Leon stumbled forward, his breath ragged, his body screaming in protest. His muscles burned, his bones ached, but he forced himself to stay upright. The room around him was a maze of shifting steel walls, a cruel puzzle designed to break both the body and the mind.
He had lost count of how many days he had been trapped here, subjected to endless rounds of combat and psychological torment. The Soul Forge System had always known how to twist the knife, how to push just the right buttons to strip a person down to their rawest state. He had thought he was beyond its reach, stronger than its mind games. He was wrong.
A voice crackled through the speakers overhead. "You were always second best, Leon."
His fists clenched involuntarily. He recognized that voice. It belonged to someone long buried in the past—someone he had sworn to forget. Samuel. The golden boy. The one who always stood ahead of him. The one who had survived when the rest of them had fallen.
"You should've died back then. You know it, don't you?" Samuel's voice dripped with something between amusement and pity. "You were never meant to make it this far."
Leon's vision blurred, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. A crack in his armor. He had spent years burying his doubts, telling himself he was strong, that he had earned his place. But here, now, with his body broken and his mind fraying at the edges, the words slithered through the cracks like poison.
A section of the wall slid open, revealing another opponent. This time, it wasn't a stranger. It was himself.
His breath caught in his throat. The clone stood before him, identical in every way—same scars, same battle-worn gaze. But there was something different in its eyes. Cold. Unfeeling. A version of himself devoid of restraint, mercy, or doubt.
"Fight or die," Samuel's voice mocked. "Let's see what you're really made of."
Leon didn't move. His body wanted to fight, to survive, but his mind screamed against it. He had fought countless enemies, but never himself. Never like this.
His doppelgänger lunged, striking with precision and efficiency. Leon barely dodged, pain flaring through his ribs as he took a glancing blow. Every move his clone made was calculated, mirroring his own skills but refined, perfected. It was like fighting his own shadow—one that had no hesitation, no fear.
He had one chance. One moment to turn the tide. The Soul Forge System wanted him broken. It wanted him to doubt, to hesitate, to fall apart. He wouldn't give it that satisfaction.
With a roar, Leon moved, matching his clone strike for strike. Each blow was met with equal force, each maneuver countered flawlessly. It was a brutal, grueling test of endurance and willpower. But as the fight dragged on, he realized something crucial.
The clone was him. But it wasn't whole.
It lacked the very thing that made him human—his heart. His determination. His ability to rise despite the odds.
Leon feinted, drawing the clone in, then struck with everything he had. His fist connected with its chest, not with brute force, but with intent. The impact rippled through the air, and the clone staggered, cracks forming along its body. It looked at him, not with anger, but with something eerily close to recognition—before shattering into dust.
The speakers crackled again. Samuel's disappointed sigh filled the room. "Impressive, Leon. But this isn't over."
The walls shifted once more, revealing another chamber, another challenge. Leon stood, breathing heavily, but his resolve burned brighter than ever.
He would break free. No matter what.
Toni stood at the edge of an endless abyss, her breath shallow, her muscles coiled with tension. The Soul Forge System had crafted this nightmare for her, twisting reality into a cruel mirror of her fears. The darkness before her was absolute, pulsing like a living thing, whispering doubts into her ears.
"You were never strong enough," a voice sneered. It was her own, but colder, more ruthless. "You think you can carry the weight of others? You can't even carry yourself."
Toni gritted her teeth. The words dug deep, unearthing buried insecurities, but she forced them down. This was the trial—it wasn't about proving strength through force. It was about proving strength through will.
A flicker of light illuminated the abyss. A bridge formed, narrow and treacherous, leading into the void. She knew the test: move forward, or be consumed.
The first step was agony. The bridge resisted her, shifting and writhing like a wounded creature. Each step brought a surge of memories—failures, betrayals, moments of weakness. She saw faces of those she had let down, voices screaming accusations.
But she didn't stop.
The further she walked, the louder the voices became, the more the bridge crumbled beneath her. Fear gripped her chest, but she refused to let it win. She had spent her life running, but not now. Not anymore.
The abyss roared, sensing her defiance. The bridge shattered beneath her feet. For a single, terrifying moment, she was falling—
And then she wasn't.
Toni hung suspended in the void, weightless, untouched. The fear had no hold on her anymore. She opened her eyes, and the darkness recoiled. She didn't need a bridge.
