The forest deepened, and with it, the silence thickened — not a silence of peace, but one pregnant with old breath, as if the world itself were holding in a cough too ancient to release.
Ash clung to Arin's skin like forgotten prayers. Every tree was gray and blackened, some hollowed as if burned from within. There were no chirping birds, no scuttling of insects. Even the wind dared not move.
He reached a clearing. In its center stood a stone dais — cracked, weathered, and inscribed with symbols that pulsed faintly under the falling dusk. Six obsidian pillars encircled it like a cage, each etched with sigils that whispered in languages no mortal had spoken in ten thousand years.
Arin narrowed his eyes.
He felt it now — the old array. Its breath was like a heartbeat beneath the soil. Not active… but aware. Waiting.
Then the voice came.
Not from around him, but from beneath him.
"You carry no sect's mark. You speak no oath of blood. Yet you seek the fire of trial?"
It echoed like molten thunder.
Arin didn't flinch.
"I seek nothing," he replied. "But if fate lays a path, I will walk it. Even if it leads into death's throat."
The ground trembled. From the center of the dais, a black flame rose — silent and cold, casting no light, yet illuminating everything. The six pillars flared. Symbols lit up like a constellation, and suddenly the clearing wasn't forest anymore.
Arin stood at the edge of a vast chasm. The world had shifted.
There was no sky. No trees. Just a shattered platform suspended above a storm of void — swirling crimson clouds and broken stars below.
A single figure stood across him — not living, not dead.
It wore a robe of silken shadow, its face masked with polished bone. A sword floated beside it — curved, breathing, its edge humming with whispers.
"Trial of the Nameless Flame," the figure intoned. "One test. One sword. Survive."
Without a pause, it raised its hand.
The sword vanished — and reappeared behind Arin.
He turned.
It struck.
Steel met bone.
He dodged — barely. The blade grazed his cheek, leaving behind not blood, but glowing ash. Pain lanced through him, deep and cold.
This was no ordinary blade. It cut spirit as much as flesh.
The masked figure did not move, but the sword kept striking — intelligent, relentless. A trial not of strength, but instinct.
Arin's breaths deepened. He tapped the ground with his heel — and leapt. His broken sword unsheathed. Its core glimmered faintly — despite the fracture.
The sword clashed mid-air.
Ash burst like petals.
The masked figure finally moved. With a gesture, a second sword appeared — this one of frozen wind. The Trial had truly begun.