The courtyard falls silent as the towering stone archway shudders, ancient mechanisms grinding to life. Faint symbols glow along its surface, pulsing with a rhythm too slow to match a heartbeat, too deliberate to be natural. Beyond the threshold, a dense fog coils and shifts, swirling like a living thing. It stretches into the unknown, swallowing all light beyond its edges.
The Sect Overseer stands at the forefront, his presence commanding. His gaze sweeps across the gathered competitors, measuring, weighing, and judging them not by their past accomplishments but by the trials they have yet to face.
"You have survived the first trial." His voice, deep and unwavering, carries through the stone courtyard, pressing down on all who hear it. "But endurance alone does not make you worthy. Strength is nothing without will. Power is meaningless if the mind shatters at the first true test. If you cannot step forward, you were never meant to advance."
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken challenges.
"Enter. If you can."
The meaning is clear. This is not an invitation. It is a command.
The fog ripples, almost in anticipation, as the first competitors approach the archway.
The second trial is not a test of combat or physical endurance. There is no enemy to fight, no terrain to manipulate. There is only a path forward.
Thirty steps.
That is the distance between the archway and the other side.
But this is no simple walk.
Every ten steps, the fog deepens, pulling competitors into visions of their past, their fears, their regrets.
Those who cannot escape their illusions will remain trapped within them, their bodies frozen, their minds lost.
And those who falter?
They will never reach the end.
Outside the mist, the world remains unchanged. The sect elders and spectators watch the trial unfold from their vantage point, their expressions unreadable.
To them, the competitors simply walk.
Some move forward steadily. Some hesitate. Some stop entirely, trembling before collapsing where they stand.
Their struggles remain unseen, their battles invisible.
But the overseers do not need to see the illusions to know what is happening.
The ones who falter will not advance.
It is that simple.
As De-Reece crosses the threshold, the cold mist coils around him, thickening with every step. The moment he reaches the tenth step, the world around him warps, twisting into something familiar.
He is no longer on the trial grounds.
He stands in a place that should not exist here—a village, but not the one he last saw.
The dirt paths are packed firm beneath his feet, the faint scent of morning dew lingering in the air. The quiet hum of voices drifts through the wind, distant yet unmistakable.
Then, he sees them.
Two figures emerge from the haze, standing side by side.
Conan.
Thadeus.
His brothers.
But something is wrong.
They do not run to him. They do not call his name.
They stand still, their eyes locked onto him with an expression he has never seen before.
Cold. Detached. Hollow.
And then, Conan speaks.
"You forgot us."
The words are not shouted. They are spoken with a quiet finality that cuts deeper than any blade.
Thadeus steps forward, his younger features contorted in anger. His voice shakes, but not with fear—with betrayal.
"You left us behind, De."
"We were lost, and you moved on."
"Did you even look for us bro?"
"You became stronger while we suffered."
"Weren't you meant to protect us some big brother huh"
"Did we even matter to you?"
The accusations pile onto him, pressing against his chest like an unbearable weight.
His throat tightens.
His hands curl into fists.
This is not real.
It cannot be real.
But the pain is real.
Because in the depths of his mind, in the places he does not speak of…
Hasn't he wondered the same thing?
Kalia moves forward through the mist, each step light but deliberate. She does not hesitate.
Until the world around her changes.
The familiar scent of damp earth reaches her before she sees it—the small wooden houses, the well at the village center, the distant hills beyond the tree line.
She is home.
But the moment she steps forward, the voices rise.
They come from all directions, overlapping, layering, suffocating.
"You abandoned us."
She turns, her eyes widening.
They are all there—her people.
The ones she fought for, the ones she thought she had protected.
But their eyes hold no warmth.
No relief.
Only accusation.
"We needed you."
"You walked away."
"You chose your path, and it wasn't with us."
"We wanted you to stay but you only saw outside this village"
Her chest tightens.
Her breath becomes unsteady.
She knows this is an illusion.
But is it wrong?
Outside the mist, the trial continues in silence.
The overseers and spectators see nothing but progress.
Some competitors move forward, their steps steady. Others slow down, pausing as if trapped in an invisible war.
A few falter, their bodies trembling before they collapse.
They do not get back up.
One by one, names are marked off the list.
The Sect Overseer remains still, his gaze impassive.
Only one thing matters now.
Who will make it to the other side?
The air thickens with an unnatural weight, pressing down on De-Reece's chest with each passing moment. The world that should not exist—the village that should not be here—remains vivid, too real to be an illusion, too wrong to be anything else.
Conan stands before him, expression unreadable, the stillness in his posture speaking louder than any accusation. Thadeus, younger, sharper, trembles with emotion, his voice raw with something deeper than anger.
"You left us, De."
The words settle in his bones, heavier than the bloodstained battles he has fought, heavier than the weight of survival.
Conan tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, calculated. "You could have searched harder to find us no?"
Thadeus' hands clench into fists. His breath comes fast, uneven. "You got stronger. While we—" His voice breaks. His hands shake. "While we suffered, didn't you wonder why you never saw us."
De-Reece does not move.
For the first time since stepping into this trial, since entering this world—he hesitates.
His instincts scream at him.
This is not real.
He has seen illusions before, tricks of the mind, the body, the senses. He has fought opponents who wielded a deceptive tongue as well as a blade in his old world.
But this?
This wasn't that.
This is not a lie he can easily reject.
Because the truth is—he does not know what happened to them.
He remembers arriving in this world, his mind disoriented, his body foreign in its own skin. He remembers reaching for his brothers and grasping nothing but air.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks became months. And still, he found no trace of them.
The thought had been buried beneath the urgency of survival, beneath training, beneath battles that required all of him to focus on the present.
But now—here they stand.
His hands twitch at his sides. Not to attack. To hold on.
But there is nothing to grasp.
Conan exhales slowly, disappointment flickering in his gaze. "Did you even look for us?"
Thadeus shakes his head. His voice trembles with resentment. "Or did you decide it was easier to forget?"
De-Reece's jaw tightens. "You're not real." His voice is firm, but the certainty he expects to feel never comes.
Thadeus steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath sharp and uneven. "Does it matter?"
The fog presses closer. The illusion twists, grows, tightens its hold.
Beyond the mist, the spectators watch in silence.
Some competitors stride forward, each step measured. Some pause, their bodies trembling.
Others collapse entirely—eliminated.
The overseers see only what is on the surface.
They do not hear the voices echoing in De-Reece's mind.
They do not feel the weight pressing down on his shoulders.
But they see one thing.
He has stopped moving.
The illusion does not waver.
If he stands here too long, if he allows their words to dig deeper, he may never leave.
This is not a battle that can be won by force.
It is not a fight against an opponent he can overpower.
This is a battle against himself.
And the only way to win?
Is to move forward.