Leon's knees buckled, his body swaying like a withered stalk in the wind. The shard slipped from his bloodied grip and clattered against the stone. His vision narrowed, darkness creeping in from the edges.
He wanted to fight. He wanted to keep struggling. But his flesh had surrendered. His body had nothing left to give.
And just as his eyes began to close—
The heavens cracked open.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Azhar's laughter thundered across the trial ground, rolling like a storm that split the sky. The air itself trembled, the ruins groaning under the weight of that sound.
"Good job, little one," the dark god's voice boomed, dripping with cruel amusement. "I did not expect you to push this far."
The swarm froze.
The beasts that had been crawling, lunging, snarling—all of them stopped mid-motion. Claws hung in the air. Jaws gaped wide, unmoving. The world itself had halted, save for Leon and the echoing laughter of the god above.
Leon staggered, his chest heaving, his blood-soaked face lifting in disbelief. "Wh… what…?"
Relief washed through him in a flood. The endless nightmare of teeth and claws had finally stilled.
"You have completed the first stage of the first trial," Azhar declared, his tone sharp as steel. "For a mortal with no foundation, that is commendable."
Leon collapsed to his knees, his arms hanging limp at his sides, unable to process the words. His heart still pounded as though the beasts would leap again at any moment.
"As reward," Azhar continued, his voice shaking the sky, "you shall receive the key to your path. An Element Awakening Stone. One chance only. Use it, and the gate of cultivation shall open to you."
Before Leon's dimming eyes, light gathered in the air. A sphere appeared, floating above the blood-soaked rooftop. It shone brilliantly at first, pure and crystalline, a perfect orb of white light. Its surface shimmered as if alive, breathing with power older than time.
Leon stared, his breath caught. His body screamed for rest, yet his spirit flared, drawn toward the stone like a moth to flame.
His trembling hand lifted. Fingers brushed the cold surface.
At once, the crystal pulsed.
The white glow darkened. Shadows bled across its surface, swallowing the purity. In the space of a heartbeat, it turned jet-black, a sphere of darkness so deep it seemed to devour the very light around it.
Leon's eyes widened. "Darkness…"
The orb dissolved into smoke and surged into his chest.
The world around him vanished.
He fell into a meditative state not of his choosing—his mind pulled inward, into the depths of his soul. He floated in an endless void, weightless, surrounded by silence deeper than any night.
And there, within him, a black flame flickered to life. Small at first, but steady.
The darkness element.
It was not warmth. It was not comfort. It was cold, heavy, suffocating—yet it carried a power that promised to consume all obstacles before it.
The flame burned against his soul, carving its mark.
Leon grit his teeth, his face twisting in pain, yet he endured. The shadows coiled around him, seeping into his blood, his bones, his very breath. His body screamed, but his spirit roared louder.
The void trembled. A barrier shattered.
When his eyes opened again, he was no longer the same.
A faint aura shimmered around him—weak, unstable, yet undeniable. His body, though battered, felt stronger. His breath deeper. His senses sharper.
Azhar's voice rumbled from above, heavy with command.
"Congratulations, little one. You have stepped into the first stage of the Spirit Warrior Realm. The path of transcendence has opened for you."
Leon's bloodied lips curled into a faint smile.
He had taken his first step.
Leon sat trembling, his breath ragged, the faint black aura still coiling around his battered body. The warmth of the awakening stone had vanished, leaving behind only the echo of that flickering black flame deep in his soul.
And yet… something was different.
His chest felt stronger. His lungs drew air with a weight they never had before. Every heartbeat struck like a drum inside his ribs, steady, powerful. His vision was sharper, the world brighter—even the faint glow of the frozen beasts around him seemed clearer.
He had become… a cultivator.
But confusion gnawed at his mind.
How?
He had heard stories in his previous life. Tales whispered through the village: how many failed to awaken, even if they were blessed with affinity. For most, breaking into the first stage of the Spirit Warrior Realm was like leaping across an abyss. Even if the ceremony declared their element, their bodies rejected the spirit energy, their souls collapsed, and they remained forever mortal.
Some called it luck. Others called it talent. But everyone agreed—few succeeded.
And yet here he was. Leon Sears. The useless son who wasted away his first life. The boy who had gambled away his father's coin and spat on his mother's love.
He had broken through where countless others had failed.
It didn't feel real. His chest burned with power, but his mind reeled with disbelief.
Why me? he thought, his obsidian eyes flickering with doubt. Why, when I was the one who least deserved it?
