Noctis crawled behind a jagged outcrop, eyes wild.
Now. When the two charge together—I turn, use Burst, and fight like hell.
He baited them, voice raw:
"You're not even the worst thing I've seen. Come on!"
They rushed together. Noctis slammed Burst. The world lit up—each wolf's movement mapped in torrents of gold, every piece of terrain vivid and precise.
He moved like lightning—dodging, ducking, rolling. He smashed a stone into one beast, kicked off a ridge, twisted midair, and stabbed downward. The blade slid through fur and bone—howls echoed as the wolf collapsed, the last snapping at his leg.
For thirty seconds, he was everywhere—dodging, slashing, biting back pain. The last wolf snapped, jaws locking onto his arm. Noctis blinked away tears, drove his blade up, pinning the head to a rock.
Burst faded. The pain crashed in—bruises, cuts, the wolf's teeth still sunk deep. Noctis drew a shaky breath, stomach sick, legs trembling.
One wolf left—wounded but raging. Noctis circled, vision tunneled, fighting exhaustion and fear. He forced himself to stand, battered sword held high.
"Last monster. Last shot. You and me."
He used the terrain, baiting the wolf to slip on the slick edge. It lunged, jaws open. Noctis spun, stabbed, feeling the cold chill of desperation drive his arms. The beast crashed to the ground, thrashing, but Noctis didn't relent. He pressed until it stopped, until its breath faded.
[01:05]
Only one minute left. Noctis slumped against the rocks, broken, blood pouring, jaw clenched. He glared into the void, every nerve burning.
[00:00]
The world went still. The wolves vanished, the echo of their howls fading.
Noctis barely stayed upright, every inch a battlefield.
The Echoframe filled him with shaky, minimal healing—enough not to die.
He panted, a scrap of smile on his lips, eyes glassy but alive.
"That… that was hell. But it's not the end."
The next threat awaited. Noctis was battered, wiser—and ready to face whatever came.
Noctis collapsed against jagged rocks, throat raw, legs trembling. He could barely see straight as the void flickered—a new message beating in his skull.
[Echoframe: Temporary Restoration. Wounds healed for upcoming trial. Limitation: Only effective for next test.]
Threads of white and gold, sharp as ice and fire, raced down his body—knitting skin, fusing bruised muscle, flooding him with borrowed strength. Exhaustion retreated, replaced by grim vigor. For the first time in hours, he stood tall.
The silence shattered. The ground shook beneath a thunderous stomp. Rising from the mist, the King Goblin appeared—towering, ancient, covered in rough scales and jagged metal plates. Its eyes burned molten yellow, teeth filed to spears. Flanking it, ten goblins fanned out, lean and savage, war cries echoing through the void.
A pulse hit Noctis's mind:
[Duration: 1 Hour. Objective: Survive. Echoframe Burst Skill: 1 Minute (Consequence: Dread Fatigue). All previous threats present.]
Noctis scanned the terrain—a labyrinth of spikes, pits, split ledges, every inch a death trap. The goblin mob swarmed, faster and smarter, darting over obstacles like they had eyes everywhere.
He backed up, blade gripped tight, adrenaline flooding every vein.
"Couldn't just send one, huh?" he muttered, half to Echoframe, half to the world itself. "Bring it on."
The fight exploded. The goblin mob pressed in—claws, daggers, clubs flashing. Noctis wove through, using terrain: narrow gaps funneled goblins into his reach, leaps across boulders kept him ahead. He dodged, countered, retreating just enough for their swipes to miss.
A club smashed his ribs; he stabbed back, pain flooding. The swarm closed, forcing him up a spire of rock. He kicked, elbows, blade slicing as goblins tried to drag him down. Sweat poured down his face, footsteps slipping, but he refused to lose ground.
Time dragged—ten minutes…twenty…thirty. He rationed his Burst, refusing to trigger it early.
Too soon—save it for the king's rage.
He baited the basic goblins, weaving them into traps, smashing them against stone, letting their numbers thin. His sword dulled, body battered, but will burning bright.
Finally, with only four left, the King Goblin roared—charging, the ground shaking with every step. It swung a spiked maul, breaking boulders to dust.
Noctis dodged, barely. Even a glancing blow sent him sprawling. He scrambled, battered and bruised, blood running down his arm.
He forced himself up, voice shaking:
"All this for one hour, you freak? All this for survival?"
