Leon stood there, his obsidian eyes fixed on the figure across from him.
His body had changed—no longer the frail, trembling boy who once cowered at death. Two years of endless tempering, of blood and agony, had carved him anew.
He stood tall, nearly 6'2, his frame sculpted with lean, balanced muscle that radiated raw strength. Every movement carried the weight of honed precision, every breath the calm of a warrior forged in battle. His childlike softness had long since burned away, replaced by a sharp, commanding presence.
Handsome features, once masked by weakness and laziness, were now hardened by struggle. His jaw was cut like stone, his eyes deep and unyielding—like a predator that had survived countless hunts. He was no longer the boy Leon. He was a man, a cultivator, far stronger and far sharper than the wasted shell of his past life.
Yet across from him stood his doppelgänger.
The reflection of Leon smirked, mirroring his every line and shadow—but twisted. The same height, the same face, the same build of muscle tempered by trials. And yet, something darker lurked in its aura: a suffocating killing intent, an overwhelming bloodlust that clung to it like a storm.
It was Leon without restraint, Leon without compassion—the pure embodiment of every ounce of rage, despair, and corruption festering within him.
The doppelgänger shifted its stance, beast-bone weapons glinting in its hands. Its obsidian eyes burned with cruel light, eager, hungry, ready to lunge at him at any moment.
For the first time in a long while, Leon felt the weight of a predator's gaze pressing down on him.
And it was his own.
The black mist roared around them.
Leon and his doppelgänger launched forward at the same instant, two storms colliding.
CLANG!
Bone struck bone, sparks spraying as their weapons ground together. Their eyes locked—identical obsidian, identical fury. They moved as one, mirroring each strike, each feint, each breath.
Leon slashed left—his double slashed right. They spun, crouched, and struck again in perfect unison. Every blow canceled the other, every strike met its twin.
Hours bled into days.
The battlefield rang endlessly with the sound of bone shattering stone, of footsteps cracking the ground beneath them, of two identical auras clashing like thunder. Neither gained ground. Neither fell behind.
It was a deadlock.
Leon's lungs burned. His arms trembled, his muscles screaming from the strain. Sweat and blood drenched his body, dripping from his chin onto the ruined ground. His vision blurred, and yet… when he looked at his reflection, it was the same. The same exhaustion. The same pain. The same trembling hands.
Because every weakness he bore, the doppelgänger bore as well.
Days became weeks.
Their weapons shattered—both at the same time. They lunged forward bare-handed, fists crashing against fists, knees slamming into ribs, elbows shattering jaws. Their bodies broke and healed, bled and endured, over and over.
Sometimes Leon would land a clean strike, a crushing blow to the ribs or jaw—only for his double to match it with the exact same counter in the exact same instant. They fell together, they rose together.
There was no opening. No difference.
Weeks became months.
The black mist became their world. No sky. No ground. No time. Only battle.
Each step was heavier, each strike slower. Leon's body felt like a collapsing mountain, his soul a frayed thread about to snap. His spirit energy thinned, every ounce squeezed dry.
And still the fight dragged on.
His thoughts spiraled in the quiet between strikes. How do I kill him? he asked himself again and again. How do I kill what is me?
His double's smirk mirrored his despair.
Every time Leon grew desperate, so did it.
Every time Leon found hope, so did it.
Every time Leon thought, This is the end, his double thought the same.
That was the true weight of the trial: a perfect reflection, not only of his body but of his very soul. Every flicker of spirit energy, every strike, every intention—it copied.
It was himself. His greatest enemy.
Leon's chest heaved as he staggered back, obsidian eyes dull with fatigue. His reflection mirrored the movement perfectly, their weapons raised, their breaths ragged.
Three months.
Three months of battle without victory, without defeat.
His spirit cracked under the weight of it. His body screamed for release.
Leon spat blood onto the ground, his lips trembling. "If he is me… then how do I ever kill him?"
His reflection smirked with his own mouth, blood dripping from the same cut, the same words echoing back in the same voice.
"If he is me… then how do I ever kill him?"
The black mist roared again, as if mocking him.
Leon's grip tightened on his shattered weapon, his heart pounding with desperation. He knew now: if he fought the same way, if he thought the same way, this deadlock would never end.
