The room still trembled from the remnants of battle.
Leonhaart stood slowly, every breath laced with the ache of survival. Ash floated in the air like snow, the last remains of the guardian creature dissolving into silence. In the middle of the room, the fractured crystal hovered above its stone pedestal, pulsing gently like a living heart.
He reached toward it again—this time with no fear.
When his fingers grazed its surface, a shock surged through his body—not pain, but memory.
Not his.
A vision unfolded within his mind:
Mountains carved by fire. A city swallowed by roots. Towers of glass and bone rising from sand. And at the center of it all—a throne encased in flame. Not majestic… but broken. Cracked. Bleeding light.
And then… the shadow.
A massive form, featureless yet horrifying, cloaked in tendrils of smoke. Two glowing eyes watched from the darkness. They were ancient. Patient.
Waiting.
Leonhaart gasped and stumbled back. The vision vanished.
He steadied himself, his heartbeat wild.
"Was that… the future?"
A whisper echoed behind him, not in words, but sensation: "A path chosen cannot be undone."
He turned quickly—no one.
But now the walls were different.
The same runes that glowed outside the spire now shifted inside, reshaping themselves as if reacting to his thoughts. One of them gleamed brighter than the others, then floated off the wall and hovered before him.
It formed into a key.
Simple, silver, humming softly.
He took it.
Immediately, the room dimmed, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing a narrow corridor of obsidian and vines. Warm air flowed from it, smelling faintly of sulfur and moss.
Leonhaart stepped forward without hesitation.
This was no longer just about the crystal.
The deeper he walked, the more the corridor began to twist—not physically, but mentally. His thoughts became louder. Memories clearer. A laugh from someone he lost. The cry of a child. Blood on his hands.
Was it real?
Was it past… or future?
He gritted his teeth. "Not now."
At the end of the path, the corridor opened into a garden.
But not a living one.
Dead trees with glass leaves. A river that flowed upward. Statues of creatures that defied logic—eyes where mouths should be, wings made of feathers and chains. In the center, a woman stood still.
Or what resembled a woman.
She was wrapped in robes of wind, her hair floating like it had forgotten gravity. No face. Just a mask of polished obsidian reflecting his own image back at him.
"You've stepped beyond the veil," she said, voice layered in echoes.
"Who are you?"
"I am the Judge of Flame. The first guardian of the path."
He readied his blade instinctively.
She raised a hand.
"Your blade is useless here. This is not a test of strength, but truth."
A ring of fire formed around them. The trees groaned. The river reversed direction.
"Speak your purpose, Leonhaart of the Grey."
His voice caught.
He had so many reasons. So many answers.
But only one felt real now.
"…To end the shadow before it consumes the last light."
The garden trembled.
The mask cracked—just a hairline fracture.
She lowered her hand.
"Then walk forward. The Spire has judged you worthy… for now."
And as the fire died down, the garden faded into mist, and a door
appeared, ancient and waiting.
Leonhaart moved toward it.
Behind it… the second trial awaited.