Chapter 47: Embers of Judgment
Waking in the quiet hush before dawn, my heart beat faster, caught between excitement and a low, gnawing anxiety. The air itself felt weightier than usual, as if even the city was holding its breath in anticipation. My movements were automatic—face washed, hair slicked back, a cold splash shocking my nerves into eerie clarity. I dressed in layered combat gear: boots laced with shaking hands, reinforced dark shirt, flexible pants. Anything to remind myself that I had prepared for this, even if every breath tasted of worry.
The feelings swarmed—fear, hope, pressure—and no amount of measured breathing settled that tangle in my chest. What if I failed? What if the seals rejected me? Would my family look at me differently, would the legacy I was meant to restore be lost in one misstep? The hopes of too many, riding on one chosen "Sealbreaker." The weight nearly buckled me.
Stop. Focus.
I exhaled slowly and called up my status window—the digital halo of my new reality. A soft chime echoed in the silent room. Blue light shimmered, the subtle music of mana technology filling the air.
Ascension Trial: Initiate? Specify target: Dungeon, Soul Weapon, Wild, Artifact, or Other.
The prompt burned with meaning. I hovered my finger, feeling the pulse of the seals beneath my skin.
Trial of Sealbreaker.
The words on the screen pulsed with power, then flared. Instantly, white-hot pain surged from the very center of my chest, where the master seal rested. The mark glowed fiercely, feeding tendrils of golden energy up and out, piercing my skin, transforming shaky breath into light. Mana erupted in twisting, pipe-like arteries—one side connecting the burning seal to the hovering digital window. I felt my resolve and doubts dragged out at once, as though some primal part of me was being unwoven and rebuilt.
Lightness gripped me, tinged with vertigo. Every atom drifted off its anchor—my body, my breath, my thoughts untethered by an invisible cyclone. Up and down lost all meaning. I flailed for control; the sensation only deepened, panic clawing at the edge of reason. Then something cracked—deep inside—and, as if the force sensed my surrender, everything accelerated, and resistance shattered.
I was swept away. Not flying, not falling—simply moving without knowing where or how.
Time distorted. When I slammed onto cold marble, it was like waking at the bottom of a lightning strike. I skidded painfully, scraping forearms along the blood-red stone, until friction stole my momentum. Gasping, I opened my eyes.
Above, a ceilingless vault unveiled galaxies—nebulae twisting in electric purples and blues, constellations wheeling with slow, majestic purpose. I staggered to my feet, boots squeaking on the flawless red marble. The platform was immense—a circular stage at least thirty meters across, ringed by pillars firelit with golden flames. The brilliance made the runes etched around their bases writhe, ancient language sizzling with power.
Past the pillars: nothing but cosmos. The very air tingled with ozone, flooded with mana so pure I could taste it—crisp, charged, a storm breaking on your tongue.
I summoned Ashratal for reassurance. The cool weight of my soul halberd grounded me, even as the stage underfoot trembled—a low, subsonic groan that set my bones on edge. The trembling grew, and I braced myself, clinging to Ashratal as if it could pin me to the earth.
Cracks raced across the marble—veins of molten orange, then splits, then eruptions. From these wounds, bricks and swirling sand shot upright, stacking madly. Weapons, rust-flecked shields, fragments of ancient armor rained down from somewhere unseen, embedding themselves in the half-formed chaos around me.
In real time, the floor and space assembled themselves—a labyrinth forming before my eyes. Walls twisted skyward, jagged edges sliding into place, the network of corridors doubling, folding, shifting. The chaos was mesmerizing—horror and beauty wound together. Bricks, mud, sand, even split shields and battered helms were mortared into the walls. At times, faces caught in the armor flickered in the red-gold glow, like memories trapped in stone.
When the storm finally abated, I stood before the mouth of a sprawling maze—high walls on either side, crowned with serrated parapets. Overhead, the "sky" of cosmic fire pulsed, as if the trial itself breathed and watched.
The heat was immediate. The air moved in shimmering waves, scalding my lungs even with mana skin shimmering over my body. I could feel flames licking at the edges of my awareness, like a beast stalking the maze from within.
The status window blazed anew, words marching out in brilliant blue and gold:
Trial of Sealbreaker: Sequence 1 – The Burning Maze
The Third Seal Awaits.
Step into the Maze of Fire, where every path tests your conviction and wit.
Walls shift and remember your routes.
The heat grows with every doubt and failure.
Trial Conditions:
Endure flame and illusion.
Solve the riddle of light at the maze's heart.
To falter is to burn; to hesitate is to be lost in memory.
Rewards:
Breaking of the Third Seal
Unknown Skill Manifestation
Divine Witness:
The Lord of the Flames, Agni, will judge your journey.
My hands trembled—not just with adrenaline, but with honest fear. Somewhere in these burning corridors, Agni himself watched.
I drew a steadying breath and stepped forward, the entrance to the labyrinth radiating enough heat to crisp iron. The tiles were blistering beneath my boots. Every step inside was like a dare to existence itself: I am here. I will not turn back.
