The Grand Plaza had never been so quiet.

Hundreds of disciples held their breath as the spirit mirror rippled—showing the seven figures vanish from their positions one after another. It was strange. One blink, and they were gone from the mountain trail; the next, they stood side by side atop the veined stone platform.

Then the staircase revealed itself—cold, unnatural.

And all hell broke loose.

Low murmurs surged like a wave among the watching disciples.

"The trial's already begun? This should be the first test?"

"They're all being taken together?"

"No… no, look. It's only one staircase."

Not one had expected the bone-white staircase, too pristine to belong in Veinsunder. It rose from nowhere, cutting into the sky, gleaming with a cold, spectral sheen. Like ribs of a long-dead god, each step curved just slightly, forming a path that looked more alive than carved.

The murmurs peaked—then dropped again, almost instantly.

Because Vayu moved.

"Why aren't they all climbing together?"

"Maybe… the staircase only accepts one at a time?"

Cheers erupted from the stands the moment his boot touched the first stair. Especially from the eastern rows, where a cluster of Evernight Pavilion's female disciples had been waving banners etched with silver streaks.

"Go, Senior Vayu!"

"Look at him—he's not even hesitating!"

But then… the cheers wavered.

The cheers turned to gasps. Then concerned silence.

Because Vayu wasn't gliding up like the proud prodigy everyone remembered. His back hunched. His muscles locked. By the third step, even the most enthusiastic faces had begun to tighten in worry. By the fifth, some of the younger girls had gone completely still, hands half-raised, unsure whether to clap or cry.

"He's… struggling?" someone whispered.

The stairway wasn't just steep—it crushed. Not physically. Not at first. But the toll showed in the way his breathing shallowed. In the way his lips drew back tight over gritted teeth. His robes clung to his body by the eighth step. By the time he vanished into the mist near the top, his face was pale, eyes slightly unfocused.

Only when Vayu reappeared at the summit—shaking, swaying, but standing—did his supporters erupt again. This time, it wasn't excitement. It was relief.

Someone exhaled loudly. "He made it."

But the hush returned just as quickly.

"Second place sure lives up to his name," a voice scoffed from the southern rows. One of Nitish's supporter sat smugly, arms crossed. "That's your best? Even he looked like he might fall flat."

Before anyone could rebuke him, movement shimmered in the mirror once more. Another figure stepped forward.

Nitish.

The sneer on the boy's face widened. "Watch closely. This is the difference between second… and first."

The crowd shifted. Eyes fixed forward again, drawn to the still-misty projection.

Nitish's ascent was… quieter. Smoother, at first. His steps were deliberate, almost elegant. The inner disciples watching sat taller, as if his grace was their own.

But the seventh step changed everything.

Nitish's legs slowed. One heel clipped the next stair. His spine curved under invisible pressure. His robes fluttered as though caught in a storm only he could feel.

The same boys who had bragged for him now leaned forward, tense.

By the tenth step, he stopped completely. Just one breath. Just a moment. But enough. Enough for someone from the earlier section to mutter, "First place? He's only a step ahead at most."

It wasn't shouted. But the voice carried.

A girl with silver earrings—one of Vayu's more outspoken admirers—turned toward the Cloud Pillar disciple from before. "So the number one is only so-so after all?"

The boy scowled, but couldn't answer. Not with Nitish's knees trembling just above the mist line.

Nitish reached the summit soon after, chest heaving, but posture intact. His supporters clapped, more cautious this time. Still, the achievement was real. He had done better than Vayu—but not by much.

One of the elders on the raised dais stroked his beard thoughtfully. "As expected," he murmured. "Those two are in a league of their own. I suppose the next will be—"

He didn't finish.

Because the figure stepping forward next wasn't Hemant. Nor Rudra. Nor Swali or Swati.

It was Aaryan.

Even the wind seemed to hush as he stepped forward.

There was something… casual in the way he approached the staircase. No grand flourish. No puffed-up chest. Just a boy in ordinary robes, expression unreadable, walking toward a path that had nearly broken two of the sect's finest.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The Grand Plaza had fallen into a hush.

Disciples leaned forward. Elders sat straighter. Even the spirit mirror stilled—its swirling surface mirroring the boy in ordinary robes as he approached the staircase.

No one said his name aloud.

But every gaze followed him.

His foot touched the first stair—

And the mountain pushed back.

Hard.

A sudden weight slammed into his chest, like a landslide pressing down on his lungs and spine. His knee buckled half an inch. His breath hitched.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

What the hell—

He steadied.

Eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed. His hand twitched at his side, then curled into a loose fist.

The pressure was real. It wasn't imagined, and it wasn't gentle. It pressed down with a will. It didn't try to stop him—it tried to make him submit.

But it wasn't unbearable.

That realization came a heartbeat later, creeping in through the ache in his legs.

It wasn't comfortable by any means. But compared to how Vayu had looked… how Nitish had reacted on this first step…

'Why isn't this harder?'

He took another step.

The pressure climbed with him—but again, only slightly. There was strain, yes, but it didn't feel suffocating. More like a tug-of-war with a much bigger opponent… one he wasn't quite losing to.

'This should've sunk me.'

Third step. Fourth. Fifth.

His breath came steadily. His spine remained upright. The whispers in the crowd had gone faint again—this time not from awe, but from confusion.

In the Plaza, no one was quite sure what they were seeing. The boy wasn't flying up the stairs. He wasn't glowing or unleashing spirit arts. But neither was he collapsing.

'I don't get it. This trial almost crushed Vayu. It nearly stopped Nitish. How am I still…'

He paused briefly on the seventh step. His hand shifted.

And then he felt it.

A slow thrum in his right arm. A low, muted pulse—not from his heart, but from something deeper. Something carved into him.

He pushed up his sleeve.

The veins on his hand glowed faintly—thin lines of glowing ink running beneath his skin, flaring and retreating like fire through cracks. They weren't tattoos. They weren't scars.

They were runes. Alive. Dormant until now.

The Dominion Tyrant Physique.

He clenched his fist.

'That's it. The pressure's still here. But it's not sinking in. It's like the runes are… taking the hit for me.'

A wave of unease prickled down his spine. He hadn't activated anything. Not consciously. The marks weren't supposed to do this. The physique technique wasn't even complete.

The runes were only on his hand.

But they were reacting.

'Why now?'

As he passed the ninth step, the weight suddenly doubled. A fresh wave slammed into him like thunder—

And the runes flared.

His arm pulsed.

Then the air shifted.

A faint ring of distortion flickered around his body—gone in an instant. No light. No glow. Just a subtle nullification. The pressure that had surged toward him cracked like a brittle shell.

'What was that?'

Aaryan blinked. His chest rose and fell once.

Then he kept climbing.

He wasn't gliding. Each step still took effort. But the worst of the pressure never reached him. It tried. And something inside him refused.

The watchers didn't understand what they were seeing.

From the stands, disciples leaned forward, confused.

"Is he... just stronger than he looks?"

"Why isn't he struggling?"

"Maybe it only gets hard later?"

Nitish said nothing. His eyes narrowed, hands clenched tightly in his sleeves. Vayu's expression was unreadable, but he hadn't looked away once.

On the raised platform, the elders were murmuring now.

"His climb is too smooth," muttered one, watching with narrowed eyes.

Another frowned. "The pressure's still active. The formation hasn't changed."

"But look," The first one said softly. "The way he moves... like he's resisting with something else."

Everyone was wondering about the same thing.

The spirit mirror reflected Aaryan on the twenty-first step.

Still walking.

Still standing.

The Sect Leader's lips curved slightly. He murmured. "Fascinating…"

His gaze burned. Not with awe.

But greed.

Back on the staircase, Aaryan reached the twenty-fifth step. Mist curled at his feet, then his shoulders.

The pressure peaked. His vision flickered slightly.

But again—the runes pulsed.

And again—the pressure failed.

His eyes passed into the mist—sharp, unreadable.

Then—

He emerged at the summit.

The spirit mirror trembled for a heartbeat, then settled.

There he stood.

A boy in plain robes, no longer climbing.

Just standing. One foot ahead of the other. One hand at his side, fingers slightly curled. The runes had gone still again—quiet under his skin.

The plaza was silent.

No cheers. No gasps. Just quiet confusion.

Some looked impressed.

Most looked uncertain.

The sect leader, however, smiled faintly.

Not like someone who'd witnessed talent.

But like a man who'd just seen treasure.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The mist veiled much of the summit, but not the tension.

Nitish stood stiffly near the edge, arms folded, not looking at Aaryan but very much aware of his presence. "It's not supposed to be that easy," he muttered under his breath.

Aaryan didn't reply. The wind tugged at his robes, carrying with it the faint hum of the mountain. He watched the staircase in silence, his expression unreadable.

Vayu, on the other hand, exhaled softly and gave a small smile. "You really did it," he said, a note of warmth in his voice. "I knew you were tough, but… this was different. I'm glad you made it."

