A wide chamber opened before him.

The ceiling arched high above, lost in darkness, while pale-blue braziers floated along the walls, casting wavering light that danced across the floor. Dozens of rune-etched tiles stretched across the chamber, forming an elaborate grid from his position to the far wall. Each tile pulsed faintly with color and pattern—some blazing with swirling red fire motifs, others marked with the firm ridges of earth. Water glyphs glistened like ink, while wind tiles shimmered faintly as if caught in constant motion. There were even tiles etched with radiant gold and others so dark they seemed to consume the light around them.

Fire. Earth. Water. Wind. Light. Shadow.

On the far end, a tall sealed door shimmered with shifting spectral runes. Intricate patterns rolled across its surface like currents under glass. Above the door, a single glowing inscription appeared, elegant and cold:

[Step in rhythm, or be scattered.]

Aston studied it, brow tightening. His eyes flicked between the tiles and the message, piecing together the implication. It wasn't about choosing the right element.

It was about sequence.

He crouched low at the chamber's threshold, just shy of the first tile. "This isn't a test of alignment," he murmured. "It's a pattern puzzle."

Mirage landed softly on a nearby pillar, wings tucked, watching silently. Gray remained beside him, tail flicking once—uneasy but still.

Aston leaned over the first tile, careful not to touch it. His fingers hovered inches above the surface, feeling the subtle pulse radiating from the glyph beneath. It throbbed once… then again. Faint. Predictable.

Nova chimed in his vision.

[Five-element sequence detected. Resonance pattern aligns with cadence markers. Solution requires attuned pacing. Be advised: sequence appears to loop. Mismatched tempo will trigger localized elemental backlash.]

"Great," Aston muttered. "It's a dance floor of death."

He rose slowly, rolling his shoulders. The first step was a fire tile. He planted his foot, waited.

The pulse beat again. Step. Then an earth tile. Firmer, heavier. The next was wind—slippery, almost humming beneath him. He tried to maintain the rhythm. One-two… pause… one… double-step…

Crack!

A burst of cold exploded beneath his boot.

"Damn—!"

Frost surged over the tile, seizing his leg for a second before retreating. It wasn't lethal, but the warning was clear: one mistake could snowball quickly.

Nova pinged again.

[Resonance stagger detected. Pattern misaligned. Restart advised.]

He sighed and stepped back.

His second attempt lasted longer—six tiles. This time, a water tile surged unexpectedly, splashing his boot and throwing off his balance.

"Focus," Aston muttered, shaking off the moisture. "It's not just the order. It's the timing."

He closed his eyes.

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The third time, he let the tiles speak.

He listened—not with ears, but with instinct. The pulses beneath each tile were like music—low, steady, rhythmic. Not every beat was equal. Some were held longer. Others rushed by. He stopped trying to calculate and began to feel.

Step. Pause. Step. Double-step. Wait.

Step. Turn. Breathe. Move.

Each tile he landed on dimmed as he passed—acknowledging his precision.

One final step.

The last tile flickered once and faded.

Aston opened his eyes.

The sealed door ahead shimmered—runes unraveling like silk. Then, with a soft hiss of shifting stone, the door opened.

He exhaled slowly.

"That's more like it."

And stepped through.

—

Beyond the puzzle chamber came the most dangerous trial yet.

A long corridor stretched forward, cloaked in silence. The air itself felt warped—slightly off, like a dream teetering between lucidity and nightmare. The walls were etched in seamless obsidian, and each step Aston took echoed unnaturally, the sound muffled and then sharpened a second too late.

A soft shimmer passed over him as he entered. Like walking through a silk curtain of magic.

Then it began.

The air thickened. Shadows pooled unnaturally at the corners of his vision. Light from his spiritlamp dimmed, but not from the source—it was the space itself, leeching clarity. Ahead, he saw a shape.

Mirage.

She was falling—wings twisted, feathers trailing in stuttering arcs. Her eyes were wide, fading. A scream that never reached his ears rippled through the corridor.

He froze.

Then another scene. Gray, encased in crystal, pawing silently from within a mirrored wall. His mouth opened to yowl, but the sound never came. Then: Aston himself—at different ages, different postures—one sulking, one crumbling to the floor, another walking away.

A mirror maze of failure. Of doubt.

These weren't mere glamours.

They were illusions sculpted through essence pressure—mimicking spiritual resonance to twist emotions. Designed not to inflict pain, but to extract weakness. To slow the heart. To distort resolve.

A trap of the mind.

Nova chimed.

[Cognitive intrusion detected. False resonance frequencies identified.]

Aston's vision sharpened as a soft filter overlaid the world. Each illusion dimmed, the shimmer of their false cores exposed like threadbare cloth. His breath leveled.

So this was an illusion trial.

It would've broken most students.

"No noise. No fear," Aston whispered.

He took a step forward, not rushing—but with unshakable intent.

Another illusion surfaced. Lyra, turning away with disappointment. Seria, backing off in distrust. Rowan and Kai, looking at him like a stranger. Tristan, speaking his name with disdain.

Each flickered, warped by suggestion.

Nova's overlay remained calm, highlighting the subtle inconsistencies. The shimmer behind their irises. The lack of soul-weight in their gazes.

Aston didn't bother striking the illusions down.

He walked through them.

Not with defiance, but acceptance. They weren't real. They never had been.

He acknowledged their presence. He allowed their lies to drift by, like fallen leaves caught in a passing stream.

"I see you," he whispered. "But you're not me."

The corridor flickered.

The final illusion reared up—a spiraling hall of mirrored selves, each version of him more broken than the last. One collapsed from exhaustion. Another screamed without sound. One raised a blade to his own throat.

Then, as he passed the final threshold, the last reflection shattered like glass.

A clear chime rang out, and the veil ahead unraveled like morning fog.

The illusions were gone.

Behind him, the false corridor collapsed into silence, as if it had never existed.

And ahead… the door to the final chamber stood open.

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