Page 38 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

The real games start now.

SEVEN

SCARS OF WAITING

~ASH~

Sweat burns my eyes as I navigate the ever-shifting labyrinth for the thousandth time.

Each breath comes measured and controlled despite the burning in my lungs, every muscle fiber screaming in protest as I push beyond normal human limitations.

The maze stretches before me like a living nightmare—walls that rearrange themselves when you aren't looking, floors that drop away without warning, traps designed with elegant cruelty to maim rather than kill.

Death would be mercy. Ravenscroft doesn't deal in mercy.

My bare feet strike the concrete with practiced precision, calluses built over six years of daily runs providing minimal protection against the heated surface.

The temperature rises incrementally as I progress deeper into the maze—another sadistic touch designed to test endurance beyond reasonable limits.

A grinding sound from the left triggers immediate response—my body dropping into a roll without conscious thought as a blade sweeps through the space where my torso had been a heartbeat earlier.

The movement carries me forward into the next section where jets of flame erupt in randomized patterns across the narrow corridor.

I don't hesitate. Don't calculate. Don't think.

After six years, my body knows this deadly dance by heart—muscles responding to subtle audio cues that precede each new threat, eyes tracking almost imperceptible pressure plates that trigger the next challenge. What once required desperate concentration has become a meditation of survival, each movement flowing into the next with grim efficiency.

The flames part before me like reluctant curtains as I weave through their deadly choreography.

Heat sears against my scarred skin, adding fresh redness to tissue long since damaged beyond natural healing. Pain registers as distant information rather than immediate concern—one more data point in the complex calculation of survival.

Step. Duck. Roll. Jump.

The sequence repeats with mechanical precision as I navigate each obstacle. My mind is simultaneously present and elsewhere—focused completely on immediate survival while a separate part reconstructs alternative pathways and potential escape routes.

Six years of the same routine.

Six years of memorizing every possible configuration.

Six years of searching for the single vulnerability that might offer genuine freedom rather than the illusion of choice they present through structured challenges.

This isn't training. It's containment disguised as opportunity.

A wall slams down behind me with bone-crushing force, sealing off retreat and forcing continued forward momentum.

The vibration travels through concrete beneath my feet, triggering recognition of the next sequence—rotating platformsover electrified water, timing requiring perfection beyond human capability for those without enhanced reflexes.

I launch myself forward without hesitation, body twisting mid-air to land precisely on the first platform as it begins its rotation. My toes grip the edge as it tilts dangerously, core muscles contracting to maintain balance while eyes track the movement pattern of the next target.

One miscalculation means electrocution severe enough to render me unconscious—delivering failure and the "correctional protocols" that inevitably follow. The memory of those sessions rises unbidden—sterile rooms and clinical pain, white-coated observers documenting responses with detached fascination.

They enjoy watching alphas break almost as much as they enjoy watching us heal for the next round of torture.

The thought fuels a surge of fresh determination as I time the next jump, body suspended momentarily above certain agony before landing with practiced grace on the second platform.

The impact sends shockwaves of pain through old injuries that never quite heal between sessions—ankle bones repeatedly fractured, knee cartilage worn to almost nothing, hip socket damaged from a particularly brutal "training exercise" three years ago.

But pain means nothing against the greater drive to perfect this route—to eliminate every possible error, every potential misstep that might prevent successful navigation when it truly matters. Because someday, this won't be just another training session.

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