The blue light snaps shut behind us and leaves Felisia and me on coarse sand that crunches like broken pottery. A briny wind slides across the ground and rattles dead reeds that poke through cracks.

We stand at the edge of Mill Island, the arena for the second trial.

A blocky stone obelisk towers over us and carries runes that flicker with a faint green glow.

Salt crust coats every edge of the pillar, and the glow pulses in a slow heartbeat that sets my teeth on edge.

Felisia steadies her breath while her eyes sweep the shoreline.

"No more Grave-Isle," she whispers, "but this place looks worse."

I walk up to the obelisk and press my palm to the rough face because a command line etched there demands attention. The glyphs unfold into clear words that float an inch from the stone.

Each contender must face a solo dungeon. Retrieve one key. Return to the pillar. Unite two keys to pass.

Felisia reads beside me, and a gust pushes strands of her hair across her cheek. She tucks them back and tries to smile.

"At least no surprises. Pretty simple."

"Simple on paper," I say. I glance inland where a crooked trail winds across pale scrub toward a ring of ruined walls. Faded banners flap on spear stumps around the broken gate. An eerie hush hangs over the path, no birds, no insects, only distant surf grinding against rock.

A steel gong booms overhead, and I glance up because a scrying crystal the size of a cart wheel floats in the sky. Nobles watch through that eye, and I picture their smug faces. They cheer for Veyl and jeer at every slip I make. The memory helps because anger keeps fear away.

Felisia rests her hand on my forearm.

"You focus on your dungeon. I will handle mine. We meet here with the keys."

Her voice shakes on the final word, so she clenches her jaw and nods once as if sealing a pact.

I nod back and grip her hand.

"Survive. We'll finish together and win."

She squeezes my forearm, steps away, and marches toward a stair cut into the bluff on the left. I watch until the fog swallows her armor's silver gleam.

I turn toward the ruined gate because the obelisk flare reveals a faint arrow that points there, and I feel the tug of trial mana pulling at my core.

* * *

Inside the wall I find a worn courtyard littered with millstones cracked in half. Mangled gears and splintered shafts jut from the mud like ribs. A squat arch of scorched brick opens at the far end and breathes a sour vapor that rolls across my boots. Above the arch a rusted plate displays a single sigil: a clenched fist that drips sparks of molten light.

Someone repainted the symbol recently, yet the paint already flakes because the air here corrodes everything.

I step under the arch and descend a spiral of chipped stone. Torches blaze to life one by one, but each flame burns green and cold. The stair ends in a vault of hewn basalt where gears turn without sound along the ceiling.

A door of iron bars blocks the far side.

A plaque hangs at eye level.

Contestant Jacob Cloud.

My spine tightens.

I picture Felisia's uncles toasting each other while they watch and wait for my failure.

I push the bars, and they groan open.

A wedge of dim light spills across me.

The door slams shut after I pass, and iron teeth lock with a clang.

No return without the key.

The dungeon corridor stretches ahead, lined with floor plates that carry faint rune etchings.

The Grimoire flickers in my mind, each page sliding over the next as flaws pop into view. I see tripwire runes buried under dust, pressure studs set to release darts, and hidden sigil crystals that flood gaps with acid. My breath slows. I map the traps, then start forward in a measured pace. I use Fire Walk in short bursts because I must conserve mana.

I'm tired, damn it.

We didn't have time to rest, and the other teams have probably already started their trial. Felisia and I tried to postpone as much as we could so that I could get a few more minutes of Meditation in, but this is a trial where time matters above anything else.

Ten meters in, a dart whips past my ear. I lean left and let it slam into the wall. I push on because there is no time to admire reflexes. Blades snap from slits at ankle height; I leap and land beyond the arc, blade tips singing past my heel. Another step and a floor panel sinks. A gout of violet flame roars over my head, so I flatten to the ground. The heat singes my cloak, but I roll clear and rise again.

The corridor widens into a chamber ringed by statues of armored soldiers. Each holds a halberd tipped with an emerald spike. The Grimoire shows me hairline cracks at each socket. I stride through, ready. As I cross the midpoint every statue twitches. Halberds swing down in perfect cadence. I dive, spin, and weave through eight whistling arcs. Sparks shower the floor where stone meets stone. I reach the exit with a pounding heart, but I keep moving.

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Three more rooms test me with pendulum axes, collapsing ceilings, and swarms of flesh-eating beetles. I slice the axes' ropes, dodge falling stones, and burn the insects to ash with a tight cone of flame. My mana sinks, yet I press on because fear of what waits behind pushes me forward.

Finally the corridor ends at a stone arch. Beyond lies an arena paved with fractured basalt tiles. Torches blaze high on pillars and paint everything in orange.

At the center stands a hulking figure twice my height.

Spiked black plate covers its chest and shoulders, and a jaw guard studded with iron teeth hides its face.

Heavy chains hang from its belt, each ending in a hooked mace that drags sparks across the floor.

[Ogre Warlord – Level 175]

The Ogre Warlord turns when it senses me. Red eyes gleam through the visor slit. A voice like grinding boulders rolls out.

"Challenger. Weak. Break bone. Crush spine."

"Holy fuck," I swear out loud. "Why is it that strong?!"

I immediately activate Veins of Fire and abandon every plan I had to save my energy.

The chains rattle as it lifts both maces. The pillars around the arena hum. A shimmer tells me a shield locks us inside.

"Dammit!" I swear, looking around and actually thinking about running.