The King Goblin attacked—Noctis rolled beneath, stabbed upward; his blade skittered off armor. The goblin hit back, kicking Noctis into a pit. He caught the ledge, barely, climbing back, gasp after gasp.
He stood, bled, feinted, used every scrap of training.
The mob pressed in—one goblin sliced his thigh, another nearly took out his jaw.
Now. If I wait, it's death. If I fire Burst, I get one shot.
Noctis triggered Burst. One minute.
The world slowed, sharp as glass. The King moved, slow but deadly—each hit predicted seconds ahead. Noctis leapt, dodged, rolled, struck. He drove his blade under a plate, forced it through, kicked off, flipped behind, stabbed again.
The King bellowed, maul swinging—Noctis slid over its arm, carving a path up its back, landing behind, slashing wickedly at a weak spot in its knee joint. Goblins attacked in pairs—Noctis caught one, smashed its head against rock, ducked another, punched so hard his knuckles split.
The King spun, striking a ledge—Noctis dodged, stabbed at its throat, missed, and kept moving. Every part of his body burned, every breath a war.
He saw three left—one hiding in the rear, waiting.
Burst began to fade. Noctis went for the kill—leaping atop the King, slashing at its exposed eye, feeling the blade go home with a wet crunch.
And then, a whisper—too late. A goblin, hiding all fight, rushed him from behind. Its blade plunged straight into Noctis's heart.
Everything stopped. He fell, numb, cold, vision tunneling to a single point.
Pain overwhelmed thought. White, hot, relentless. Not sharp—all-consuming.
He crashed to his knees, lungs spasming, mouth opening in a silent scream that never ended. The void pressed in, enormous, swallowing. The taste of iron and ash coated his tongue, thicker and thicker every instant.
His vision shriveled into darkness. Noctis felt his blood stop moving, felt his lifeforce pour out—slow, drop by drop, each a new wound. His core burned, a thousand knives beneath every bone, every nerve twisted. He clawed at the ground, desperate for something real, something alive.
But time drifted: one second stretched to forever.
Memories flickered, bitter and refused comfort—his mother leaving him in the rain, Rob's betrayal, Magi's terrified eyes. For a million years—one minute in the void—Noctis lived every regret, every failure, every scar.
He saw the faces he hated, the faces he loved, all looking down, all turning away.
He screamed. But no sound escaped; instead, pain echoed, circling around him. Each agony became a chain, pulling him deeper into the emptiness.
Noctis tried to move, to rise, but his body was locked; his flesh belonged to the void now. He wanted to cry, to rage, to beg for release—but time refused.
Only pain. Only the endless weight of death.
"Please…" he whispered, mouth barely moving, "not yet. Not like this…"
Seconds piled into centuries. His heart thudded once, twice—each beat a nail in the coffin. Darkness swelled. He was dying—over and over and over—a child left in the cold, a friend betrayed, a fighter finally broken.
But just as the light slipped from his thoughts, a thread shifted—a pulse, gold and white, cold and sharp.
The Echoframe found him : Emergency Override. Revival Sequence Triggered
A jolt ran through Noctis, tearing him out of eternity, wrenching him into agony. Muscles screamed. Bones scraped. Air roared back into his lungs, brutal as a slap. He gasped, hands clutching at his chest, eyes wide with new pain, but pain that was—finally—alive.
Noctis collapsed, sobbing, every nerve on fire. The void felt different—cruel, but once again finite. One minute had passed—an eternity paid in full.
A searing jolt of white and gold threads flooded his chest. Pain swallowed pain, forcing his heart to start again, air back to his lungs. For sixty seconds, nothing existed but agony, memory, and the burning promise:
You do not die yet.
Noctis gasped, eyes wild. The King Goblin, wounded, raged in circles, mob melting into shadow as the world blurred.
Summoning his last strength, Noctis gripped his sword with both hands and charged—screaming, full of fury, heartbreak, and second life.
The king turned, too late. Noctis dove for its throat, slicing deep, driving with all he had left. The beast fell, crashing in earth-shaking death. The last goblin cowered, tried to run; Noctis hurled his broken blade, catching it between the shoulders.
Silence. Blood, breath, and pain.
Noctis slumped against a stone, blinking as time ran out, the Echoframe whispering—
[Test Passed. Limit Reached. Powers Recalibrating.]
He lay, gasping, mind echoing with old betrayals, new scars, and the memory of death only barely denied.
But he was alive—unstoppable, battered, unbroken.
The void waited, still hungry.