The very air of the maze came alive, as if recognizing me. The temperature ratcheted higher. My first step was answered by the walls shifting—bricks juddering, as if testing me. I kept a layer of mana skin over my body, channeling a thin thread of flame from Ashratal to resist the oppressive heat. The halberd's metal grew hot, my hands aching, as I felt the weapon's own fire mana battling the radiance in the air.
The maze itself was sinister and strange—the walls built not only of stone and sand but fused armors, splintered blades, ruined shields. Some segments seemed as old as war itself, others looked to have been scavenged from lost dungeons. Whenever I came to a crossroads, I was forced to trust a faint, twitching instinct—sometimes my nose, sometimes the faint ripple of tingling mana, sometimes a hard-to-define "pull" on my very spirit. Trying to climb the walls was futile; as soon as I tried, they withdrew to infinity, mocking my attempt, and I fell every time, sore and breathless.
I wandered, tracing my route, sweating and cursing under my breath. The only marker of time was agony—the walls pressed tighter, the heat climbing from intense to unbearable. Sweat stung every wound, even as my lungs seared. The only thing keeping me alive was the double layer of mana skin and fire resonance I wove with every clenching heartbeat. Even Ashratal felt almost molten in my grip.
There were no monsters. No guardians. Only the maze, the heat, and... something waiting.
I paused at a side passage—out of breath, nearly slumping. It's like walking inside the furnace of a dying sun.
For a moment I wondered, Why isn't my fire as strong as my father's—volcano pure, but hidden? Or Raj's—open, cleansing, burning away the rot but healing, too? My own flames were lesser—lacking that unique signature.
I focused, feeling the difference in the ambient mana. The heat here wasn't just deadly—it was intelligent, carefully measured. An unmistakable will shaped this place.
I pressed on. After what felt like an hour—each step burning, spirit grinding against the literal weight of the trial—I stopped to rest, back to the wall, sliding to the ground. Mana dripped from me, my reserves nearly gone, pain growing with each breath.
The world twisted.
Without warning, the heat poured through my mind—a wave of purple fire. The labyrinth melted away. I blinked, and suddenly I was back at the academy.
The illusion was flawless. The start of first year—rows of desks, old posters on the wall, familiar faces turned just so. Some students already boasting about their awakener status, others hunched over battered notebooks, hope flickering or fading in their eyes. In the corner, the "hopeless"—no awakeners in the bloodline, barely enough marks to stay off the bottom rung, sitting together out of necessity.
But in the center was a boy, taller than most, hair falling over his pensive eyes, posture tense. I recognized the hunger in his gaze: not for food, but for a way out. Anubhav, the Ambitious—the one the others whispered about. Best raw combat aptitude in his group, but no background, no extra money, living off scholarship scraps.
There was a flaw in him: too bright for his cage, too proud to ask for help. I watched the scene replay—the bully, a self-important Avatar of Agni, family of politicians, strutting to Anubhav's desk. A ball of flame flicked from his palm, smacking Anubhav in the face. No external marks, but pain, deep and internal. The laughter came next—cold, high, cruel. Bloodline determined pecking order; status was everything. If you had no connections, you were prey. I remembered: I had witnessed this once, barely reacting, helpless myself—a powerless observer tethered by my own lack.
The scene warped.
Exam day, end of first year. My own group—Anaya, Ross, two others—sharing sweets, relief. Then the explosion. I turned; Anubhav again, battered, bruised, clothes burned to threads, the same bully grinning, sure of his place. This wasn't supposed to be allowed—academy rules, decorum, all thrown aside. The world flickered, uniforms now jagged, the ground and trees subtly warped, sky oddly pulsating above.
I caught myself—this was no longer memory. It was an illusion, built to entrap. The flaws stacked up: edges that shimmered, faces just a touch too blurred, background noise that ebbed and surged in waves. The more I focused on what was wrong, the more my nerves burned—with rage, with doubt, with clarity.
My head began to ring, pain blossoming at my temples. The room spun. The world blazed. Fire—purple, hungry—swept over me.
Just before reality gave way, I locked eyes with Anubhav. For the first time, I saw the depths of his anger—not at the world, but at me, for failing to act. Ambitious, they'd called him in the academy. But now, there was something else—the Unyielding—a will that would not bow, not even to suffering.
I fell, tumbling from the illusion, flames tearing at me from every direction.
I landed back in the labyrinth, sprawled on red-hot marble, my body wreathed in purple fire—phantom pain, real agony. The flames licked at my skin, burning and intangible at once. I tore at them, whirled Ashratal overhead in burning arcs until the flames finally dissipated, leaving me gasping, smoke curling from every wound.
My skin was blistered; pain roared up my nerves. I searched for a potion—nothing. No short cuts, no crutches.
"I hate illusions," I muttered, staggering to my feet.
Every muscle trembled, but even pain could not keep me from the center. Not now. Now I understood: the maze tested not just body, but the soul. Reproach, guilt, and regret—they would burn me alive if I let them, or fuse into something unbreakable if I pressed on.
Ashratal in hand, I limped forward, refusing to let the maze—or my own past—decide my fate.