

With the slow resignation of a person who had lost all hope, she took a bite.

The familiar, horrifying taste filled her mouth.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

Ozamas, misinterpreting the gesture, smiled warmly. 

“I knew you’d be grateful after such a long day of training.”

Ren sobbed into her spoon.