The silence of the frozen ruins offered no answer. Only the faint black flame within him whispered back, heavy and cold.
Leon thought, for a fleeting moment, that he had simply gotten lucky.
But the truth was harsher. The first stage of the trial had hammered his body and soul until both stood on the edge of collapse. Hours of bloodshed, five hundred kills, and the torment of exhaustion had pushed him to the very limits of what a human could endure. It was that relentless tempering—the breaking and reforging—that allowed the awakening stone's power to take root within him.
Yes, luck played its part. But luck alone could never have dragged him across that abyss.
For most people, the path was cruel.
Elemental affinity was the measure. Those whose affinity tested above sixty percent were considered almost guaranteed to step into cultivation. But such cases were rare—blessed children spoken of with envy.
The vast majority of humanity, ninety-nine out of every hundred, had affinity below fifty percent. For them, becoming a cultivator was not about talent, but about body and will—whether they could endure the pain of spirit energy tearing through their veins, whether they could hold firm when their very souls resisted change.
And above them all, beyond the reach of common men, were the few who tested above eighty percent affinity. Those chosen few were called prodigies—gifts of heaven and earth. Entire clans rose or fell on the birth of one such child.
Leon was none of these things. He had no clan, no legacy, no talent. What he had was a trial that had broken him into pieces, and the will to keep moving long after his body should have fallen still.
That, and a flicker of darkness that had chosen to dwell within him.
"Hm… darkness."
Azhar's voice rolled across the frozen sky, low and reverent, as though tasting the word itself. "Boy, I cannot say whether you are blessed… or cursed."
Leon swallowed hard, his throat dry. His chest tightened as he lifted his gaze toward the heavens. His voice cracked with unease.
"Is… is something wrong?"
The silence stretched for a heartbeat before Azhar's laugh rumbled, low and heavy.
"No. Not wrong. Merely… rare."
Leon's eyes widened.
"Only a handful in history have awakened the darkness element," Azhar continued. "And every one of them carved their names into eternity with power unmatched. They shook kingdoms, toppled sects, and made the so-called gods tremble."
A spark of hope flickered in Leon's chest. "Then… what's so bad about it?" he asked, his voice edged with fragile curiosity.
Azhar's tone darkened, like chains dragging across stone.
"They all became demons, little one. The darkness devoured them, whisper by whisper, until their humanity rotted away. In the end, they were no longer men, but vessels of corruption—mad, ravenous, and cursed by the very power that lifted them high."
Leon froze, his breath caught in his throat. His body trembled as the weight of the words crashed down on him.
So this was my luck? To awaken an element that turned gods into monsters?
His stomach twisted, his heart sinking like a stone. His lips parted in a bitter whisper.
"Damn it… I thought I was lucky…"
His gaze fell to the blood-stained rooftop beneath him. The shard in his hand suddenly felt heavier, colder. He lowered his head, his expression clouded in gloom.
Azhar's presence stirred, and for once, his voice softened—still deep, still commanding, but almost carrying the weight of a promise.
"Do not despair, little one. With me here, I will not let that fate claim you. At least…" His tone dipped, quieter, as though speaking to himself. "…I will try."
Azhar's voice rumbled again, rolling across the frozen ruins like a decree.
"Now listen, boy. You will be granted three hours of sleep, and ten minutes for food. When that ends… your trial resumes."
Leon's bloodshot eyes widened. Three hours. After what felt like weeks of endless slaughter, the very idea of rest sounded like salvation. His empty stomach twisted painfully at the mention of food.
He nearly collapsed where he stood, his body trembling with relief.
With a low hum, the air shimmered before him. A crude plate of roasted meat and a cup of milk appeared on the bloodstained stone.
The scent hit him like a hammer. His stomach growled so loudly it echoed in the silence.
Without hesitation, Leon snatched the food with hands still slick with beast blood. He tore into the meat, juices mingling with gore across his fingers, but he didn't care. Each bite was ecstasy, every swallow a reminder of how starved he truly was. The milk slid down his throat like liquid gold, easing the raw burn in his chest.
For the first time since the trial began, warmth filled him not from stolen spirit energy, but from food and rest.
Leon leaned back against a broken wall, blood and grease dripping from his hands, his eyes heavy.
"Three hours…" he muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "Just three hours… then back to hell."
His head sagged, and within moments he sank into sleep—deep, dreamless, and desperately short.
Above, Azhar's laughter echoed faintly, cold and amused.
"Sleep well, little one. For when you wake… the real trial begins."