Chapter 115: Arena VIII
The mountains groaned under Laxin’s chains, not in protest but in resonance, as if they too had found joy in his defiance. The newborn realm trembled—not from collapse, but from exhilaration, like a heart discovering rhythm for the first time.
Then came the shift.
The silver stars flickered once, twice, before dimming into strange constellations the Trinity had never carved. Lines wove between them—foreign patterns etched across the sky, runes neither of Fenric’s fire, nor Aria’s bloom, nor Laxin’s wrath. They pulsed with a cadence not of this realm’s will, but of something else. Something seeded.
Aria rose sharply, wings flaring as her eyes widened. "These aren’t of the world. They are intrusions." Her hand pressed to her chest, feeling the hum of the covenant. It shivered uneasily, not broken, but threatened.
Fenric narrowed his gaze, his staff glimmering. The runes in the sky began to mirror themselves upon the earth, fractals appearing in rivers and plains, shaping into spirals of alien symmetry. "It hides its next test not in storms, but in whispers," he said grimly. "The Eye plants doubt within the bones of what we built."
Laxin only bared his teeth, laughter rumbling like distant thunder. "So it wants to crawl inside our house now? Good. Let it. We’ll drag it out by the roots." He tugged his chains taut, as if daring the constellations to answer.
The sky did.
The runes above tore themselves free of their constellations, unraveling into threads of light and shadow that plunged downward. They struck like spears into soil, mountains, rivers—embedding themselves as seeds that pulsed and grew. From each, forms began to take shape.
Not colossi. Not beasts.
Reflections.
A flame-born figure stepped from the soil, bearing a staff of silver fire identical to Fenric’s. Its eyes gleamed with order, but colder, harsher—a Fenric that had embraced the temptation to inscribe law upon all.
From the forests rose a mirrored Aria, wings wide and radiant, but with vines that strangled even as they grew. Her smile was beauty twisted into dominion, a goddess who would let nothing bloom but herself.
And from the fractured mountains erupted another Laxin, chains blacker than void, laughter hollow and cruel. He swung his shackles not to protect, but to tear apart endlessly, a beast of carnage that lived only for ruin.
The newborn realm recoiled at their presence. Its rivers slowed, its stars dimmed, its forests shivered. This was not covenant. This was corruption—manifestations of what they could have become.
The Eye’s whisper rumbled across the horizon, not loud, but undeniable:
"Choice is not proven once. Choice is proven always."
Fenric’s grip tightened on his staff. For the first time, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face as he stared at his doppelgänger. "So this is the trial... not of strength. But of ourselves."
Aria’s light faltered, her gaze fixed on her own reflection. The vines of her mirror-self crept toward the newborn forests, their thorns eager to choke. "If it wins, it won’t just unmake me. It will unmake what I’ve planted."
Laxin spat blood into the dirt again, chains rattling. His grin didn’t fade, but his eyes burned sharp with recognition. "Tch. Figures. The hardest fight’s always against the bastard wearing your own face."
The mirrored Trinity stepped forward in perfect unison, their voices overlapping, one single echo:
"We are the truth of you. And we will inherit this world."
The second trial had begun.
The world shuddered as if acknowledging the declaration. The mirrored Trinity advanced, each step sending tremors through the newborn land. The covenant-guardians stirred, their forms wavering, uncertain—unable to strike, for how could they raise hand against what seemed bound to the very essence of those they had sworn to?
Fenric’s reflection moved first. Silver fire unfurled from its staff in rigid lattices, carving the air into flawless grids. Every spark that touched the ground turned soil into shining stone, rivers into rigid lines, sky into cages of light. Law absolute. Law unbending. The real Fenric raised his staff, fire spiraling, but his flame faltered against the lattice—every thread of order felt like an echo of his own hand, pulling him toward the abyss of perfection.
Aria’s mirror sang. Her voice was melody—radiant, intoxicating—but beneath it, vines twisted like chains. Forests bent to her hymn, roots constricting, branches strangling skyward. The real Aria staggered as the song pressed against her will, coaxing her to surrender: Why guide growth when you could command it? Why wait for bloom when you could dictate eternity?
Laxin’s shadow doubled over with manic laughter, swinging his void-black chains. Each strike shattered peaks, gouged canyons, leaving scars not as wounds but as joy. The real Laxin lunged to intercept, but every clash of chain against chain sent tremors through his chest—because the hunger to break, to revel in ruin, was his too.
The newborn realm itself convulsed. Mountains cracked, rivers stilled, forests trembled. It was not neutral—it was caught in between.
Fenric’s silver fire dimmed as the lattice pressed in, fractals snapping shut like jaws. He felt his hand tremble, the temptation to simply surrender and let order prevail. His voice shook, but he forced it through clenched teeth:
"No... you are not truth. You are surrender. You are the path of ease."
The reflection tilted its head, voice cold and sharp. "Ease? No. I am purity. I am what you already crave."
Aria screamed as the vines of her mirror-self coiled around her wings, thorns digging into emerald light. Her forests wailed under the false hymn, torn between bending and breaking. Tears stung her eyes—not from pain, but from recognition. She had wanted this, once. To erase all weakness with beauty. To grow without end.
