Chapter 6: Shadows Remember
The arena for the third trial wasn't skyborne or arcane. It was a coliseum of pure obsidian, grounded deep in the earth, carved into a circle that ancient kings once bled in. The air was thick with mana, humming with memory.
This wasn't just a stage—it was a throne of old power.
And at its center stood Prince Laedric of Caedros.
Draped in flowing battle-robes of silver and dusk-blue, with a blade forged from living lightning, he bowed once to the royal balcony—where his father, King Aramon, watched in silent pride.
This trial was no free-for-all.
This was duel combat—one-on-one.
And Andrew was called forth.
Whispers filled the arena as the two stood across from one another. A commoner from Selvarath, sword sheathed in shadows, facing the crowned prince of the sky-born kingdom.
Laedric's voice was calm as he pointed his blade toward Andrew.
"You've done well, streetborn. But this is where your story ends. You're not ready for the summit."
Andrew drew Ashren, and the shadows stirred.
"I've never cared for summits," he said, stepping forward. "Just the climb."
The signal blared. The fight began.
Laedric moved like thunder incarnate—fluid, fast, devastating. His blade cracked the ground with every arc of lightning-charged strikes. Andrew blocked what he could, dodged what he couldn't. But it wasn't enough.
Laedric was better. Stronger. Sharper.
Andrew's ribs cracked from a glancing blow. Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred as he was thrown into the stone wall, Ashren clattering a few feet away.
Above, the king watched with pride. The crowd cheered the prince's precision.
Laedric stalked toward him, blade sparking.
"Stay down," he said coldly. "It's not shameful to fall before royalty. You never belonged here."
Andrew coughed, barely pushing himself to his knees.
"No…"
He reached for Ashren. Shadows pulsed faintly. But this time… something stirred deeper. In his blood. In his bones. As if the sword was listening to his breaking point.
And then—it answered.
Ashren flared with dark light, swallowing the air around it in cold silence.
Andrew's eyes went black.
He was no longer in the arena.
He was in a world of ruin.
A shattered continent, skies blackened by ash, oceans turned to smoke. Cities crumbled into dust beneath massive banners of shadow. And at the center—
Himself.
Or… another version. Taller. Clad in black armor etched with old blood and sorrow. A blade twice the size of Ashren in his grip, whispering with power.
Behind him, an army—of former heroes, kings, and monsters—all bound by shadow. All reborn.
This Andrew had no hesitation.
No doubt.
He was called The Endblade.
The last Grand Swordmaster of the Final Age.
And he had destroyed everything that stood in his way.
But he didn't conquer for cruelty. He conquered for clarity. A dream so brutal and beautiful it consumed the world.
The vision shattered.
Back in the arena, Andrew gasped as if surfacing from deep water. Ashren pulsed with new strength—shadow mana leaking through the air like smoke.
His wounds sealed—imperfectly, painfully—but enough.
Laedric stepped back, eyes narrowing. "What…?"
Andrew didn't speak.
He moved.
Faster. Sharper. Every strike of Ashren echoed with the weight of centuries. He didn't just block Laedric now—he read him. Predicted him. Punished him.
The prince staggered back, overwhelmed.
The crowd fell silent.
Ashren cut through Laedric's aura with a howl, knocking the prince to his knees. Andrew stood over him, blade at his throat.
The silence was suffocating.
Above, King Aramon rose from his throne—expression unreadable.
Andrew's shadow stretched far behind him. Too far. It twitched.
He lowered the sword.
"I don't need a crown," he said quietly. "I just need to keep climbing."
Ashren pulsed once more. Then quieted.