They found themselves inside a strange structure—a place that felt more like a trial of destiny than a feat of engineering. They stood on a thin platform of dull, silver metal, its surface cold and unyielding underfoot, suspended above a roaring sea of molten fire. The heat licked the edges of the platform like an animal testing its prey, and the air swelled with the stifling scent of scorched metal and sulfur, making each breath taste like smoke on a forge.
Below, the lava churned like a beast breathing in slow fury—its surface a violent tapestry of orange and red, cracked by veins of glowing gold. Shadows twitched and danced against the towering obsidian walls, rising high into a darkness that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The air shimmered with heat distortion, bending light like a broken mirror, as if the entire space were submerged in some feverish dream.
The structure itself was a colossal triangular chamber, each vertex marked by a raised metal plate, floating yet firm—like blades balanced on the edge of war. Suspended above the triangle's peak, a strange, ethereal glow pulsed in slow, rhythmic breaths, casting pale halos that made the metal gleam like sacred relics. It was not sunlight, but something more alien, a ghostly radiance that whispered of ancient forces just beyond comprehension.
Ryan scanned the other plates. Across from him, Phantom Liro and Solan stood in silence, their figures tense and coiled, eyes locked on the center as if measuring the weight of invisible threads. On the third platform, four members from the Underground waited, their bodies taut with anticipation, hands hovering near weapons, faces sharp with hard-earned resolve. Even from afar, Ryan could see the glint of fear mingled with hunger in their eyes.
Then it spoke again—that disembodied voice, deep as a cave's echo, soaked in something ancient and cold. It didn't speak so much as invade the chamber, vibrating through the bones.
"The last trial is simple. You must use your power to climb to the top of the pyramid and claim the prize. But beware—when you increase your power, the other sides will descend. They hold the same power as you. The more you rise, the more they fall. You may fight… or kill. But know this: if your power falters, the fire will not show mercy. No external powers can be used within this chamber. You may jump to the other plates. You may fight. I'll help you."
As the voice faded, sharp golden light seared across the chamber, drawing burning star-lines between the platforms—like constellations etched by a divine hand. They flared with searing brilliance, and from their convergence, a circular platform rose—a narrow, hovering ring forged of some glassy black alloy, slightly above the others. It shimmered with trembling heat and carried the weight of decision.
It was a junction of battle. A ring of choice. What had moments ago seemed an impossible chasm was now a path—thin as a blade, barely wider than a foot, but solid enough for desperation to walk.
No one moved.
The silence ballooned, thick and heavy, like air before a thunderclap. It pressed against skin, against thoughts. Each team stood frozen in a triangle of suspicion, like animals circling a drying well. They all knew: two could ally, and the third would be consumed. The math was simple. The outcome was not.
Ryan saw it too. The way their eyes darted. The unspoken plans building like storms behind composed faces. He was outnumbered.
And the fire below was still hungry
Then Solan moved—calm, decisive. He gestured, and one of his men stepped onto the central path, testing the metal beneath his feet. The circle wavered slightly.
Ryan's instincts snapped into motion. With a flick of his wrist, the golden knife appeared in his hand, gleaming in the molten light. Channeling his will, he surged power into the blade—and instantly, his plate began to rise.
The others dropped.
Screams echoed as the man on the center path lost his footing, slipping toward the fire with arms flailing. His cry ended in a hiss of vapor as the lava claimed him.
Everything shook.
The plates groaned under invisible forces. Phantom Liro acted swiftly, tapping into his reserves of energy, trying to climb the slope of his own sinking platform. Ryan's side dipped as a result, dragged downward by Phantom's strength.
The Underground team panicked—they had no unity, no anchor. They stumbled, unable to counter the shifting momentum of the triangular battlefield.
But Ryan wasn't done. His blade glowed brighter as he activated the Golden Knife again. It pulsed with ancient energy, pushing against the arcane rules of the chamber. Phantom Liro staggered from the counterforce but held firm.
Ryan smirked, voice ringing with fire: "Let's see how long you last!"
Phantom knew the odds. He tossed the sigils to Solan and bolted toward the central circle, his boots thudding on metal. Ryan tensed—he couldn't split focus now. He pressed his will deeper into the platform, holding the triangle's shifting balance.
Behind him, Maya's voice rang out. "I've got a sigil! Let me help!"
Ryan turned, catching her gaze. In that single glance, he entrusted her with everything. He sprinted off the plate, up the slope toward the battle while Maya released her power, and their platform surged back upward.
