The air shifted.
The crimson glow from the obelisk above deepened, thickening like blood in water. A pulse of heat rippled through the room — not from the torches, but from deep inside the stone floor. The bridge beneath them vibrated faintly.
Tom stepped back. "What's happening?"
Frank's face turned grim. "The First Trial."
"Trial?" Jack echoed. "We didn't agree to a trial."
"You don't get to agree," Frank said. "The sigils choose. And the first one… chose him."
Tom's torch flickered violently, then snuffed out. Around him, sparks began to rise — drifting upward like embers caught in an invisible updraft. His hands twitched. His chest felt tight. His blood felt... hot.
Then the voice came.
"You carry me like a weapon. You speak of me like I am yours. But I am not yours. You are mine."
The entire room darkened, except for the circle of glowing stone beneath Tom's feet. The others shouted his name, but their voices warped, distant, like echoes in water.
Tom looked down. His feet were no longer touching stone.
He was floating.
Or falling.
Or both.
The world around him blurred and reformed. He now stood in a vast, scorched wasteland — a desert of blackened earth and smoldering sky. Flames licked the horizon. Lava rivers flowed in the distance. And in the middle of it all… stood a giant.
It had no face, only a burning skull, its body made of charred armor and roaring fire. In one hand, it held a sword forged of magma. In the other, a chain.
"You are weak," the creature said, its voice like molten metal. "You think your anger makes you strong. But you fear what you carry."
Tom clenched his fists. "I don't fear you."
"Then prove it."
The Fire Demon raised its sword and slammed it into the ground.
A wall of flame erupted toward Tom.
He dove sideways, rolled, and summoned smoke in his palms — a trick he had learned training in secret. He launched a burst of smokaes at the demon, hoping to blind it.
The Fire Demon walked straight through the smoke, untouched.
"Tricks. Toys. You use my gift like a child. I will not give myself to a child."
Tom gritted his teeth. "Then stop holding back."
He ran straight at the demon — sliding under its legs and launching himself into the air with a kick of smoke and pressure. Mid-air, he screamed and threw everything he had into a blast — crimson, raw, unfocused, but full of fury.
It hit the demon in the chest and exploded.
The demon stumbled back slightly.
And laughed.
"Better. But not enough."
The demon raised its hand — and called Tom's fire back.
The same blast Tom had fired reversed direction, surrounded by golden flames, and struck him square in the chest.
He crashed to the ground, winded, coughing up smoke. The heat was unbearable. His vision blurred.
"You want to use me?" the demon said. "Then face me."
Tom pushed himself up. "I'm not here to use you," he growled. "I'm here to survive you."
The demon paused.
Then stepped forward — and held out its hand.
"Say my name."
Tom looked up, breath trembling. The name came to him—not from memory, but from instinct.
"...Arthuun."
The flames stopped moving.
The wind died.
And then, the demon shattered.
Flames coiled around Tom, not to burn him, but to wrap around his chest, his arms, his shoulders. A symbol appeared on his right hand — a crimson spiral with three arcs — and his eyes glowed briefly with inner fire.
He blinked—
—and he was back.
The others surrounded him as the crimson obelisk dimmed.
Tom stood, gasping, sweat pouring down his neck.
Frank watched quietly. "You passed."
Tom didn't answer. He simply looked at his hand… still faintly glowing.
He had met his demon.
And the demon had accepted him.