The cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, his movements smooth as oil over stone. His steps were silent—but they pressed into the floor with the weight of judgment. His voice rang out—sharp and cold—reverberating off the cavernous stone walls like a blade scraping bone.
"This place does not welcome people. It's not meant for astrocrats. Best you turn back."
His hand slid beneath the folds of his robe and withdrew a wide, curved blade—its surface blackened with age, the edge chipped, yet faintly pulsing with some dark, forgotten rhythm, as if whispering secrets in a dead language.
Ryan didn't flinch. His stance was calm, but his gaze locked onto the man's soul. It twisted—a gnarled thread of shadow energy that writhed near his core like a snake coiled in frost.
He glanced sideways. Maya stood calm, but he knew: the energy radiating from the mysterious figure—if funneled right—Maya could touch it. Draw from it. Match it.
But it was the figure behind her, cloaked in stillness, who radiated true peril.
The underground space vibrated with unspoken tension. Dim lanterns swung from rusted chains above, casting elongated, twitching shadows across cracked stone pillars like skeletal hands grasping for air. The air reeked of iron and damp rot, with an undercurrent of something older—a scent like burnt parchment and ancient dust, a whisper of the arcane.
Maya's smile was edged with steel. Her eyes glinted—cold fire caught in ice.
"I am the son of the Draven, and this is my region!" Ryan shouted, his voice cracking across the stone like a whip. "I'll be wherever I want!"
A stunned hush rippled through the room. Every eye turned toward him, wide with disbelief. This wasn't just a den. This was the Underground—the dark veins of the city, where rumors were born and fear was fed. Even the boldest men spoke of it only in whispers, and here he was, claiming it like a baron claiming his garden.
Before the silence could settle, three shadows burst forward. They moved as one—blades out, feet ghost-light against the stone.
Maya didn't blink.
But Ryan did. Like a storm given form, he moved. In a breath, he stood before her—steel in hand. Metal screamed as blades collided. Sparks burst like fireflies, flickering and vanishing.
The cloaked man remained unmoving—a statue carved from shadow, silent, watching. His presence was like a black hole of attention, drawing all focus yet revealing nothing.
Ryan scanned the space. He'd seen others try to flee—only to crash into an invisible wall, thick as stone, quiet as space.
No way out.
He clenched his jaw, and from beneath his coat, he drew the golden blade—the relic taken from Draven's vault. The metal shimmered faintly in the lanternlight—but the magic lay dormant, a sleeping beast refusing to wake.
And worse—his soul power felt numb, like a limb fallen asleep.
His gaze locked on the cloaked man again. That figure... there was something.
Then—the blade shimmered. A sudden, brilliant gleam, as if something ancient stirred awake.
No time to ponder.
Ryan lunged. Golden lightning streaked through the dark.
The man spun away, but the second slash sliced the cloak. Cloth tore and drifted down like black feathers in a dying wind.
Beneath: darksteel and leather armor, sleek and battered, with pouches crossing his chest like the belts of a wildland scout. The armor gleamed dully, scarred with battle and time.
A voice gasped—sharp and panicked.
"That's Phantom Liro!"
The name slammed through the crowd like a shockwave.
Silence. Then dread.
Ryan froze.
"You mean that Phantom Liro?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
Maya stepped to his side, her voice a murmur soaked in warning.
"He's the Kingdom's most wanted. Ruthless. Fast. A mind as sharp as his blade. They say he once slaughtered an entire noble house... in the time it takes to draw breath. His strength—some compare it to a tactical nuke."
Ryan didn't step back. If anything, his eyes sharpened. Curious. The tension only whetted his hunger for understanding.
Then—a tremor. Subtle, but deep. The ground shivered, like something vast stirring beneath their feet.
A new group entered—cloaked shapes, masked, eyes like coals. Their weapons gleamed, and the very air around them coiled with the scent of blood and ash—the unmistakable aura of Underworld elites.
Maya's hand clamped Ryan's wrist—tight, urgent.
