Page 19 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

Gravity becomes meaningless when you've spent years defying its pull.

My body hangs inverted from the ceiling, suspended by reinforced cables that have long since ceased to register as discomfort. Blood rushes to my head, a sensation that once disoriented me but now provides the only clarity I can find in this purgatory of endless judgment.

"Four hundred and seventy-three," I count silently, muscles contracting in perfect synchronization as I execute another upside-down pull-up.

Sweat drips upward from my torso, following unnatural trajectories before falling toward the concrete floor twelve feet below. Each droplet maps my exertion, creating patterns of moisture that crystallize the passage of time more effectively than any clock they refuse to provide.

I cross my arms over my chest as I descend from the apex of movement, stabilizing my core through the controlled return to starting position.

My abdominal muscles clench with practiced precision, maintaining perfect form despite having already completed hundreds of repetitions.

"Four hundred and seventy-four."

My breathing remains measured—inhalation during descent, exhalation during ascension, oxygen consumption optimized through years of systematic training.

The pattern keeps me centered when my mind threatens to fragment under the weight of enforced responsibility.

Below, twenty-seven alphas stand in formation on the judgment floor.

Their eyes track my movements with varying degrees of hostility, fear, and desperate hope. These are today's contenders—survivors from the level above who managed to outlast their competitors through combat prowess or strategic calculation.

They await my determination of their fate, not understanding that my "judgment" serves merely as psychological framework for decisions already made through algorithmic assessment of biological markers and performance metrics.

The illusion of human judgment matters more than the reality of pre-determined outcomes.

Just like the justice system I once served.

"Four hundred and seventy-five."

Voices rise occasionally from the formation below—desperate pleas, attempted bribes, threats from those who haven't yet learned the futility of resistance. I tune them out with practiced detachment, focusing instead on the rhythmic contraction of muscle groups and the controlled flow of oxygen through my system.

Their words hold no value in this exchange. Only their performance data matters, and even that merely confirms decisions made before they ever entered this chamber.

Level Minus Three—what they've designated the "Realm of Judgment" in their twisted hierarchy.

The place where alphas who survive the brutality of combat levels face psychological rather than physical trials. Where they learn that survival depends not merely on strength or fighting skill, but on the arbitrary assessment of a man suspended between floor and ceiling.

A man who once believed justice could be served through careful application of legal principles.

"Four hundred and seventy-six."

Time has lost all meaning in this inverted existence.

Years have passed—that much I know from the changing patterns of test subjects and the evolution of experimental protocols. But how many?Three? Five? Eight?The specifics blur together in a continuous stream of judgment and consequence.

I've lost count, just as I've lost track of how long it's been since I last saw her—the small omega with impossible hair and calculating eyes that saw more than any child her age should comprehend.

Jinx Blackwood.

The name emerges unbidden from carefully compartmentalized memory, bringing with it sensory recollections I usually keep sealed behind mental barriers constructed for survival. Her scent returns first—that impossible blend of tropical spices and rain-soaked earth that somehow harmonized perfectly with my own signature of leather-bound books and storm clouds.

One interaction.

That's all we had before everything changed—a brief conversation during which something fundamental shifted in my understanding of purpose and possibility.

One touch of gentle fingers against my face after years of nothing but clinical manipulation and restraint.

I knew with that first meeting that she would be our destruction.

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