The ruins shook with a palpable energy, every fissure and shattered stone resonating with the residual power of past battles. The air was thick with dust, the smell of ozone, and the lingering tang of blood. Voryn's chest heaved, shadows coiling protectively around him, but his mind was sharp, analyzing, predicting, preparing.
Stage 3… they're here, he thought. And they think they can overwhelm me with raw power. How amusing.
From the shadows of broken columns and collapsed arches, three Stage 3 awakens emerged, their presences radiating brute force and deadly precision. One wielded jagged blades that gleamed faintly with unnatural energy, another carried a distorted, massive shield pulsing with an ominous aura, and the last seemed almost ethereal, phasing in and out with a flickering, unpredictable speed.
Voryn allowed a faint, dark smile to curve his lips. Perfect. A proper test.
Shadows writhed in response to his thoughts, tendrils extending into the environment. Broken stones lifted subtly, dust swirling to obscure sight lines. Voryn's strategic mind calculated angles, trajectories, and environmental advantages. Every pillar, every fissure, every fragment of debris was a tool now.
Brute strength versus calculation… let's see who wins.
The first attacker lunged, blades slashing in arcs that could have severed an unprepared man in an instant. Voryn's shadows coiled and shifted instantly, forming dark tendrils that intercepted the strikes, absorbing impact while redirecting kinetic energy back into the ground. Dust erupted around the enemy, momentarily blinding him.
Voryn moved through the chaos with uncanny precision. Every step was calculated, every shadowed maneuver designed to manipulate the battlefield subtly, guiding enemies into traps, into positions of disadvantage. He did not rely on brute force; instead, he became the master of the environment, the shadows, and the battlefield itself.
The shield-bearing Stage 3 charged next. Its massive weight caused the floor to tremble with every step. Voryn predicted the trajectory, extending shadow tendrils to lift chunks of debris into the path. The impact deflected the shield, unbalancing the enemy just enough for Voryn to exploit the opening.
Sacrifice is necessary, he mused darkly. With a deep breath, he siphoned a controlled amount of life-force through the Black Oath, amplifying the shadows' strength. Pain flared in his veins, a burning reminder of cost, but the enemy staggered, caught perfectly within his pre-arranged trap.
The ethereal Stage 3 flickered unpredictably, phasing across the battlefield, attempting to exploit gaps in Voryn's defensive web. Shadows reacted faster than thought, splitting, merging, coiling an intricate dance of deadly efficiency. Voryn's eyes flicked from point to point, calculating timing, predicting movement, orchestrating a symphony of shadows and terrain manipulation.
"You're predictable… once you act, I know where you'll be," he muttered under his breath, dark amusement lacing his voice.
A low chuckle escaped the enemy as they recovered from a trap, energy pulsing unnaturally. "You're not ready… Voryn." The words carried no malice, only certainty, and the subtle arrogance of a fighter confident in raw power.
Voryn's grin did not waver. No matter. Every challenge was data, every attack a variable to be exploited. Shadows snaked along the walls and pillars, picking up fragments of stone and rubble, creating razor-thin projectiles and flexible barriers that adapted in real time. The battlefield became a living instrument under his control.
The first real test came as the ethereal Stage 3 attempted a simultaneous strike with the other two. Voryn's mind split the battlefield into vectors, angles, and probabilities. He reacted instantly: shadows shifted, diverting attacks, absorbing impact, and repositioning enemies.
The shield-bearer's momentum was redirected into the fissure of a collapsed arch; the bladed attacker was tripped into a pitfall lined with razor-sharp stone shards manipulated by Voryn's shadows. The ethereal one phased too close to a shadow amalgamation, becoming momentarily trapped in a writhing cocoon of darkness, struggling yet unable to phase out fully.
Even as he controlled the battlefield, Voryn's body protested. Veins burned faintly, a reminder of the personal cost exacted by manipulating the Black Oath to this extent. He had siphoned far more energy than was comfortable, every move costing not just strength but vitality. He paused briefly to breathe, sweat dripping down his face.
Pain sharpens the mind, he reminded himself. Every ounce of strain teaches me… every drop of blood fuels strategy.
One of the Stage 3s, the ethereal fighter, finally broke free, energy flickering erratically, eyes wide with realization. "Impossible…"
Voryn allowed himself a quiet laugh, dark and deliberate. Not impossible… just calculated.
He surged shadows toward the remaining enemies, manipulating debris, shifting terrain subtly, and forcing them into positions where their strength was neutralized by environmental disadvantage. Every move was precise, every counterplay considered, every sacrifice measured.
But even in victory, cost loomed. One of the pillars supporting the ruin's ceiling, destabilized by his manipulations, began to crack. Dust and stone rained down as a collateral consequence of battlefield control. Voryn knew civilians could still be at risk, and his own stamina was near its limit. Sacrifices were necessary to maintain advantage, but each one carried a real, human toll.
Finally, the last Stage 3 staggered, overwhelmed by environmental traps and precise shadow control. Voryn's shadows coiled around him, restraining yet not destroying enough to demonstrate dominance, enough to claim victory while preserving intelligence.
He breathed heavily, eyes scanning for further threats. Every shadow pulsed with residual energy, his body screaming with the toll of controlled life-force expenditure.
And then he heard it: a low, mocking laugh. Clear, deliberate, and utterly chilling.
"You're not ready… Voryn."
The voice reverberated through the ruins, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Shadows hissed in response, alerting him to the presence of something far more powerful than the Stage 3s he had just overcome.
Voryn's pulse spiked. His eyes narrowed, calculating, assessing, predicting, but a dark thrill ran through him.
So, the real game begins, he thought. And I intend to master it.
The ruins shifted subtly, responding to unseen forces. Stage 4 adversaries, previously observing, had begun to position themselves, calculating, waiting, testing boundaries. The Black Oath pulsed aggressively, whispering layered warnings, teasing, tempting, pushing Voryn toward choices that would cost more than he had yet endured.
Voryn's shadows recoiled suddenly as a distant pulse of power, stronger than anything he had faced in the ruins, tore through the structure. A figure emerged, vast, masked, radiating Stage 4 aura, a presence that dwarfed even the Stage 3 threats he had just neutralized.
"This is not just a battle," he muttered under his breath, chest heaving. Shadows tightened around him, defensive yet eager, responsive to his intent.
And the figure spoke, a voice like steel and darkness combined:
"Welcome, Shadow Slave, to the trial that decides who commands the Veins of Darkness. You are not ready."
Voryn's pulse spiked. The stage had escalated beyond any previous encounter. The ruins quaked with anticipation.
The real war… had begun.