Phantom Liro met him on the central circle—no words, no mercy. He fought with a curved wooden rod laced with steel bands. Ryan's knife clashed against it, the impact ringing like a bell struck in war. Sparks flew. Every blow echoed across the chamber, stirring tremors in the unstable structure.
Beneath their feet, the circle shifted—tilting, trembling, caught between three powers vying for supremacy.
Below, Solan tried to rise. Maya's power surged to meet his. Their platforms creaked, the balance swaying like a pendulum between domination and defeat.
The duel escalated. Ryan's footwork was sharp, fluid—every strike laced with precision, but Phantom Liro was relentless, his rod deflecting the blade again and again, controlling the center.
Then something snapped in Ryan. His eyes flared gold with fury. With a surge of energy, he shoved Phantom back, spun, and launched a gleaming arrow of light straight at Solan.
It struck his leg.
Solan cried out, staggering. His concentration shattered, and with it, the flow of power beneath him. His plate began to descend into the fire.
Phantom turned in panic. Ryan took the chance—he dashed forward.
But he didn't ascend.
Instead, he dove.
Toward Solan and Phantom Liro.
As he fell, his blade sliced through the air in a trail of searing light. Phantom reached out, trying to stabilize the metal plate—but too late.
A bolt of lightning cracked across the chamber.
The plate was torn in half.
All three—Ryan, Solan, and Phantom—plummeted toward the lava.
And then—
They vanished.
Not burned. Not dead. Gone.
Ryan stirred.
His breath returned in fragments, ragged and shallow, like wind through broken glass. A dull hum of power still crackled faintly in his veins, like the last echoes of lightning trapped in flesh. But the trial—its fire, its roar—was gone.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Maya was there, her silhouette outlined by a soft, otherworldly light. Her eyes glowed faintly, like embers beneath a veil, and his head rested in her lap—cool and gentle, her presence an anchor in a world that had just shifted. He exhaled, the tension unraveling from his chest in a single breath of relief.
But something was different.
Her aura had changed—thicker now, more charged, as if something ancient and immense coiled inside her. The air around her felt denser, humming with hidden gravity. Even Phantom, with all his precision and pride, would falter in her presence now.
Ryan sat up. His body moved easily, restored not only in form but in fire—limbs brimming with clean strength, like steel freshly forged.
"Where are we?" he asked.
Maya only smiled, a quiet curve of the lips filled with both mystery and peace.
"Why don't you see for yourself?"
He turned, stepped forward, and pulled open the old wooden door.
And stopped.
Fifty people stood outside, arranged in a silent crescent, the corridor lit only by pale sconces along the stone walls. Warriors and rebels, their faces marked with old scars and fresh bruises, clothing tattered but postures proud. They wore the look of survivors, of those tempered by pain and still unbroken.
Among them stood Solan, no longer rigid, no longer defiant. His eyes were lowered, his frame slack with defeat.
They had waited for him.
As Ryan stepped out, the group rose—not with blades drawn or scornful cries, but in somber unison, like a breath held too long finally released. Their silence bowed, deeper than any word, a tribute to what he now was.
Ryan's voice was low. "Where is Phantom Liro?"
Solan raised his head, eyes shadowed with shame.
"He ran away… Your Majesty."
The words hung in the air, echoing like the ring of a bell struck in a cavern.
Ryan wasn't shocked by the escape. It was the obedience—the quiet, unquestioning shift—that turned his pulse cold. The Underground, once fractured by greed and fear, had already accepted him as their ruler.
And it was Maya—always Maya—who had made it possible.
In the days that followed, the dim corridors of the Underground were lit not just by torches, but by purpose. Ryan walked those halls, not as a conqueror, but as a builder. He taught them not only how to channel power, but how to wield it wisely.
He mapped routes for fair taxation, drafted systems to manage coin flow, instructed them on diplomacy, and restored order to streets that had known only whispers and shadows.
The Underground became a spine beneath the city's skin—no longer a parasite, but a hidden strength, pushing upward into the world above.
Even the criminals—the thieves, the smugglers—put down blades to lift bricks, to rebuild what they once tore down.
And when Ryan unrolled the dust-cloaked map of the Aston City from the vault—its creases cracked, the ink faded like dried blood—he didn't look back.
A new path coiled ahead.
Aston City. The Black Auction.
A storm was coming.
And he would stand at its eye, calm and unshakable, as the world bent to the winds of change.