Trials, as Auren had been taught in preschool, were quite simple.
Everything about a Blessed depended on their Archon. Their Archon was their source. Hence, their path of growth was intrinsically tied to their Archon.
Auren could still recall how distasteful it had sounded when the preschool teacher lectured them.
While his classmates seemed enthralled by the concept, he had never understood their excitement. Why would anyone willingly carve their strength and value around something else—something that was… sleeping?
Auren had laughed at the absurdity of it all, and his so-called friends—those who only gravitated toward him because he was a peerless genius—had later turned to mock him, calling him a weirdo.
For a time, he had wondered if he was defective in some way, unable to see what the others saw, what the Archons revealed.
But Auren liked his defection. He liked it a lot. His mother had been defective in the same way.
Trials were fragments of the Archons' memories… events that had transpired beneath their celestial gaze. Every Blessed had to undergo them in order to further evolve the crux of their soul.
But it wasn't as simple as the teachers made it sound.
They warned them—Trials were perilous.
If one died within a Trial, their soul would be lost forever, trapped within the Archons' memories, never to return to the real world.
The Archons, for all their supposed benevolence, had no forgiveness for weakness, failure, or disbelief. These were fatal sins.
Auren, however, considered that belief to be utter bullshit.
What mattered was that the information he had about Trials was what he had been taught—and that teaching wasn't baseless.
For generations, reports had detailed the ascension of Nascents undertaking Trials to become Devouts, Devouts striving to become Consecrateds, and Consecrateds attempting to become Exalteds. These records had been compiled to educate young Nascents before they received their Blessings and embarked on their first Trials.
But the most important lesson of all—the one that truly mattered—was understanding how to conquer a Trial.
Every Trial had a core.
But the core was never conventional.
It could be as simple and obvious as slaying a Cursed Creature roaming in plain sight… or as insidiously difficult as hunting a Cursed Creature hiding in plain sight.
Two scenarios that sounded eerily similar—yet were devastatingly different.
But every Trial followed a sequence of events—like a story unraveling, thread by thread.
It was as if fate itself had already woven the strings, and the Blesseds were merely reliving what had already been set in motion.
So finding the core of a Trial wasn't just about understanding the world within it—it depended entirely on the nature of the Trial itself and the Blessed undergoing it.
'In other good words, I'm fucked and on my own… but I'm not totally fucked because I still have both legs, both hands, and…'
Auren glanced down between his legs and grinned.
'I'm the one who fucks.'
A second later, a hurricane of cringe hit him like a divine retribution.
'Shit. Let's just focus on climbing out of this place.'
He had strapped the holy sword to his back with a rope, its crimson hilt and silver blade gleaming malevolently despite its sacred nature.
The weapon looked out of place on him.
Auren dug his fingers into the rocky wall, gripping onto one jagged edge, then another, and another. The chasm's walls were a nightmare—slick, treacherous, offering no real holds. Each time he advanced, he had to carve into the hardened soil with his fingers, creating his own path upward.
Pain shot through his fingertips in relentless torrents, especially as he reached the halfway point. His nails were chipped, his skin raw, but stopping wasn't an option.
Auren had a strange philosophy about pain.
'It proves you're alive and healthy. Suck it in and forge ahead.'
That was something Relisé always said, half-joking, whenever he pushed himself too hard during training.
But it had stuck with him.
Especially after she told him that his mother used to say it.
From that moment on, he had decided that every fragment of knowledge he had about his mother—every value, every philosophy—would become a part of him.
Relisé rarely spoke of her, reluctant to stir emotions he never expressed.
So Auren had very little of that "way of life" to hold on to.
But the boy he was now—the man he was becoming—had been built upon that fragile foundation. Those scattered fragments. Those stolen pieces of a mother he never truly knew.
And that was enough.
"Urghh!"
Auren groaned as he finally reached the edge of the chasm, dragging himself onto the flat surface. His arms trembled, his body screamed in protest, but he knew rest was not an option right now.
He had climbed opposite where the Cursed Creatures lurked, yet he knew they had glimpsed him somehow — or worse, sensed him.
The moment he reached the surface…
'...brother… run.'
Barely lowering himself, Auren shot forward—like a miniature blizzard. His movements were staggered, uneven, but he was moving. Competing with the wind for speed.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He could feel them—shadows stirring within the darkness, hungry and relentless. Their feral snarls filled the air, their monstrous strides hammering against the earth.
They were eager to feast on his flesh.
'Over my dead body!'
Auren's feet plowed forward, relentless. But he wasn't just running—he was watching. Calculating.
Because he couldn't run forever.
With each step, more abominations joined the pursuit, swelling their ranks into a tidal wave of horrors.
And now…
A storm of abominations was rolling toward him, its thunderous footsteps a harbinger of death.