If he wanted to win, he couldn't remain himself.
He would have to become something more.
Leon's fists had crashed against his reflection's fists, knuckles splitting, bones bruising, spirit energy burning just to keep his body moving. Every strike he threw came back at him, every dodge mirrored, every tactic stolen. It was a cycle without end, a prison of flesh and will.
His body was a ruin—skin torn, muscles screaming—but his eyes still burned. The reflection stared back with the same hollow fire. They were equals in pain, equals in endurance. A deadlock carved into eternity.
But as Leon staggered through another exchange, his foot scraped against something in the dust—a pale shard of bone, jagged and sharp, half-buried among the scattered remains of beasts long slain. For the briefest instant, his gaze flicked to it.
The reflection followed his eyes.
Leon's lips curled. Good. Watch me.
As the enemy lunged, Leon dropped low, spirit energy surging through his battered frame. His body moved differently this time—fluid, instinctive, his First Step blooming in full. He blurred, slipping past the mirrored blow. His hand closed around the bone.
Spirit energy flooded it, wrapping the shard until it hummed with a dim, violent light.
The reflection turned, copying—but too late.
Leon's form flickered again, vanishing and reappearing at its flank. The bone thrust forward, guided by both desperation and clarity. It pierced the reflection's chest, spirit energy exploding through the wound.
Cracks tore across its body, light spilling from within until it shattered like brittle glass, fragments dissolving into the wind.
For the first time in months, silence fell.
Leon dropped to one knee, the sharp bone still clutched tight, spirit light flickering weakly around it. His fists were ruined, his body broken, but his spirit stood tall. He stared at the fading dust, at the bone glowing faintly in his grip.
No mirror could follow him anymore.
He had stepped beyond.
The heavens roared. Black clouds churned, lightning carved across the sky, and the air trembled as if the world itself bent beneath a greater will.
Azahr's voice boomed through the storm, vast and commanding—each word striking Leon's soul heavier than any blow.
"You have done it, little one…" His tone was both mocking and proud, carrying the weight of ages. "You have endured the unendurable. You have passed all three trials."
The clouds split, spilling a cold, black radiance over the wasteland.
"These were not mere tests of flesh. These were your death… and your rebirth. The boy who entered is no more. What stands now is forged anew, scarred and sharpened—a being different from before."
A deep laugh thundered. "Rejoice, little one… hohahaha!"
The sky cracked open, and from its depths descended two gifts.
The first was a katana, sealed in a sheath blacker than midnight, its aura so heavy the earth quivered as it struck the ground before Leon. A presence clung to it—ancient, suffocating, yet resonant, as if the blade had been waiting for him since time began.
The second was a scroll, wrapped in black silk, its bindings marked with glowing runes that pulsed faintly, alive with hidden power.
Azahr's voice shook the air again.
"Here is your reward. The blade… born of shadow, memory, and eternity itself. And beside it, an ancient-grade sword technique—carved from my own path, the true legacy of a dark god."
The katana throbbed faintly, calling to Leon's spirit. The scroll's runes whispered at the edge of his senses, like the breath of forgotten warriors, waiting to be unleashed.
"Take them, little one. Claim what is yours. With these, you shall carve a path no mirror, no man, no god can stand against."
The storm stilled, but Azahr's presence lingered, heavy and absolute.
Leon bent down, his fingers trembling as they closed around the black-sheathed katana and the rune-bound scroll. The instant he touched them, a cold weight pressed into his palm—yet it was not a burden, but a promise.
He could feel it. These were no ordinary treasures. Even without understanding their depth, something in his bones whispered that the very heavens would tremble for them, that their value could shake all realms.
Yet he was still unaware.
To him, they were simply weapons… tools. To the world, they were legends reborn.
Leon held them close, his chest rising and falling, silence stretching across the wasteland. His bloodied hands gripped tightly, as though the act of letting go would mean losing more than his life.
Then—suddenly—his body shuddered.
A violent surge of energy erupted within him, roaring through his veins like fire breaking free of chains. His vision blurred, his spirit howled, and the ground beneath him cracked from the pressure spilling outward.
Leon's eyes widened. He could feel it—the cusp of another breakthrough, a transformation clawing at him from within.