But she dug her hands into the soil, clutching at imperfection. "No flower is perfect! No forest eternal! The cracks are where the light enters!"
The vines recoiled, if only for a breath.
Laxin stood locked in struggle with his shadow, their chains snarling like wolves. The black laughter rattled against his ears, each note a reflection of his own thrill in carnage. His mirror leaned close, teeth gleaming. "You don’t fight to protect. You fight to bleed. Admit it. Admit it and I am you."
Blood ran down Laxin’s chin, but his grin widened, fierce and defiant. "Aye, I do love to bleed. I love to fight. But not alone." He yanked his chains, and the mountains answered, stone rising with his defiance. "I fight with them. I fight for them! That’s the difference!"
His roar tore through the battlefield, the newborn realm trembling not with fear, but with resonance.
For the first time, the mirrors faltered.
The Eye pulsed. The whisper returned—not distant now, but close, intimate, threading through marrow:
"Choice... remade. But will it endure?"
The reflections screamed, their forms fracturing—yet they did not vanish. Instead, they drew tighter, denser, becoming less shadow, more blade. They shed illusion, revealing cores of raw power: order incarnate, dominion eternal, destruction unending.
The second trial was not merely resistance.
It was annihilation.
The mirrored Trinity surged forward, their next clash promising not temptation, but obliteration.
—
The newborn realm howled as the clash resumed, its skies torn between the silver grids of order, the choking hymn of dominion, and the black roar of ruin. The ground itself warped, trying desperately to hold both covenant and corruption, trembling like a canvas stretched too thin.
Fenric’s reflection struck first—its staff descending like a gavel. The lattice it conjured sealed the horizon, every star pulled into cold geometry. Each spark of silver law burned away freedom, every breath narrowed into command.
The real Fenric braced, but this was no longer temptation—it was judgment, sharp and absolute. The cage clamped around his flame, suffocating every errant flicker. His heart thundered with the truth of it: if he chose wrong, the newborn realm would calcify forever, flawless but lifeless.
His hand shook—until he remembered.
Not his law, not his will, but the world’s.
He slammed his staff into the soil. The silver fire twisted—not into lattices, but into spirals, curves, runes that bent instead of broke. Imperfection given voice. The mountains lent their angles, the rivers their bends, the forests their asymmetry. Together, they shattered the lattice—not with force, but with variance.
His reflection reeled, fractals cracking.
Aria’s double advanced next, her song rising into a crescendo. Vines unfurled like serpents, smothering trees, dragging the rivers into roots. Her smile was radiant, merciless, divine. "Why let it choose when you can ensure it thrives? Growth without death. Bloom without rot. A paradise without end."
Aria’s wings buckled as her own forests wavered, nearly seduced by the false hymn. For a moment, she could almost believe it—an endless spring, no famine, no loss. Yet her tears fell onto the soil, and the grass beneath her hand browned, withered, decayed—only to give rise to new shoots, brighter than before.
She rose, voice trembling but strong: "There is no bloom without fall, no growth without loss. Life is not a chain—it is a circle."
Her emerald sparks flared, weaving rot and bloom together into a harmony her reflection could not command. The strangling vines recoiled, shrieking, split apart by the truth of cycles.
Her mirror’s hymn cracked, faltered, fell silent.
And then came Laxin’s shadow.
It surged with glee, void-chains whipping like storms, its laughter a shriek of joy in collapse. Peaks shattered, valleys split, sky itself groaned. "You cannot deny me!" it roared, voice jagged with frenzy. "You fight because of me! You live because of me! I am you!"
The real Laxin met it head-on, his chains screaming against blackness. Blood spattered his lips, but his grin widened, wolfish, raw. He felt the truth in the shadow’s words—he did love to fight, to bleed, to revel in chaos. But he also felt the mountains at his back, the rivers at his feet, the forests pressing close.
He roared back, voice shaking the newborn world:
"You’re right—I am you. But I am not only you!"
He slammed his chains into the earth, and the realm answered—not just stone and fire, but laughter, storms, rivers, roots. His fury did not destroy—it fueled. His rage was not isolation—it was communion. The void recoiled, shrieking, swallowed by the very land it sought to break.
The mirrored Trinity staggered as one, their cores splintering. Silver lattice collapsed into shards of light. The strangling hymn dissolved into silence. The void-chains unraveled into smoke.
The Eye pulsed once more, but this time the whisper was not temptation. It was verdict:
"Choice endures... for now."
The reflections shattered into motes that the newborn realm drank deep, weaving them into its soil, its rivers, its stars—not as scars, but as warnings, etched into its very memory.
The battlefield stilled. The covenant-guardians rose again, stronger, steadier, their forms no longer wavering. The realm exhaled, its silence heavy but not hollow—watchful, waiting.
Fenric leaned upon his staff, shoulders shaking with exhaustion, eyes dim but resolute.
Aria folded her wings, emerald light still trembling through her tears.
Laxin spat blood, grinned through cracked teeth, and laughed hoarsely into the sky.
The second trial had ended.
But the Eye lingered at the veil, vast, unblinking.
This was no victory.
It was reprieve.
And somewhere, already, the third trial stirred.