The cavern was silent once more, yet silence had changed.
It was heavier now, as if the very air weighed against thought and breath. The stone altar in the centre had shifted imperceptibly overnight. Its spiralling grooves now seemed deeper, carved with the patience of centuries. Shadows clung to its edges like ink on parchment, shifting as if alive.
Li Wei groaned, staggering upright. "I… I can't think straight. Did… did that thing see something in me?"
Wang Jian's eyes were wide, trembling. "It tests… existence. Something is pressing… on everything we are."
Zhao Min remained on the floor, shivering, unable to rise. Her scanner flickered weakly, then died.
Chen Yu approached the altar slowly, his footsteps light, measured. He did not hurry. He did not fear. He did not hope.
This is no mere test of strength, he thought. It is a measure of the spirit contained in the flesh.
He knelt before the stone, palms hovering above the surface, feeling the vibration in its grooves. Then the cavern changed.
A pressure unlike anything yet swept through the space. Not from above, not from the walls, but from everywhere at once.
Li Wei shouted and fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Pain cut through him like shards of ice. His instruments were useless. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
Wang Jian braced against a rock wall. His arms shook, yet he tried to protect Zhao Min, dragging her upright. "Endure it! Endure it!"
But the pressure was impartial. It did not test loyalty, courage, or attachment. It tested the ability to exist—the body, the breath, the will to continue without faltering.
Chen Yu inhaled. The force pressed into his chest, his ribs, his shoulders. His lungs burned. His vision dimmed.
He could have fought it. Many would have. He could have clenched, braced, tried to force the world to yield.
But he did not.
He exhaled slowly, letting the weight flow through him like water. He let his muscles relax. He let his breath deepen naturally, following the rhythm; the stone seemed to hum. The pain did not vanish. It spread evenly, settling into every fibre rather than concentrating to crush.
And for the first time, Chen Yu sensed the subtle pulse of the altar answering him, like a heartbeat mirrored.
Li Wei screamed as a sharp crack echoed through his chest. Wang Jian's arms trembled violently. Zhao Min's body went limp.
Chen Yu's hands rested lightly on the grooves. He traced the lines slowly, almost reverently, noticing the way the stone guided him. Each spiral was a history, a record of those who had come before, and the choices they had made.
He did not panic. He did not force. He did not cry out.
Instead, he listened.
Minutes—or was it hours?—passed in suspended time. The pressure ebbed for those who could not endure; it intensified for those who fought it. Chen Yu felt it, not as a threat, but as a question:
Can you exist here without distorting the world with your fear or desire?
He answered with stillness.
When the force was finally released, the aftermath was grim.
Li Wei lay slumped, blood trickling from his mouth. His chest rose and fell shallowly, but his mind was fractured. Wang Jian clutched a rock, eyes vacant yet alive, his spirit shaken by the failure to endure. Zhao Min did not rise. Her body trembled, silent and broken.
Chen Yu stood. He did not feel victorious. He did not feel lucky. He only felt the echo in his blood, the subtle tremor of something ancient stirring—something that had recognised restraint, patience, and understanding.
The altar remained quiet, yet alive. Its spirals seemed almost to shimmer, faintly, as if acknowledging that a worthy observer now knelt before it.
Chen Yu lowered himself to the stone, placing both palms upon its surface. He closed his eyes and allowed the pulse beneath his fingertips to synchronise with his heartbeat.
In that silence, he realised something profound:
Strength alone invites the altar's scorn. Desire alone invites its torment. Only those who yield without fear, who observe without greed, may awaken what sleeps within.
And deep within him, long-dormant fragments of his Ancestral Bloodline stirred—quietly, almost invisibly.
The Trial of Bearing had not yet ended. But Chen Yu knew: the altar had taken notice.