Thalen had never seen a place as still as the chamber that held the Tyrant’s Gate.
Carved into the bedrock of Mount Volarik a mountain long forbidden to most the gate was not simply a structure. It was a presence. A monunt of black stone that pulsed with power, rimd with silver veins that glowed faintly beneath the dim torchlight. Above the arch, ancient runes shimred in a language no one alive could read. Yet Thalen felt the aning as if it were whispered into his soul: Only the worthy carry the will of fire.
Arkan stood beside him, arms folded behind his back. The old SSS Hero was quiet, his storm-gray eyes staring at the gate as if rembering so war long past.
"The gate opens only once every five years," Arkan said at last, voice low. "And only for one candidate. One."
Thalen swallowed. "Has anyone passed?"
"Not since I did." Arkan’s expression remained unreadable. "That was thirty-one years ago. Before , there were three. Since , none."
Thalen turned his gaze back to the gate. "What’s behind it?"
"The Trial of Dominion." Arkan began to pace slowly, each step echoing off the obsidian floor. "Three days. Three nights. No food. No water. No light. No exit unless you surrender or survive."
Thalen furrowed his brow. "What am I ant to do?"
Arkan stopped. "You are to endure. And fight. And burn. Inside the gate lies an ancient realm where your own aura will be tested against your will. You’ll face your fears. Your desires. Your worst self. And if you erge... you will be reborn."
Thalen stepped closer. The heat from the gate was rising. It wasn’t physical it burned deeper, like a pressure on his chest, inside his veins. His blade trembled faintly on his back, reacting to the aura emanating from the stone.
"This is the only way?" he asked.
Arkan gave a tight nod. "You pass, you earn the Tyrant Spirit. You fail... and your aura fractures. Forever."
Thalen breathed deeply. "So if I fail, I lose everything?"
"No," Arkan said. "If you fail, you lose yourself. Your aura dies with your will. You beco Hollow a Wraith. That boy you fought in the maze? He was once like you. Until the Tyrant Spirit tore him apart."
Thalen’s fingers curled into fists.
"I’m not like him," he said.
Arkan studied him for a long mont. "No. You’re not."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, rectangular stone tablet engraved with nine sigils each belonging to one of the current SSS Heroes. At the center was an empty tenth space.
"This is the Record Stone. If you survive, your na will be engraved here. The tenth."
Thalen looked down at it. "And if I die?"
"It stays empty."
Silence stretched between them.
Then the gate pulsed. Once. Twice.
A deep groan reverberated through the chamber, and the black stone slowly parted, revealing a void of fla. Not fire fla. It shimred and moved like a living current of gold and crimson, as though the gate led to another world entirely.
The heat intensified. Thalen felt his heart race. His blade buzzed.
Arkan turned to him. "Do you wish to step forward?"
Thalen didn’t hesitate.
"I do."
"Then enter. And do not look back."
Without another word, Thalen stepped into the gate.
The world twisted.
For a mont, everything vanished. He floated in endless darkness, no sound, no breath, just void.
Then light.
He landed hard, feet hitting scorched black rock. The sky above him was swirling red, filled with teors of molten energy drifting slowly like stars. The land was barren and broken fragnts of earth, floating platforms, rivers of fla slicing through the gaps.
But more than anything, the pressure was overwhelming.
His body scread with weight. His knees nearly buckled. The air was thick with aura so dense it felt like breathing oil.
This realm... was alive.
He stumbled forward, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword. The blade shimred faintly, resisting the weight.
Then the whispers began.
They ca not from the sky, nor the rocks but from within him.
"You’re not worthy."
"You’re pretending to be strong."
"You will fail like the rest."
"You will die alone."
Thalen gritted his teeth. "Shut up."
The whispers grew louder.
Images appeared in the fla visions. His father, turning away in sha. Fera, laughing as she beat him in a duel. Dain, walking away.
Then himself.
A broken version of him, face hollow, eyes empty, dragging a cracked blade behind him.
"Who are you?" Thalen asked.
The copy stepped forward, expression grim. "I am the you that fails. The version who couldn’t bear the weight of two auras. The coward."
Thalen raised his sword.
The copy did the sa.
They charged.
Steel clashed against steel. Sparks flew.
The fight was brutal. Every strike Thalen landed, the copy countered. Every technique he used was mirrored. They knew the sa footwork, the sa sequences, the sa instincts.
But the copy had sothing Thalen didn’t expect: venom.
Every blow ca with words taunts, whispers, doubts.
"You’re just pretending."
"You were the weakest. The runt."
"You’ll never surpass them."
"You’re only here because no one else could pass."
Thalen’s resolve shook. His footing slipped. He blocked a high slash, but a kick landed in his ribs, sending him tumbling.
He coughed. Blood.
The copy lood over him, sword raised.
"Give up," it said. "You don’t belong here."
Thalen’s hand closed around a shard of scorched stone.
"I don’t need to belong," he growled. "I chose to be here."
He hurled the shard.
The copy deflected it but that was the opening.
Thalen surged forward, ramming his shoulder into the mirror version and slashing up. Steel bit into flesh.
The copy staggered.
Thalen pressed the assault. Blow after blow, he pushed forward screaming, shouting, letting out everything. Every doubt. Every pain. Every mont of feeling small.
The final strike cleaved through the copy’s sword. The blade shattered into fla, and the version of him collapsed into smoke.
Silence returned.
The weight lifted slightly.
Thalen stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide.
He had won.
But he was not done.
Hours passed maybe days.
The realm never shifted. There was no sun, no moon. Just endless fla and broken ground. Thalen wandered from platform to platform, each test more brutal than the last. He fought creatures made of aura, defended himself against storms of fire, and survived hallucinations ant to break his mind.
On the second night he thought it was the second he collapsed beside a pool of molten light. He didn’t know if it would heal him or kill him.
He drank.
It burned. But it filled him.
He stood, stronger.
On the final day, he reached the summit a tower of fla spiraling into the sky.
And waiting at the top... was a throne.
Empty.
A voice echoed around him. Not Vaen’s. Not Arkan’s. Sothing older.
"Speak your na."
"Thalen," he said, standing tall.
"What do you seek?"
"...Strength."
"For what purpose?"
He closed his eyes. "To protect. Not because I’m chosen. But because I choose to be."
Silence.
Then fla.
Golden fire surged around him, lifting him from the ground. It tore into him not hurting but remaking. His veins burned. His vision turned white.
Sothing awakened.
Sothing ancient.
The Tyrant Spirit.
It whispered not words but understanding.
A second aura, wrapping itself around his soul. His Blade Aura pulsed. And the Tyrant Spirit rged with it not overpowering, but amplifying.
He scread not in pain, but in release.
And then... he collapsed.
When he awoke, he was back outside the gate.
Arkan stood over him, the Record Stone in hand.
A new mark had been carved into its center.
"Welco, Thalen," he said. "You passed."
Thalen’s vision blurred, but he smiled.
He had changed.
And the world would never be the sa.
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