The ground split with a deafening crack as stone and ash flew into the air. From the dark chasm below, a creature emerged—massive, bone-armored, and blind. Its face was a warped skull, horned and hollow, breathing out a mist that turned the ground frost-white.
Lyrius didn't hesitate.
The moment the beast roared, he moved—his instincts sharper than thought. The mark on his hand surged, lines of glowing energy crawling up his arm like lightning veins.
His body shifted. Not transformed, but aligned—with the flow, the world, the breath of combat.
"You don't force your will. You ride the current."
The words of his first mentor echoed in his skull as he dodged a sweeping claw that shattered a nearby wall like paper.
The girl stayed still. Watching.
"You're not helping?" Lyrius shouted, sliding back from the impact.
"I'm not suicidal," she said, calm as ever. "Besides… this is your trial."
"My what?!"
But she didn't answer.
The beast lunged.
Lyrius spun low, sliding beneath it, and slammed his palm against its ribcage. A blast of pure force exploded outward, sending the creature stumbling sideways. Not injured—just stunned.
That wasn't enough.
He needed to awaken more.
He reached inward—to the reservoir beyond his mark, deeper than his known strength. That place where Essence slept.
The world dimmed around him. Sound dulled. Time slowed.
In that silence, he heard it again.
"You are not a wielder. You are a listener. And the world has begun to scream."
A second mark flared to life—just above his heart, unseen beneath his cloak.
The beast lunged again, mouth open, death looming.
But this time, Lyrius moved differently. He didn't strike with force.
He struck with intention.
His hand passed through the beast's chest—not physically, but through the flow of its Essence. He gripped something invisible, and pulled.
The creature shrieked. Its body convulsed, then collapsed in a heap of smoke and fading bones.
Silence.
Lyrius stood still, chest heaving, his palm crackling with fading light.
The girl walked toward him, finally.
"You just pulled its spirit out," she said, as if discussing the weather.
"Didn't know I could do that," Lyrius muttered, blinking at his own hand.
"You couldn't. Not before today."
She held out a pendant—silver, shaped like a broken ring. "Take it. You've stepped beyond now. This will lead you to your next answer."
Lyrius didn't move. "Who are you?"
She smiled for the first time. "I'm the one who makes sure heroes don't die before their story begins."
Then she turned and walked into the mist, vanishing without a trace.
Lyrius stared at the pendant in his hand, feeling the chill it gave off.
The path forward wasn't clear—but it was calling him.
And he would answer.