The plaza held its breath for one quiet heartbeat—then erupted like a dam burst.

Cheers thundered from every corner, disciples shouting until their voices cracked. Flags waved, sleeves fluttered, and the stone ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of celebration.

Four out of five. A near miracle.

Aaryan, Rudra, Vayu, and Nitish had passed the second trial.

Only Swali had fallen short.

Elder Kiyan's joy could barely be contained. His face split into a grin so wide it nearly reached his ears. His eyes gleamed, shimmering with unspoken pride, and his voice, when it came, cracked under the strain of suppressed emotion.

"Hah! That's my grandson! That's my blood!"

He practically bounced on his toes, ignoring the awkward glance from the nearby Elders, who seemed more concerned with decorum than delight. Kiyan didn't care. Not today.

Around him, supporters of the other disciples roared just as fiercely. A group of outer disciples—mostly girls—had begun chanting his name, stomping their feet in rhythm.

"VAYU! VAYU! VAYU!"

He wasn't even there to hear it—still sealed inside Mount Veinsunder—but that didn't stop the crowd. If anything, their cheers grew louder, as if shouting could reach him through the Spirit Mirrors. Even disciples who were seeing him for the first time clapped in respect. There was something clean, sharp, and effortless about his movements—like watching a sword dance through wind.

Nitish's backers were louder, if not more refined.

"The Sect Leader's disciple has done it again!"

"Just like his master—he's got the mind and the mettle!"

One of the older outer elders shouted, cupping his hands like a trumpet.

"A true heir to the sect's future!"

A few elders huddled near the main platform, voices low and eyes narrowed. One stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Mm. Promising boy. The Sect Leader chooses well."

Another added, with a conspiratorial smirk, "And Vayu—Grand Elder Shiela's blood, isn't he? Shame she's not here to see it. Still, it doesn't hurt to let her know we were impressed."

A third chuckled.

"If she hears we praised her nephew in front of witnesses, she might just remember that favour I'm owed."

His tone held just enough truth to sting.

Meanwhile, a few elders made a point to walk over to Elder Kiyan, offering perfunctory congratulations.

"Your grandson's grit is commendable," one said with a shallow bow.

Elder Kiyan puffed his chest out.

"Of course it is. It runs in the family."

He raised his chin as if daring anyone to disagree.

But in the spaces between cheers, some eyes drifted to the boy no one spoke of… yet

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The congratulations and praises were still ongoing when the Spirit Mirror shimmered.

Ripples of pale silver danced across its surface like moonlight on water, and the image shifted. Cheers slowly faded to silence as the crowd leaned in, breath caught, anticipation mounting.

Inside the mirror's glowing surface, four lone figures appeared—each isolated in their own corner of a barren, unfamiliar landscape. A massive bronze door stood before each of them, engraved with a spiral of runes that pulsed faintly, as though alive. The doors groaned open. Inch by inch. A breath of ancient, stale air spilled into view.

Elder Kiyan narrowed his eyes, his earlier joy replaced with cold focus. He studied the formations, the runes, the pulse of energy within the door. Not even a flicker of pride touched his face now—only the gaze of a hawk stalking prey.

On the central platform, Sect Leader Pryag stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His long sleeves fluttered faintly in the mountain breeze. A soft smile curved his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

At the trial site, the four disciples—Aaryan, Rudra, Vayu, and Nitish—moved toward their respective gates. Each step was slow, deliberate, and soundless over the broken earth. The air in the new chamber felt heavy, not just with ancient dust, but with something more… watching. Testing.

What awaited them wasn't just a room.

It was a battlefield.

Colossal, crumbling halls—each a mirror of the others—stretched wide. Beams of light fell through broken ceilings. Boulders jutted from the ground like old bones. Twisted trees rose like frozen silhouettes—leafless, dark. Their roots clawed at the stone.

At the far end of each field, just before the final gate, sat someone or something.

Seated cross-legged before the second bronze gate, it looked almost like a meditating statue. Its humanoid body was forged from dark bronze, sculpted with a brutal elegance. Ancient runes lined its limbs and torso, their edges worn from time and decay. Its fingers rested on its knees, and its eyes—closed—lent the illusion of peace.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

But even at a distance, its presence smothered the air.

Behind the puppet, the second gate stood tall, even more imposing than the one they'd entered from. A thin ring of ethereal light glowed behind it, forming a gentle halo—barely pulsing, but unmistakably alive.

"A puppet," Elder Kiyan muttered, the edge of unease sharpening in his voice.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The statues were sitting still, with no movement in them. Aaryan studied it for quite some time and then decided to move towards it. Slowly, carefully he made his way towards the gate on the other side but as he was about thirty meters away from the statue, something changed.

The puppet did not rise.

It simply awakened.

Similar situation greeted the other three.

In each of the four isolated chambers, the bronze sentinels opened their eyes—twin suns of molten Qi—and began to radiate a low hum that made the walls themselves tremble. A dense killing intent rolled across the ruined fields. It was like standing in the gaze of a storm… one that had waited centuries to be unleashed.

The third trial had begun.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Vayu stood still for a breath, shoulders relaxed, eyes calm. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the faint breeze that slipped through the broken ceiling. He didn't rush.

Then the puppet stirred.

A circle of runes flared across its chest—and a flash of Qi lashed outward like a blade.

Vayu twisted aside, narrowly avoiding it. He flowed between the trees and boulders like silk on water, dipping low under a shockwave, skipping atop a crumbling stone to gain ground.

Another pulse. This one came from above—an arcing gust of energy that split the air. He spun midair and dodged again, his foot tapping down just ten meters from the gate.

He smirked slightly.

Grace can pierce storms, too.

But his foot had landed just too long.