"I think this place is about to fall apart," she whispered.
The newcomers turned to flee—only to hit that same silent barrier, a wall of air thick as frozen glass.
Then—light.
Not a flicker. A blinding, all-consuming blast that swallowed the chamber whole.
In a blink—they were elsewhere.
Gone were the stone walls. They stood now in a living cathedral of green. Towering trees spiraled into the sky like ancient serpents, their bark gnarled and cracked like dried riverbeds. Vines hung thick as ropes. Fractured temples, cloaked in moss, rose between tangled roots and fallen idols. The jungle breathed, alive with whispers and the rustle of hidden life.
Above, sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a mosaic of gold and emerald across the forest floor.
It felt sacred. Untouched. As if even time itself hesitated here.
Then, a voice boomed from nowhere—ethereal and disembodied, like a thunderclap echoing through a cathedral of stone:
"You must retrieve the Sigils that are placed in different locations across this region.
Each team needs to collect three Sigils to proceed to the next round and pass this trial.
Be cautious—each Sigil is unique and may possess different characteristics.
There are thirteen teams, and each must collect three Sigils. I repeat…"
The message echoed again, its tone hollow and ancient, as though the very air remembered the words.
Then—silence.
The glowing circle beneath them dimmed, dissolving into the ground like a sunken memory.
Ryan and Maya exchanged glances—an unspoken agreement flickering in their eyes like struck flint—and moved. They didn't even know what a Sigil looked like.
Was it a rune? A relic? A spirit?
Around them, others stirred—but few searched. Most watched each other, tense as coiled wire, waiting for a chance to strike.
Then a blast tore through the trees—a sound like the sky cracking open.
They ran toward it.
Smoke twisted through the air, and somewhere in the distance, something sizzled like burning silk.
A green light flickered, casting eerie shadows on the bark. From a high branch, glowing letters shimmered, as if written in living flame:
GREED
A Sigil.
Several tried to climb—but the moment they reached, they were hurled back, screaming. The Sigil lashed out with invisible fury, like a cornered animal protecting its hoard.
Chaos erupted.
Then—a blur, swift as moonlight on a blade.
A shadow moved through the fray, leapt, and seized the Sigil. The word twisted into a shard and disappeared into his palm with a sound like snapping crystal.
He landed lightly, cloak settling around him like falling ash, eyes scanning the crowd.
Phantom Liro.
The battlefield froze. No one challenged him. His presence wasn't just intimidating—it was oppressive, like a storm cloud pressing down on your lungs.
The crowd scattered, each team sprinting into the unknown.
Ryan and Maya exchanged a nod and split—like arrows loosed from the same bow.
They had ten minutes.
If another fight broke out—and Phantom Liro returned—no one else would stand a chance.
As Ryan ran, something glistened above—like sunlight glinting on polished metal.
A doorway, high on the second level of a crumbling temple ruin, hidden behind a veil of ivy and moss. Across it, in letters carved from golden fire:
WILL
He climbed a gnarled old tree, its bark rough and flaking like ancient parchment. Leaves rustled like whispers as his weight shifted.
The door creaked open at his touch. When his hand passed through the glowing letters, they spiraled inward, folding into a radiant shard that pulsed in his palm like a heartbeat.
One down.
Five minutes left.
He darted between trees, leaping over roots and vaulting low branches. Then—another shimmer.
A shallow pit in the earth, glowing soft blue, like starlight caught in water. The word hovered above it, delicate as a breath:
PEACE
Without hesitation, he dove in.
Blue light wrapped around him—cool, gentle, as though the air itself had turned to silk. Time slowed.
At the bottom, the Sigil met his hand. It was warm, feather-light, like holding a memory. The shard folded into his grasp.
Two.
He climbed out and sprinted. Around him, the air shimmered with magic, and the wind whispered in an ancient tongue, brushing against his ears like a secret too old to name.
Then—he saw her.
Maya stood still, head bowed.
"I couldn't find one," she whispered, her voice brittle, like frost on glass.
