Boom.
Spirit erupted like a sun inside Leon's core. The brittle barrier that had cradled his power for so long shattered in a single, roaring pulse — and with it, something impossible: ascension stacked upon ascension.
Spirit Warrior — Realm Six.
Spirit Warrior — Realm Seven.
Spirit Warrior — Realm Eight.
His chest hitched. His obsidian eyes blew wide in stunned disbelief. He felt as if the world had been remade from the inside out: currents of power tumbling through his veins, banners of energy unfurling in his mind, each new realm folding over the last like layers of night giving way to dawn. How could one breakthrough ignite three thresholds at once? The excess of the third trial's spirit—vast, crimson and hot—had flooded him, hurling him through gates he had only dared imagine.
Azahr's voice came then, not from the sky but from the hollow of Leon's skull — a low rumble that vibrated through bone and memory. It was nearer, intimate and terrible.
"Little one," Azahr said, slow and heavy, "you have completed all my trials. You have climbed farther than most mortals ever dream."
A taste of triumph and warning sat together in the god's tone. "You stand now as a Stage Eight warrior. That place you occupy… few know its name, and fewer still survive its truths. There are beings in these realms who would crush you without thought. In the great order above, you are still a child."
Light shivered across the wasteland as if the words themselves had weight. Leon felt the truth of it — a cold line of fear lacing the heat in his veins — but beneath that fear thrummed something else: readiness, a raw edge of hunger he could not deny.
"I have given you great gifts because there is work I plan," Azahr continued. "When you are strong enough, you will answer to me. Staging these trials cost me dearly; for that reason I must now enter a long slumber. I will not leave you wholly. I will remain in the sea of your consciousness — a presence you may not see plainly for a time."
"You will be able to see me," the god murmured, "when your cultivation reaches the Spirit Grandmaster stage. Then you will only be able see the form I now occupy in : a shadow behind the throne of stars."
Azahr's voice softened, and with it came instruction. "The sword technique I have given you is called Domain Piercer. It is not mere choreography or blade-work — it is a map for tearing the veil between will and world. Open the scroll and the forms will integrate into your mind; once read, the technique will seed itself in your spirit. Domain Piercer contains seven forms. Master them in order, and each will bend the field of battle to your intent."
Leon felt the scroll pulse like a heart against his palm, the runes whispering themselves into the edges of his consciousness. The katana's black sheath hummed in sympathy, as though it too had been waiting for his hand.
Azahr's final words were both balm and blade. "I have carved the path. The journey is yours. Walk it alone, but walk with care. This course differs from what I once planned; necessity forced change. Once you have grown strong enough, you will learn how to wake me again."
The presence that had filled the sky folded inward like a cloak drawn closed. Azahr's voice faded to a distant echo, leaving the wasteland hollow and humming with aftershocks.
Leon stood in the quiet that followed, the scroll warm in his grip, the katana at his side. Power still thundered in his core, new thresholds opening like doors in a corridor of stars. He was alive with possibility — and danger.
Somewhere in that roaring silence, the next step waited.
Though Azahr's words had carried weight, they were not the whole truth.
He had not lied to Leon, but he had not revealed the true price either. The cost he bore was far greater than guiding a mortal through trials. To make Leon what he was now, Azahr had spent something irreplaceable, something that could never be reclaimed.
He had burned a fragment of divinity to weave the impossible.
He had forced a reincarnation.
The so-called "trials" were only a fragment of that greater working—a crucible to shape the reborn soul. The true sacrifice was hidden in silence.
Azahr's voice, once vast and thunderous, now trembled faintly, growing thin as mist before dawn.
"Become strong, little one… Make me proud. Prove that my decision was not a mistake."
The sound faded, each syllable dissolving until it was nothing.
Silence swallowed the wasteland.
Leon's chest rose and fell, his obsidian eyes trembling with a storm of emotions. Before he could steady his breath, his vision rippled. The black mist warped and folded inward, collapsing around him like the closing of a dream.
His body swayed—then everything went dark.
When his sight returned, Leon was no longer on the battlefield. He stood inside his room. The familiar walls pressed in around him, the faint smell of wood and old parchment anchoring him to reality.
Yet he did not feel whole.
His hands gripped at nothing, trembling faintly. The black-sheathed katana rested against the wall, the rune-bound scroll at his side—proof that what he endured was no illusion. And yet, the weight of Azahr's fading voice lingered in his mind.
His expression hardened, but sorrow pressed at the edges of his eyes. For all his strength, for all his survival, Leon felt the heavy shadow of loss.
Complicated thoughts twisted in his chest. Gratitude, suspicion, and a quiet ache for the mentor who had vanished into silence.
But he still had a chance to meet him , which gave his mind ease , and now he focused on himself.
He was back. But he was no longer the boy who had once lived in this room.
But Leon had changed.
The boy who had once stepped into the trial at fifteen was gone. Two and a half years had passed in the crucible of blood and shadow, and what emerged was not the same.
Now he stood seventeen and a half, his frame towering nearly six foot two, every inch of his body tempered into lean, balanced muscle. His presence radiated strength—raw, sharp, and unmistakable. His once soft, boyish features had hardened into the cut of a young man forged in fire.
Handsome. Dangerous. A face no longer ordinary, but one that carried the kind of charm sharpened by suffering and survival. His black eyes—mystical, deep, strangely beautiful—glimmered with a quiet intensity. Any woman who met that gaze would feel her breath falter, drawn in without understanding why.
He was not simply older. He was transformed.
And within, his spirit core roared. Leon was now an Eighth Stage Spirit Warrior, a cultivator standing leagues above ordinary youths. Most children in the villages only began their awakening at fifteen, struggling year after year until twenty to coax their first element to life. For them, the attempt itself was a dream. For Leon, that stage had long since been crushed beneath his feet.
He exhaled slowly, thoughts sharpening. I don't need to worry about the awakening ceremony anymore. If anything… I'll use it as cover. If I "awaken" one more element, no one will question the sudden change.
But even as he planned, another, heavier thought clawed at him. His chest tightened as his gaze drifted to the walls of his room—the room that once belonged to a frail, wasted boy.
What would he tell them?
His parents, who had watched him vanish into weakness and return with a body two years older, stronger, harder. How could he explain the impossible growth in age, height, strength?
Leon's jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. The truth—Azahr, the trials, the price of reincarnation—was something no one in the village could ever understand. Not yet.
So he stood in silence, his mind weighed down by questions heavier than any blade.
Leon sat on the edge of his bed, his mind a storm.
Should I say… I ate a miracle herb?
He grimaced. No, no. That's insane. They'd never believe it.
Then… maybe a sage helped me?
He dragged a hand down his face. Fuck no. That's even worse. Who the hell would buy that?
He paced, muttering under his breath. Then I should say it just… happened by itself? Suspicious as hell. Kinda believable… but no, no, too flimsy.
His brows furrowed. Then his eyes widened. Wait… wait. That's it. I'll say I awakened beforehand.
It wasn't common, but it wasn't impossible either. There had always been rare cases—people with overwhelming affinity to an element, who awakened without the awakening stone. Rare, but not unheard of. And such awakenings were said to drastically reshape the body.
Leon grinned, a rare spark of relief breaking through his nerves. Yes… and I'll say that awakening changed my body. Fuck yes. That works.
For the first time since returning, he felt the tightness in his chest ease. He had his cover.
But before he could savor the victory, a gentle voice floated up the stairs, pulling him back to reality.
"Leon, come down. Amelia has come."
His heart skipped. His grin faltered. Complicated thoughts swirled in his obsidian eyes once more.