The Sanctum of Ordeals loomed like a cathedral built to punish ambition. Towering spires of blackstone pierced the low-hanging clouds, and crimson banners hung unmoving in the windless air. No sound dared echo here—not even the crows.
Lucifer Valtros stood at the threshold, boots planted firm on the cracked obsidian steps. He wore a cloak of midnight trimmed in steel thread, and though no crest marked his house, his presence demanded notice.
Judas stood just behind him, silent as ever. The old butler's eyes scanned every inch of the structure before them.
"They built this place to impress," Lucifer murmured.
"Or to remind people they were never meant to leave it unchanged," Judas replied.
The Sanctum wasn't just a trial. It was a theater of power—where heirs were broken, bent, or crowned. Only a handful ever left with recognition. Even fewer lived long enough to enjoy it.
Lucifer stepped forward. The great doors creaked open without touch.
Inside, light did not come from torches, but from glowing runes embedded in the walls, casting the corridor in shifting gold and red hues. Other nobles had already arrived. He recognized none by name—but all by posture. Sons of high houses, daughters of warlords. Each watched the others as if calculating the weight of a blade.
They watched him too.
"That's the Duke of Ashridge," someone whispered. "Didn't his house fall years ago?"
Lucifer ignored it. Let them talk. Let them guess.
A robed official stood at the center of the atrium, flanked by Sentinels clad in crimson armor. His voice was calm but sharp as flint.
"Welcome, heirs. The Sanctum does not care for your titles, lands, or bloodlines. Here, you are measured by something far more honest."
A pause. Then:
"Endurance."
The floor beneath them shifted. A sudden drop—each candidate whisked away in a separate spiral of red light. Lucifer did not resist. He felt himself fall, not through space, but through presence.
He landed in silence.
A chamber of mirrors.
No sound. No echoes. Just hundreds of reflections—all of himself.
He stepped forward. So did they.
But then… one did not.
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. A single reflection remained still, watching him without copying his motion.
The moment he moved toward it, the entire chamber went dark.
> [TRIAL INITIATED: RECOGNITION OF SELF]
> Objective: Identify the falsehood within.
> Time limit: 5 minutes.
His breath misted. Cold. Too cold.
Then came the whisper.
"You're not who you think you are."
Lucifer spun. No source.
The mirrors rippled. One by one, each reflection changed—not into monsters, but into possibilities.
Lucifer as a king. Lucifer as a tyrant. Lucifer kneeling. Lucifer dead.
Each version stared back with a different emotion—some mocking, others pleading. One laughed. One wept.
And in the center: the one that had not moved. It still hadn't.
Lucifer approached it slowly. His heart was steady. His eyes cold.
He raised a hand, placing it against the mirror.
The figure inside grinned.
And spoke with his voice.
"Do you even know what you are?"
Lucifer didn't flinch. "Not yet. But I know what I'm not."
He clenched his fist—and punched straight through the glass.
Shards exploded in all directions. Light consumed the space.
> [TRIAL COMPLETE]
> Result: Stable Mind Signature Trait Unlocked: "Unyielding Focus" Progression Rate Increased by 2.3%
Lucifer opened his eyes to find himself back in the atrium.
Most of the others hadn't returned yet.
Judas was already waiting at the edge, arms folded.
"Well?" he asked.
Lucifer flexed his fingers. They still felt cold.
"They want to know who I am," he said.
Judas raised an eyebrow.
Lucifer turned his gaze to the doors ahead—ones that would lead to the next trial.
"Let's make sure they never forget."
---
That night, in the upper quarters of the Sanctum, a masked figure knelt before a wall of glowing glyphs. Twelve crowns shimmered in spectral light, and one had begun to pulse with faint heat.
A whisper rippled through the chamber.
"Ashen Protocol... observed."
The figure rose.
"He doesn't know what he is," they said.
Another voice responded from the shadows.
"Good. That makes him easier to break."
But the first voice disagreed. Calm. Cold.
"No. That makes him far harder."
The glyphs flickered.
And one began to bleed.