The Mirror Realm bloomed into existence with a blinding flash.
Cassian stepped through the portal and emerged into a forest of impossibilities—twisted trees with silver leaves, rivers that flowed with luminous light, and skies shimmering like shards of stained glass. The world was unreal, a masterpiece of illusion and raw magic.
It was beautiful.
It was dangerous.
And it was designed to break them.
Five hundred candidates. All armed. All eager.
Only fifty would leave this place with their dreams intact.
Cassian's boots crunched against jeweled grass. Somewhere in the distance, a horn echoed like a call from the gods.
The Trial had begun.
---
The Battle Begins
Cassian moved like a whisper in a storm—silent, swift, unreadable. His blade gleamed, unsheathed not for intimidation, but for inevitability.
The first group found him.
Three boys in matching dark-blue cloaks, aristocrats by the way they stood, fanned out with overconfidence.
"Fresh meat," one sneered, brandishing a broadsword inscribed with runes. "Let's finish this before tea."
Cassian didn't speak. He blinked.
Then he was gone.
Steel hissed.
One boy collapsed, ejected in a burst of light. The second turned, panic blooming too late. Cassian's foot struck like a hammer, sending him crashing through the underbrush.
The third trembled, weapon raised—then dropped it in surrender.
Cassian tapped him gently with the flat of his blade. "You hesitated."
He vanished.
Three down in ten seconds.
The Mirror Realm took notice.
---
The Hour of Shadows
Rumors spread like fire through dry grass.
"There's a swordsman in black—he moves like death."
"Did you see him? He took down a Westreach squad alone!"
"They say he's not even using magic. Just... instinct."
Cassian became a ghost in the forest—relentless, precise, impossible to track. Some tried to avoid him. Others hunted him for glory. None succeeded.
A pyromancer launched a wall of fire. Cassian slid through the blaze like a phantom and left him unconscious before his flames even flickered out.
A team of illusionists turned the world upside down with cascading phantasm spells.
Cassian closed his eyes—and struck only once. Their illusions fell apart like glass under hammer.
Healers, archers, alchemists—none could match the storm that was Cassian Lionheart.
By the fourth hour, ten elite candidates formed a temporary alliance.
They surrounded him in a moonlit glade.
One girl, a dual-blade prodigy, spoke calmly. "You're skilled. But even you can't fight ten of us."
Cassian didn't reply. He adjusted his grip, eyes sharp and still.
When the battle ended, only one remained standing.
And even he was bleeding.
Cassian offered him a hand. "You fought well."
The boy took it, shaking, before being ejected with dignity.
---
The Final Countdown
Sixty candidates remained. Then fifty-five. Then fifty-one.
Cassian climbed a crystalline ridge overlooking a fractured lake. His chest rose and fell with steady breath. His clothes were torn, knuckles bruised—but his eyes, ember-lit with purpose, never wavered.
A sudden whistle of flame split the air.
Cassian twisted, deflecting the bolt mid-flight. His gaze snapped to the final challenger—a girl clad in enchanted crimson armor, twin axes blazing with heat.
"You're the one they keep whispering about," she said, voice steady. "Let's see if you live up to the fear."
Cassian nodded once, solemnly.
They clashed.
She fought like fire itself—relentless, explosive, beautifully brutal. Her axes howled with every strike. Cassian danced through them, parrying, slipping through gaps, testing her rhythm.
She grinned mid-battle. "Finally… someone who makes this fun!"
He didn't overpower her. He outlasted her.
When her breath finally faltered, he struck—not to wound, but to win.
Clean. Controlled. Unarguable.
She vanished in a shimmer of golden light, smiling even as she fell.
The realm stilled.
The countdown ended.
Cassian Lionheart: Rank #1.
---
The Return
The Mirror Realm shattered.
Cassian landed in the middle of the Academy's central plaza, surrounded by gasps and stunned silence.
Five hundred entered.
Fifty returned.
Only one emerged above them all.
The head examiner stepped forward, her masklike face unreadable.
"Top rank," she said. "One thousand points. Private villa. Personal training grounds."
Then her eyes dropped to the amulet around Cassian's neck—an ornate sunburst locket, dull with age.
"Where did you get that?" she asked, sharply.
Cassian blinked. "It was my mother's. Seraphina."
Her breath caught. Around them, teachers whispered. And then came the name—spoken low, then louder, like a storm building.
"Seraphina? The Seraphina?"
"The Flame Warden—Heroine of the Golden Era—"
"That means he's—he's Alaric the Light's—"
"The grandson of the Hero of Light?!"
Cassian stood motionless.
He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't sought fame. But the truth was out, and the world was already shifting.
"Cassian Lionheart!"
Not just a name now—but a legacy reignited.
---
Aftermath
That night, while others celebrated in crowded barracks, Cassian stood alone on the balcony of his new villa. The moon cast silver over marble floors. The stars shimmered in the still waters of the garden pool.
He clutched the amulet gently.
"Mother… your name still moves mountains."
But his voice was quiet, almost broken. Because with greatness came weight.
Expectations.
Targets.
Enemies.
In distant places—places cloaked in ash and shadows—eyes turned toward the academy. Toward the name Lionheart.
And somewhere in the dark… something stirred.