The air in his room felt lighter, but his body still remembered the weight.
Aeron stood beneath the dim light, his breath steady but shallow. His every movement carried a faint tremor, the aftershocks of the gravitational ordeal still pulsing in his muscles. The Shadow Dancer's Garb clung to his skin like a second layer of shadow, its fabric marred with faint tears from the strain.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the silence pressing close. For a long moment, he simply stared at his hands. They were steady now, but he could still feel the phantom heaviness lingering in his bones, like echoes of invisible chains.
The book materialized before him without being summoned, its black cover glinting faintly in the candlelight.
"You survived longer than I anticipated," it said.
Aeron's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Surprised?"
"Not surprised," the book replied. "Impressed."
He leaned back, exhaling. "That pressure… it wasn't just physical."
"No," the book agreed, its tone calm. "The array was designed to crush not just the body, but the will. To separate those who endure from those who resist."
Aeron tilted his head. "And what am I?"
There was a brief pause before the book answered.
"You are both."
A faint chuckle escaped him. "Not sure if that's good or bad."
"That depends," the book said. "If you continue walking this path, you will reach strength beyond comprehension. But the further you go, the less of yourself will remain."
Aeron fell silent, his expression unreadable. The words hung between them, heavy and sharp. He didn't answer—because, deep down, he already knew they were true.
He reached for a pitcher of water on the table, pouring himself a glass. His reflection in the liquid was unsettling—eyes pale and faintly glowing, faint green lines tracing along his neck and collarbone like veins of corruption. He looked like a man halfway between life and death.
A soft knock broke the silence.
He turned, cautious. The door creaked open slightly, revealing the elf girl from before—the one he had nearly petrified with his Death's Gaze.
She hesitated in the doorway, her silver hair dimly reflecting the candlelight.
Aeron blinked once. "You."
She frowned faintly. "You nearly killed me."
He didn't flinch. "I stopped."
"That's not the same thing," she retorted, stepping inside.
The tension between them was sharp but oddly quiet.
After a moment, she sighed. "I came to say… thank you. For not finishing what you started."
Aeron's brow arched. "That's new."
She crossed her arms. "Don't get used to it. I only came because the instructors said you were the only one who lasted the full twenty-four hours. That's… not normal."
"Normal's overrated," Aeron said dryly.
She studied him for a moment longer, her sharp eyes flicking to the faint green mist still curling lazily from his fingertips. "Whatever you're becoming," she murmured, "I hope you know how to control it. Humans are never this strong..."
He didn't respond, and after a heartbeat, she turned and left.
When the door closed again, the room seemed colder.
The book's voice drifted softly.
"She's right, you know. Power without control consumes everything around it—including its wielder."
Aeron didn't look at it. "I'm learning."
"Then you'll need to learn faster," the book replied. "Tomorrow begins the third round."
He stilled. "And this one?"
The book's pages turned on their own, stopping on a single black page etched in faint crimson script.
"Combat."
---
Morning came without warmth.
Aeron stepped into the grand hall, his movements precise despite the ache still coiled in his limbs. Around him, the remaining participants gathered in silence. The once-crowded chamber now held only a fraction of its original number. Faces that had once burned with confidence were gone—replaced by empty seats and echoing silence.
A massive sigil flared to life across the marble floor, lines of gold and obsidian weaving into an intricate circular design. Above it, a translucent display shimmered, showing the words:
"Third Trial – The Arena of Strain."
A soft murmur rippled through the survivors.
A figure stepped forward—an overseer clad in black armor, his presence heavy with authority. His voice carried effortlessly through the hall.
"This round," he began, "will not test your endurance, nor your intelligence. It will test your control."
Aeron's gaze sharpened.
The overseer continued, "Unlike the first rounds, this arena amplifies not your strength, but your flaws. Every burst of uncontrolled energy will be turned against you. The more recklessly you fight, the faster you'll fall."
Around him, the other contestants exchanged uneasy glances.
"The match will continue until one stands victorious—or until twenty-four hours have passed. Should you wish to yield, simply say 'Withdraw.' There will be no shame in it… only consequence."
The sigil beneath them pulsed once, releasing a low hum.
Aeron's expression remained unreadable. So, it wasn't just combat—it was restraint.
That made things… interesting.
The participants began to vanish one by one, teleported into separate arenas.
When Aeron's vision cleared, he found himself standing in a vast expanse of crimson sand under a sky that shifted between twilight and storm. The faint outline of an audience shimmered far above, spectral and indistinct.
A soft breeze stirred, carrying with it the scent of iron and ozone.
Across from him, his opponent appeared—an armored figure wreathed in pale lightning, their weapon a halberd that crackled with volatile energy.
The voice of the overseer echoed faintly from the heavens:
"Begin."
Aeron exhaled slowly, the faint green mist of his Plague Aura beginning to form around him. His opponent's lightning flared, searing the air with white-hot energy.
He smiled faintly, his Death Gaze flickering to life.
This was what he'd been waiting for.
---
The battle began with a thunderclap.
Lightning surged forward, carving the sand into glass where it struck—but Aeron moved like smoke, his cloak blending into the shadows as he sidestepped the onslaught. Each motion felt sharper, faster—the lingering power from the gravitational trial amplifying his reflexes.
His opponent lunged, halberd spinning in a deadly arc. Aeron parried with the shaft of his scythe, the clash ringing out like a bell. Sparks flew.
The Death Law whispered in his mind, hungry. The Poison Law pulsed in his veins, eager.
For the first time, he let them meet.
The air shivered. The dark mist around him merged with the toxic green haze, forming a swirling current that bent the light around it. When the halberd came again, Aeron's counterstrike sliced through the air—and the weapon's edge began to corrode, metal hissing as it blackened.
His opponent gasped, stumbling back, lightning crackling erratically.
"What—what is that?" they demanded.
Aeron's eyes glowed faintly. "Pain," he said softly. "Refined."
The words hung in the air as his aura expanded, thick and suffocating.
The book's voice echoed faintly in his thoughts, calm and knowing.
"You're beginning to understand. Death and poison—decay and corruption. Two sides of the same law."
He smiled faintly. "Then let's see how far it goes."
The next strike blurred through the air, swift and merciless.
---
When the storm finally settled, Aeron stood alone in the crimson sand, his opponent sprawled unconscious at his feet.
The overseer's voice rang out, even and cold. "Victory—Aeron."
The light of the arena dimmed as he was transported back to the central hall, his body heavy but his mind sharp. Around him, other fighters flickered back into existence—some victorious, most broken.
And through it all, Aeron stood quietly, his breathing calm.
For the first time since arriving at the academy, he wasn't merely surviving.
'one step closer to Immortality.'