Aaryan's gaze flicked to him. "Thanks," he said, voice low.

Below them, the base of the staircase stirred with fresh noise.

"Cheating, that's what it is!" Hemant barked, fists clenched at his sides. "That test is broken! Or that bastard Aaryan used some trick."

Swali blinked. "He climbed right in front of us, Hemant."

"There was no trick," Swati added, though her voice was still uncertain. Her eyes hadn't left the summit since Aaryan vanished into the mist.

But Hemant wasn't listening. "No one climbs that easily. No one!" His shoulders squared. "I'll show you what a real climb looks like."

He stepped onto the staircase with a determined snarl.

And the mountain answered.

Pressure slammed down like a storm, thick as wet stone. A deep, low thrumming filled the air—like the heartbeat of something ancient.

Hemant stumbled immediately, legs jerking from the invisible force. The crowd murmured from the plaza. The spirit mirror shimmered faintly, flickering under the strain of channelling the pressure's weight as Hemant staggered through the first few steps.

He grit his teeth and pushed forward.

Step five. Step six.

The sweat started fast, trickling down his temple as he locked his jaw. Every muscle screamed. His back bent under the weight. His limbs began to shake.

Step ten.

He gasped.

The final five glowing steps shimmered faintly into view far above.

A flicker of hope.

Hemant forced a step forward—eleven. Then twelve.

But by the thirteenth, his arms were trembling like reeds in wind. His knees touched the ground. Every breath rattled like a broken bellows.

"Get up," he hissed. "Get—up—!"

Fourteenth step. His vision blurred.

He lunged for the fifteenth.

And the pressure snapped.

The invisible force crushed down with finality. Hemant's body convulsed—then launched backward. He hit the stage below with a heavy thud, coughing violently, his face pale and soaked with sweat.

Silence fell.

Even the crowd watching the mirror said nothing for a few long seconds.

Swali stepped toward him, worry flickering in her eyes. "You alright?"

Hemant wheezed. "He… he still cheated."

The sting of failure burned more than the bruises. But he wouldn't admit it—not to them. Not to himself.

Swali didn't respond.

Instead, she looked at the staircase. Her eyes lingered on the mist near the summit. Then she stepped forward without a word.

The pressure hit hard.

She staggered, but steadied herself. One step at a time. Her form was controlled—nothing flashy, but unwavering. Ten steps. Fifteen. Her pace slowed, knees shaking. Twenty steps. Her breaths came in shallow gasps.

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

Step twenty-one. Mist curled around her legs.

Step twenty-two. She dropped to all fours.

But she kept going.

Twenty-three. Her body trembled. Twenty-four. Her eyes glazed for a moment.

Then, with a scream torn from her throat—

Step twenty-five.

She collapsed forward, face hidden in her arms, chest heaving like a bellows. But she had made it. Her foot touched the summit.

Nitish's brow twitched. He didn't speak, but his eyes flicked briefly to Swali—then to the mist again, where Aaryan stood.

'Another one made it. Just barely. But it stung.'

Vayu's brows lifted slightly. "She's tougher than she looks."

Aaryan glanced toward her. "She's got resolve."

Nitish only scoffed.

Back at the base, Swati stared at the stairs.

She swallowed.

And stepped on.

Her progress was quick at first—strong, determined. Her form was sharp, spine straight. Ten steps. Fifteen. Nineteen.

Then her legs gave out.

A gasp echoed.

Swati's body crumpled backward. A soft thump as she hit the base again, unconscious.

Swali, still panting on the summit, winced at the sound but didn't move.

Only Rudra remained.

He stood silently as the others looked at him—some expectant, some sympathetic. Hemant avoided his gaze entirely.

Rudra's eyes weren't on them.

They were fixed on the summit.

On the mist.

On Aaryan.

He inhaled once, slow and steady. Something tightened in his chest—not fear, but something deeper. Older. The realization he couldn't dismiss anymore.

He admired Aaryan.

Not out of awe, not out of weakness—but because Aaryan had beaten him. Not with a blade. Not with flashy techniques. But again and again, Aaryan had stood taller than anyone had expected him to. Taller than he had expected him to.

Aaryan had gone from a nobody to a rival.

No.

Not just a rival.

A friend.

Rudra exhaled and stepped onto the staircase.

The mountain met him with force.

But Rudra didn't flinch.

He braced. And climbed.

Step by step.

Toward the summit.

Toward the boy in the mist.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.