She could walk on air.
The abyss shrieked as she took her next step, unshackled by doubt. The trial wasn't about surviving—it was about realizing she had never needed to be afraid. The darkness parted, and Toni strode forward, ready for whatever lay beyond.
---
Darkness.
A crushing, suffocating void stretched in all directions. Jarad stood in the center of nothingness, weightless yet impossibly heavy, as if the entire world rested upon his shoulders. A low, resonant hum pulsed in the air, vibrating deep in his bones—a silent voice whispering of something unseen, something vast.
Then, the world shifted.
A ruined throne room materialized beneath his feet, floating in the endless abyss. Broken marble pillars drifted aimlessly like shattered bones, the remains of a grand empire lost to time. A throne of obsidian and silver stood at the center, cracked and sinking into the darkness belo youw. And he was sitting on it.
No—not him.
The figure on the throne looked like him but was something else entirely. Clad in jagged black armor, its body exuded a suffocating pressure, as though space itself warped around it. Deep cracks ran along its skin, leaking pure gravitational energy. Its eyes, empty pools of black, regarded Jarad with cold amusement.
"You finally arrived," the Tyrant spoke, voice like a collapsing star. "Tell me, will you rule… or will you fall?"
A sudden force ripped through the air.
The gravity around him twisted violently, dragging him toward the throne. He gritted his teeth, planting his feet on the fragmented floor, but the pull was relentless. The Tyrant merely raised a hand, and the pressure tripled, slamming Jarad to his knees.
"Weak."
The throne room began to crumble, debris rising and falling erratically as if caught between existence and nothingness. The weight pressing down on him felt familiar—the same crushing force he'd endured as a child, when the virus first broke him apart and rebuilt him anew.
Except now, it was stronger.
Jarad growled, forcing himself to rise. His body screamed in protest, his bones felt like they would shatter under the strain, but he pushed forward. He had faced death before—he had killed before. A mere illusion of himself wouldn't be enough to break him.
He stepped forward.
"Hah," the Tyrant exhaled, amused. "You don't understand, do you?"
With a flick of its wrist, a void tore open behind Jarad, an endless maw of swirling black. The gravity shifted again, yanking him toward the abyss. He dug his heels in, arms tensed, but the force ripped at his soul.
"You fight and struggle, but it's meaningless."
The Tyrant's voice was calm, but there was something else beneath it. Something… hollow.
"You think strength is control. But strength is just another shackle."
Jarad snarled. "I don't care."
And then he lunged.
With every step, the force trying to erase him intensified. His veins burned, his body felt like it was being stretched and compressed at once, but he kept moving forward. His fists clenched, his vision blurred, and still—he kept going.
The Tyrant did not move.
"Fool."
A sudden explosion of gravitational force erupted, a shockwave so powerful it ripped the floating ruins apart. Jarad was sent hurtling backward—straight into the endless abyss.
And for the first time in years, he felt it.
Fear.
Not of death. Not of pain. But of losing himself.
Falling. Falling. Falling.
No ground. No sky. Only darkness swallowing him whole.
He reached out, grasping for something—anything—to hold onto. But there was nothing. His body was disintegrating, pulled apart by his own power.
Is this how it ends?
No.
He refused.
Jarad gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and did the impossible.
He reached inside himself, into the core of his being, and commanded the abyss to obey him.
And it listened.
The void around him bent. The gravitational forces twisted at his will. He no longer fell—he controlled.
With a sudden roar, he threw out his hand—and space itself folded.
A tear in reality snapped open before him—a wormhole—his own power unleashed. He grasped the edge, pulling himself through. The abyss shuddered—and then he was back.
Back in the ruined throne room.
Back in front of the Tyrant.
This time, Jarad stood tall.
The Tyrant stared at him, the crushing pressure fading, the emptiness in its voice replaced by something else.
Pride.
"Good," it whispered. "Then take your throne."
Jarad stepped forward. The void no longer pulled him down—it bowed to his will. He reached out, gripping the Tyrant's armor, and crushed it into dust. The empty throne trembled. The fragments of the ruined kingdom rose at his command.
And as he sat upon the throne, the abyss whispered in his ear.
"You are the Voidbound Tyrant. Rule wisely, or be consumed."
And then—
He woke up.