Chapter 5: Ashren, the Memoryblade
The path to the second trial led down—far down—below the floating streets of Caedros, beyond the engineered towers and rune-bound circuits. The air grew colder, heavier, as if soaked in memory. Shadows clung to the walls like they had been waiting.
Andrew descended in silence, along with the other nine champions. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of fate.
Finally, they arrived before an obsidian gate, sealed by eight ancient sigils—each one flickering with a different nation's mark. Overhead, a phrase burned into the stone in silver flame:
"What was lost must be claimed."
A voice, neither male nor female, rang through their minds:
"Trial Two: The Vault of Echoes.
Within lies your relic.
A gift forged not for your power, but for your purpose.
Each of you shall enter alone. Face what came before. Leave with what remains."
One by one, they were taken by the Vault.
Andrew stepped through last.
Darkness.
Not an empty kind—a waiting kind.
He stood in a barren wasteland, ash swirling in the air like snow. Black sand shifted beneath his boots. No wind. No sound. Just the endless horizon and the smell of burnt steel.
In the distance, something rose—half-buried in the ground. A sword. Jagged, long, wrapped in shadow.
As Andrew approached, whispers began.
Not outside—inside.
Voices. Familiar, but not. Men shouting in war. A woman singing in another language. A child laughing, then screaming.
He reached out to the blade.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the world broke.
He stood in a new body. Taller. Older. Armor made of bone and cloth. Blood soaked the sand around him. Hundreds of corpses. Some human. Some not.
A battlefield from a time that never existed in history books.
Then it shifted again.
Another life.
He was a thief in a marble city. A servant hiding daggers in royal halls. A wanderer walking through fire with nothing but a song and a blade.A king of a vast empire in the shadow world.
Each life ended in steel and shadow except one were he was the shadow.
Each life was him.
Andrew fell to his knees, breath torn from his lungs. His head throbbed, heart pounding like a war drum. And then… calm.
The blade—his blade—was in his hand.
It pulsed with shadow, but didn't feel evil. It felt ancient. Not just a weapon—an echo of every version of him that had ever drawn breath.
Above him, words seared into the dark:
"Ashren – the Memoryblade."
"Bearer: Andrew, of the Edge Beyond Flame."
"Power: To glimpse the souls that came before, and draw from their strength."
Ashren hummed as he stood. Shadows curled around the blade like smoke, then vanished when he sheathed it across his back.
When he emerged from the Vault, the other champions noticed the change instantly.
His eyes seemed darker. Sharper. Like he'd aged—not in body, but in knowing.
Serin watched him from across the chamber, the storm in his gaze faltering for a moment.
Kaelira said nothing, but the flame around her hands dimmed.
Even the stewards whispered.
For though every champion had received an artifact tied to their role, only one had drawn a weapon from the graveyard of souls.