The puppet's chest dimmed… then surged. A pressure wave burst outward in a full circle.

Too fast to dodge.

It hit him dead centre.

Vayu's body launched backward, slamming through a twisted tree and skidding across cracked earth. Blood smeared his lip. He groaned, forcing himself up.

Then he froze. The puppet… wasn't moving.

Its core had dimmed. A ten-breath silence followed.

He blinked.

It's… recharging?

But before he could rise again, the glow began to return.

He hadn't even made it halfway to the gate.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Nitish, in his own chamber, crouched low like a panther. Sweat beaded on his brow. The puppet had fired once already—no warning, no sound. Just a beam that had split a boulder in half behind him.

He didn't try to fight it.

He ran.

With every ounce of speed in his body, he darted along the chamber's edge, ducking behind tree roots and jutting stone. His plan was simple: keep moving, never stay in one place, and close the distance while the puppet recharged.

He made it fifteen meters in his first dash—

Too close.

A sudden gust spiralled toward him. It wasn't even aimed straight—just a wide burst of raw force.

Nitish leapt to the side, mid-dash—

Crack!

The side blast clipped his leg. He spun, hit the ground hard, and rolled behind a rock just before another beam scorched the air where he'd been.

Breathing hard, he flattened against the stone, chest heaving.

His thoughts raced.

That timing… it pauses for ten breaths between strikes. But the second you cross the halfway mark… it stops guessing and starts hunting.

His eyes narrowed.

This wasn't about speed.

It was about patience.

But even then… even waiting felt like gambling with death.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Rudra was the quietest of them all.

He hadn't rushed forward like Vayu. He hadn't darted about like Nitish.

He watched.

The puppet's first two attacks were devastating: one beam, one wave. He hadn't dodged them. He hadn't needed to. He was still crouched behind a boulder, observing every flare, every flicker in its core before each strike.

Then he moved.

Two steps.

Stop.

Wait.

Another strike.

The air screamed past where he'd been. He moved again—closer now. Still outside thirty meters.

His brow furrowed.

"The glow starts low," he muttered to himself. "Builds. Eight heartbeats to full power… then a pulse."

He inhaled slowly.

If I move within that gap… maybe—

He darted out—five strides—then dropped.

Qi roared like a gale, distorting the air before the burst even shot over his head.

He crouched again behind a broken slab. Closer now. Fifteen meters.

The puppet's core dimmed once more.

Ten breaths. That's the cooldown.

He counted aloud under his breath, lips barely moving. "One. Two. Three…"

On "six," he rose. Just a bit.

The puppet's core flared.

"What—?"

A Qi burst shot wide, not at him, but near him. It clipped his side with raw force, tossing him sideways like a leaf in the wind.

Rudra hit the ground with a grunt. Pain blossomed in his ribs.

Even wounded, he rolled behind cover again, coughing.

"That wasn't a full charge…" he realized. "It fakes the gap. Tracks movement."

His eyes narrowed.

This wasn't a statue.

It was a hunter.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

All three disciples remained trapped in their chambers, hearts pounding, muscles screaming, dust choking the air. None had made it more than halfway to the gate. And though they'd begun to understand the puppet's rhythm…

…it was not enough.

From the viewing platform, the Spirit Mirror shimmered with glowing light. Watching from afar, Sect Leader Pryag's smile still remained as it was.

Elder Kiyan's voice was low. "This… is no ordinary construct."

The crowd remained deathly silent. Not because of reverence.

But because they knew—

The third trial had no room for mistakes.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Nitish's breaths came short and sharp. His leg throbbed from where the puppet's gust had clipped him, each pulse of pain echoing louder in his ears than the trembling earth around him. Blood soaked into his pant leg, hot and sticky. Still, he crouched low, eyes locked on the puppet's molten chest, trying to count the seconds between attacks.

One… two… three…

He couldn't wait much longer. The gate loomed just beyond the next two outcroppings—barely twenty meters away. But with one leg faltering and the construct adapting to every movement…

He bit down on his lip and dashed.

It wasn't elegant. He limped into the sprint, his weight uneven, balance faltering on the second stride. A dull ache throbbed in his side. He knew he wouldn't make it. Not like this.

The puppet's chest flared.

Nitish's eyes widened.

A burst was coming.

"No choice…" he whispered and reached inside his robes with trembling fingers—toward a small, flat object wrapped in silk, pressed to the skin near his chest. The token his sect leader had handed him before the trial—his ticket to becoming the Mani Disciple.

Even if the entire arena saw, even if the Spirit Mirror caught it—he needed it now.

He fumbled at the edge of the silk.

Too slow.

The puppet released its strike.

A vortex of compressed Qi roared toward him. He barely turned in time.

The world shattered.

Nitish's body was hurled like a rag doll. He crashed shoulder-first into a towering boulder with a sickening crack, then crumpled to the ground in a heap. Dust clouded the air. The token slipped from his half-open hand, still wrapped, untouched.

He didn't move.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

On the viewing platform, silence stretched heavy and long.

One of the elders exhaled softly. "A shame… He was clever. Chose his moments well."

Another nodded, arms folded. "His mistake was hesitation. Against that construct, a moment is a lifetime."

Elder Kiyan only sighed. "Unfortunate. But at least he lives."

Sect Leader Pryag's gaze, however, did not soften. His eyes were fixed on the screen, lips drawn into a thin line. For the briefest moment, a shadow passed over his expression—a flicker of displeasure.

He'd seen it. The boy had reached for the token.

Nearly used it.

In public.

Pryag's jaw clenched.

His fingers tapped once against the jade rail, then curled into a fist. His gaze drifted to another spirit mirror.

He didn't speak—but his silence said everything.

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