His heart beat wildly, thundering against his ribs like a war drum calling him forward, but his body betrayed him with every twitch—sluggish, heavy, worn from the last battle that had already wrung him out like a blood-soaked rag, his muscles still aching, nerves still stuttering, but none of that mattered, not now, not with that thing standing in front of him. Sylvaris stared at the monster not as prey, not as so broken man clinging to life, but like a beast sizing up another—his golden eyes locked in with the sa hunger that had seen him survive every trial so far, I need to move fast and strike first, he thought, body already shifting into motion, only then will I get the edge, even if it’s just a second.
Maybe if he could slice through its leg, just one clean cut to break its balance, just enough to outstep it, to lunge for the throat—that part was always weak, always soft, no matter what creature wore the flesh. Throat ant blood. Throat ant death. One slice. That’s all he’d need. One fucking slice and it’s done.
It wasn’t a bad plan—not at all, in fact—but clearly Sylvaris had forgotten the books he used to pour over as a kid, the words of sages that should’ve whispered warnings into his skull. Because the mont he dashed forward, blade ready, heart burning, the monster didn’t even move. It just snorted. A low, amused sound, like it couldn’t believe this little thing was actually trying to fight back. And before Sylvaris could even think of a reaction—before he could say boobies, as the thought would have gone in his usual twisted humor—he was already airborne, hurled backwards like a ragdoll by a force so fast and brutal his body didn’t even register the pain right away.
His eyes flew wide, his chest was suddenly full of holes, blood spurting from torn flesh where the monster’s claws had almost—almost—pierced his heart. But they’d shredded through his lungs, and the mont he tried to inhale, nothing ca. Just blood. Thick, hot, choking blood spilling into his throat, into his mouth, flooding his vision as red mist blurred his sight. His hearing faded next, the world dimming, not just in sound but in aning. Only cold remained—the creeping, numb touch of death crawling up his spine faster than his brain could process a new plan.
And then ca the mory, bitter and perfect—Ras’s words echoing like a curse in his skull. No matter how much of a genius you are, when faced with a fool wielding too much power, all that awaits you is death... or humiliation. And today, Sylvaris tasted both. His body slamd into the ground with no resistance, no pride left, bones screaming, but pain didn’t even register anymore—it was gone, swallowed in the shock. He rolled once, twice, limbs limp, until finally he ca to a stop, one knee pressing against the earth, his sword trembling in his hand, barely enough to keep him upright, but still there. Still in his grasp. Still burning with that sa stupid fire.
How? he thought, breath ragged, lungs full of blood that refused to let him speak it aloud. How am I this weak...? Not even one hit landed. No trade, no scratch, just a one-sided thrashing, a rciless beatdown he hadn’t asked for. No... no, I’m supposed to be the arrogant one. The powerful one. Not that thing... His teeth clenched, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips as the thought tore through him. It’s . It’s supposed to be .
He tried to stand, but his legs weren’t listening. Nothing was. Shit... I can’t die like this. Not here. Not yet. I have too much left. Too many people to fuck. Too many enemies to crush. Too many gods to make kneel... But his vision was blurring, colors saring into shadows, and the monster—slow, deliberate, patient—was creeping closer. Closer. Closer. Death didn’t need to rush when it knew it had already won.
Across the city, through every floating screen, every mana-bound display, thousands watched in stunned, breathless terror as the prodigy of the human realm—the chosen, the arrogant, the fla that had burned through every trial before this—was forced to one knee. His body broken. His aura flickering. His legend collapsing under the weight of reality. People scread, prayed, begged for a miracle, but nothing ca.
And those who tried to force their way into the trial: his won, fierce and rabid with desperation, the Elyndors, even the king himself, were t with a wall of divine law that did not move, did not crack, did not care. Trials were sacred. Absolute. No one could interfere. And so they were left to watch, helpless, as Sylvaris, the hero who once held the weight of the world in his smirk, was about to die alone. The one who might’ve slain the demon lord. The one who might’ve changed the fate of the realm. Today, it seed, would be his last. And the world... would mourn.
"He’s going to die... what a pity," Nyxaria sighed, arms crossed as she floated high above in Seraphina’s realm, watching the trial below like it was a failed investnt unraveling in real ti. "And here I thought I finally found a decent vessel for the next Harem God..." Her voice dripped with mock disappointnt, but her eyes didn’t leave the screen. Beside her, Seraphina was losing herself, her divine aura flaring with wrath and desperation, crashing against the walls of her own realm in wild, thunderous blasts as she tried to tear through the barrier that kept her from reaching him—Boom! Crack!—The realm shuddered, celestial winds howled, but even for her, descending was forbidden.
"Chill out, will you?" Nyxaria muttered, flicking her wrist like she was swatting away emotion itself, but she had to dodge to the side as one of Seraphina’s golden strikes ca screaming past her face. The expression that t her was not a warning, it was a threat. Eyes glowing like twin suns, Seraphina glared at her with a silence that promised ruin. Nyxaria raised her hands in mock surrender, smirking, but didn’t say another word.
Then... sothing changed.
"Oh?" she whispered, voice soft but sharp as glass, her eyes catching the shift first. A flicker. A ripple. And then it happened. Sylvaris’s aura rose—no, detonated—flaring up with a pressure that didn’t belong to this world. Sothing primal. Sothing ancient. Sothing wrong. The ground beneath his knee cracked, sharp veins of black splitting outward like the earth itself recoiled from him, and it wasn’t the monster approaching that caused it.
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