But there's no escape until one of us falls.

"This is too far!" I scream. "You bastards!"

I swallow hard because I feel the air ripple with brute mana that dwarfs my reserves. This creature belongs in a late Gold dungeon, not a second trial test.

I steady my breath and raise a Hell's Sword woven from Fire, Ash, and the sliver of Darkness I learned to command.

It has small black veins and its power is incredible, but the monster in front of me is…

Too much.

The Ogre roars and charges.

Each stride cracks the basalt.

I dash aside and slash at the side of its knee. The blade bites, but sparks spray. The armor holds. The Ogre spins and swings a chain. The mace whooshes at skull level. I duck, and the chain whistles past my hair and smashes a pillar. Stone shards rain across the arena.

I counter with Hellspire, trying to skewer him, pouring molten energy into my muscles through Veins of Fire and using Echo Pulse to better track this colossus. I leap high and thrust the spear at the the Ogre's neck.

The impact rings like an anvil.

The skin barely dents and does not split.

Fuck!

The Ogre backhands me with a gauntlet the size of a shield. Pain flares in my ribs, and the blow flings me across the arena. I slam into a wall and taste blood.

Observers watch through the floating crystal above.

I feel their sneers even though I cannot see their faces.

* * *

But, the nobles are actually not laughing.

There's a cacophony of sounds of outrage.

The viewing cliff erupts as soon as the scrying crystal shows the Ogre Warlord. Nobles surge to the rail and shout over one another.

"Who ordered that thing into the trial?" A baroness points at the image, and her bracelets clatter.

"That beast outranks every rule we set," a viscount bellow, while his face reddens.

Guildmaster Dorn spreads his hands. His silk sleeves tremble, yet he forces a placid smile.

"Unfortunate, I agree. The registrars must have chosen a normal ogre. It evolved right before the match. Such mutations happen."

A merchant heir cups his mouth and jeers.

"Convenient tale, Guildmaster Dorn. Monsters do not sprout plate armor overnight."

Another voice rises from the rear ranks.

"He rigs the field for coin. Throw him in a cell."

Laughter rolls through the nobles who stand outside Dorn's sphere of influence. Guildmaster Dorn's jaw tightens.

"The Guild stands neutral. We follow recorded threat tiers. Blame chance, not me."

Sir Greyson strides across the platform. His boots strike stone with a muted ring, and his cloak snaps behind him. He plants himself before Guildmaster Dorn and speaks in a tone that carries to every ear.

"Chance did not haul a warlord into a second-round dungeon. You are a spineless dog who sold that slot for favors. I shall slay you like the stray dog you are."

Guildmaster Dorn's eyes darken. He lifts his chin because he will not yield pride before common knights.

"Watch your tongue, Sir Greyson. You guard a minor child. I guard the Hunt. I could—"

Greyson steps closer.

"You could what? Hide behind forms while that boy bleeds?"

Guildmaster Dorn's fist bunches. He draws breath to retort, yet the moment freezes when a gauntlet clamps around his neck. Sir Renquell stands behind him as if he stepped from thin air. His armor gleams although no light lies overhead. He lifts Guildmaster Dorn with one arm and speaks without heat.

"This cur will survive a fall. That makes my act lawful."

He pivots and hurls Guildmaster Dorn over the parapet.

The Guildmaster vanishes into mist below. A faint splash echoes from far beneath the cliff.

Gasps break from the assembled nobles. A few ladies clutch their collars. Lord Clearwater himself raises a hand, yet lowers it again when Sir Renquell turns toward him.

Lord Clearwater's voice remains steady.

"Our customs are clear. Rescue voids the claim. If we pull Jacob Cloud out, he forfeits. No kin may yield for him. The trial stands."

Sir Renquell faces the crystal. He crosses his arms, and his gaze fixes on Jacob's battered form. "Then we wait. I wish for the miner to win." His tone rings like forged iron.

Greyson steps to the rail. He folds his hands behind his back and watches as well.

A dozen nobles who earlier fawned over Veyl now lean toward the mirror that shows Jacob Cloud.

One duke whispers, "If he survives this, the High Court itself must note it. Damned be the Elf."

His neighbor nods and forgets the match Veyl conducts on a distant isle, though that bout brims with perfect sword forms and shimmering sigils.

One of the aunts who plotted the scheme clutches her fan so hard that he sticks snap. No one spares her a glance. The crowd centers on Jacob alone.

A few minor nobles cluster at the lowest tier.

They pump fists and chant, "Cloud! Cloud!" Their raw voices echo against marble.

Even higher nobles join in. A young lord lifts his hat and waves it.

"Stand, Jacob Cloud! Break that monster!"

Across the platform admiration swells for each ragged breath the boy draws. Veyl's elegant duel plays across a secondary crystal, yet hardly a head turns. His lightning arcs and flourishes earn only scattered applause.

Sir Greyson murmurs with his eyes getting almost teary.

"Come on, Young Jacob. Come on."

Lord Clearwater releases a breath because he alone hears the grudging respect in every voice. He folds his arms and faces the crystal.

"Prove them wrong, Jacob Cloud. Survive, and this house shall forever recognize your valor."

Far below, a splash sounds again. Guildmaster Dorn's angry curses rise faintly with the wind, yet no one leans over the rail to see if he climbs back. Their eyes belong to the miner who fights alone against steel and doom.

Sir Renquell watches without blinking.

"Hold on, boy," he murmurs under his breath.

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