The illusion presses down on him, a weight far heavier than any battlefield burden. The mist coils around his limbs, seeking to bind him in place, to force him into doubt, hesitation, regret.
Conan's gaze is sharp, piercing through him with quiet disappointment. Thadeus trembles, fists clenched at his sides, his anger raw, his pain deeper than his words can express.
"Did you try as hard to find us as you did to cultivate."
"You moved forward while we suffered."
"If I offered you the manual, would you have searched harder to find us?"
The voices do not fade. The illusion does not break.
Because a part of him knows—if this were real, if his brothers truly stood before him, wouldn't they be justified in their anger?
For the first time in this trial, his instincts fail him.
There is no enemy to fight.
No attack to block.
Only a question.
Did he fail them?
A slow breath escapes him.
He does not try to push the emotions away. He lets them in.
Because this is the truth.
He does not know what happened to them.
Not knowing—it is a blade pressed against his throat, an ache that has never left him since the day he arrived in this world alone.
But even so—
This illusion is a lie.
Because the Conan and Thadeus he knows would never stand before him like this.
Conan—the older brother of the two, the one who had always been level-headed, rational, calm even when the world burned around them—would never try to break him.
And Thadeus—his younger brother, stubborn, reckless, filled with endless energy—would never give up and curse him.
They would never want him to stop.
They would tell him to keep going.
His chest tightens—not with pain, but with realisation.
These are not his brothers.
And if they are still alive?
Then standing here does them no justice.
He lifts his foot.
For the first time in a while since the illusion began, he moves forward.
The moment his boot presses against the ground, the world shudders.
The illusion ripples, as though the mist itself recoils from his decision.
Conan's expression flickers—not with disappointment, but with something else. Something uncertain.
Thadeus stares at him, his breath hitching as if he expected a different reaction, as if the illusion itself is trying to shift, to tighten its grip.
But it's too late.
Because De-Reece has already made his decision.
He takes another step.
Then another.
The weight pressing against his chest lightens.
The fog swirls violently, trying to cling to him, to drag him back.
But he does not stop.
Because if his brothers were here?
They would tell him to move forward.
From beyond the mist, a shift occurs.
The overseers watch as one of the competitors—**who had previously stalled—suddenly resumes walking.
One step.
Then another.
A slow, steady progression.
Those who had been observing De-Reece's lack of movement before now see something different.
A resolve that cannot be shaken.
A few elders exchange glances.
Not everyone can overcome their illusions.
The understand some have greater heart demon's than others, and in some ways this can be seen as a test for those with the heaviest heart demons, if they stop can they continue.
But those who do?
They are the ones truly worth watching.
The fog does not let him go.
With each step forward, it shifts, changes, adapts—refusing to release him so easily.
The ruined village fades into shadow, twisting into something darker. The scent of ash and death is replaced by the damp, stale stench of captivity.
Cold iron replaces scorched earth.
The bodies of his brothers are no longer still, no longer lifeless.
They are bound. Shackled. Forced to kneel in the dirt.
Their wrists and ankles are wrapped in heavy chains, their bodies beaten, broken, yet unbowed. A group of shadowed figures stands behind them, their faces obscured, but their presence unmistakable—overseers, tormentors, slavers.
And Conan and Thadeus?
They are alive.
But their eyes—
Their eyes hold nothing.
No anger. No pain. Just emptiness.
His blood turns to ice.
This—this is worse than before.
Their bodies were broken before, but at least they had died fighting.
But now?
They have lost.
They have been made into something lesser.
Something helpless.
The weight of his breath presses against his ribs. His body remains still, unmoving, but inside—rage boils.
The slavers move closer, hands gripping the chains that bind them. They pull.
And Conan and Thadeus do not resist.
A sickening snap of iron rattles in his ears.
The illusion has him right where it wants him.
Something inside him cracks—a primal, unyielding fury surging like a tidal wave, demanding blood.
But that fury is nothing compared to the one truth that keeps him standing.
This is a lie.
Not because the illusion is false.
Not because he is stronger than it.
But because Conan and Thadeus would never accept chains.
They would rather die than kneel.
His hands clench. His nails dig into his palm.
This is his greatest fear—but it is not real.
Because his brothers would never allow themselves to be enslaved.
He knows them.
And he knows—they are too strong for this.
His lips pull into a snarl. His body moves.
One step.
The chains rattle violently, trying to tighten.
Two steps.
The slavers reach for him, as if they can stop him.
Three steps.
The mist coils tighter, pulling at his mind, his skin, his breath.
Four steps.
The illusion screams.
Five steps.
The world shatters.
Outside the mist, De-Reece's body moves again.
For the last few moments, he had been frozen.
Now—he takes one step. Then another. A slow, deliberate motion.
Some of the watching overseers narrow their eyes.
This was not the stride of someone effortlessly passing the trial.
This was the stride of someone fighting for every inch.
One of the sect elders leans forward slightly, arms folded across his chest.
"Interesting."
The chains dissolve into mist.
The slavers vanish into shadow.
For a moment, he thinks he is free.
Then he sees them.
Conan and Thadeus still lie before him.
But this time—there are no chains. No captors.
Only their bodies, motionless, cold, lifeless.
The illusion does not scream now.
It does not demand his attention.
Because it does not need to.
The silence does all the work.
And this time, there is no escape.
His breath catches.
Everything in his body—everything in his soul—screams at him to move.
But he does not.
He cannot.
His legs remain locked in place, his heart hammering in his chest.
Because this time, the illusion does not fight back.
It waits.
Waits for him to break.
Waits for him to believe it.
Waits for him to finally accept—
That he failed them.
His vision blurs.
He had rejected the last illusion because he knew—his brothers were too strong to be enslaved.
But this?
What if this is real?
What if he was too late?
What if, at this very moment, as he fights to grow stronger—they are already gone?
The thought is a poison that digs into his veins.
And for the first time, he almost succumbs.
Almost.
But then—
A voice.
Not from the illusion.
Not from the fog.
From within him.
They wouldn't want this.
The realisation is quiet. Barely more than a whisper in his thoughts.
But it spreads.
It burns through the despair, through the doubt.
If Conan and Thadeus are alive—they are fighting.
And if they are dead—then they died fighting.
And either way?
They would never want him to stop.
They would never want him to fall here, to break beneath the weight of grief and guilt.
If they were here?
They would be the ones pushing him forward.
The only way to honor them—is to keep walking.
His breath steadies.
His fingers uncurl from his fists.
His foot moves.
One step.
Then another.
His brothers' bodies fade to mist.
By the time he reaches the twentieth step, the illusion is gone.
But the ache in his chest remains.
And ahead of him?
The final ten steps.