Ryan glanced at the Sigils. They pulsed—not just with power—but with something conscious. Something watching.
He didn't understand them. But he felt them.
Each with a purpose.
He smiled softly.
"Okay," he said. "We'll figure out something about the others together."
But a strange heaviness clung to the moment, as if grief stood nearby, cloaked and silent.
Why did I feel such a hollow sadness?
Why couldn't I even ask if Ryan had gotten a Sigil?
This time, they moved together—ghosts in motion, darting through the vast underground arena.
The air was thick—a stew of scorched earth, metal, and ozone. Floating embers drifted like fireflies, and shadows danced across cracked stone.
They weren't searching anymore.
They were hunting.
Suddenly, Ryan froze mid-stride.
Across the cavern, someone hurled flame—a serpent of fire, twisting and roaring as it chased down three fleeing silhouettes. The blaze spat sparks and roared, licking the damp cavern walls, leaving streaks of molten red.
But Ryan's eyes weren't on the fire.
They were on the sigil burned into the attacker's skin, glowing like magma beneath flesh.
Alive. Weaponized.
Sigils weren't just tokens.
They were fragments of reality.
Ryan looked at his own: Peace, Will—quiet, pulsing. Not weapons. Not yet.
Then—a flicker of gold in the crowd.
Phantom Liro.
He moved like a vulture in black velvet, his eyes sharp, hungry. The Sigil of Greed in his hand pulsed like liquid obsidian, twisting, feeding.
"That guy's going to be a greedy pig," Ryan muttered, teeth gritted.
Maya vanished into the fray, eyes lit with fire.
But Ryan stayed.
He watched.
The fire grew. The wielder thrived. The flames danced higher with each motion.
No exhaustion. No fade.
Only growth.
Ryan's breath hitched. He needed that Sigil—not to dominate, but to survive.
Then—another glimmer.
Hovering above a shattered boulder, a Sigil marked Multiply. It glowed faintly, threads of energy spiraling like strands of starlight.
He moved. Instinct. Motion. Flight.
He leapt, snatched it mid-air, rolled hard across the ground. Power rushed into his skin like warm thunder.
But before he could rise—
Phantom Liro appeared.
Tall. Armored in jagged scales of night, black cloth twisted with rusted steel. His presence pressed on the world like a closing fist.
The Sigil of Greed pulsed dangerously.
Ryan met his stare—calm as granite beneath storm clouds.
"Exchange that Sigil for anyone you need," Liro offered, fanning four others: Fear, Decay, Burden, Greed.
Gifts that rotted in the hand.
Ryan didn't speak.
Liro narrowed his eyes. He exhaled—
And from that breath, an axe coalesced, forged from void-light, its edge shimmering red like fresh blood on snow.
"Then you'll lose it with your life."
He charged.
Ryan drew the golden knife.
It hummed with light—a blade of intent, of soul. Brighter than before. Clearer. Alive.
The truth struck in a heartbeat:
Will was the source.
Peace was the channel.
The knife didn't just accept power—it refined it. Amplified it. Freed it.
Liro roared, the axe came down—
Ryan stepped in.
Weapons collided.
Thunder and shattering glass screamed across the chamber. The axe splintered like brittle bone, and Ryan's slash rose like dawn itself, tearing upward.
A radiant arc sliced the ceiling—stone, spell, and silence torn in one breath. Above, a rift hung in the air, a wound left by something divine and furious.
Then—
A voice boomed, calm and omniscient:
"Due to turbulence, all participants, return to the circle. The trial is over. Those with Sigils will qualify. The rest shall be cast from the dungeon."
The decree fell like judgment written in thunder. All stilled.
Phantom Liro stared at the broken halves of his axe—once feared, now shattered.
He looked around. No cheers. No witnesses.
No glory.
Silently, he vanished—a shadow swallowed by his own shame, the Sigil of Greed flickering behind him.
Ryan didn't follow.
He simply adjusted the golden knife—its light soft now, like a secret kept—and walked steadily toward the circle…