The third trial began the moment I realized I couldn't feel my mana.

That sounds dramatic, I know, but for me, that realization was less oh no, my power is gone and more why does my body suddenly feel like it's been downgraded to the free trial version.

I reached for space.

Nothing answered.

No bend.

No fold.

No familiar pressure responding to my thoughts.

Just empty air and my own pulse thudding in my ears.

I stood alone in a vast circular chamber, the walls smooth and colorless, the ceiling lost somewhere in shadow. The floor beneath my boots was cold stone, slightly damp, and carried sound far too well. Every shift of my weight echoed, as if the room itself were listening.

"…Okay," I muttered. "That's fine. This is fine. Who needs mana anyway."

That was when the first projectile appeared.

A ball of blood materialized in front of me, suspended in midair like an accusation.

It was small.

Barely larger than a clenched fist. Dark red, glossy, rotating slowly as if it were alive and thinking.

I stared at it.

It stared back.

At least I'm pretty sure it did.

"Alright," I said, pointing at it. "We can talk about this."

It launched.

There was no wind-up.

No warning.

One instant it was hovering politely, the next it crossed the distance between us in a blink.

I barely twisted aside.

The blood ball screamed past my cheek, close enough that I felt the cold pressure of it brush my skin, then smashed into the far wall with a wet, explosive sound. It burst apart, splattering red across the stone like paint thrown by an angry artist.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

"Okay," I said louder. "No talking."

Another one formed.

Then another.

Then another.

They appeared in a loose arc around me, each one hovering for less than a second before shooting forward at impossible speeds. I dodged by reflex, throwing myself sideways, ducking, stumbling, my boots scraping stone as I barely avoided being turned into abstract art.

Without mana, without space, my body felt slow. Heavy. Every movement was clumsy compared to what I was used to.

I took a hit.

The first impact caught me in the shoulder, slamming into muscle with the force of a thrown brick. Pain exploded down my arm, sharp and immediate. I cried out, staggered, nearly lost my footing.

Blood splashed across the floor.

Deep red and mine.

"Okay!" I shouted at the empty room. "I get it! Message received!"

The barrage didn't slow.

More blood spheres formed, dozens now, moving faster, tighter, their trajectories converging. I ran. Not cleverly. Not strategically.

I just ran, legs pumping, breath burning in my lungs as I dove and rolled and jumped like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

I couldn't rely on teleporting a step sideways.I couldn't blink behind them.I couldn't fold space to make distance meaningless.

All I had was timing and pain.

Another hit caught my thigh. I went down hard, skin tearing, blood slicking the stone. I scrambled back to my feet, teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached, and kept moving.

Then the blood balls stopped.

For half a second, the chamber was silent except for my ragged breathing.

I laughed, breathless and hysterical. "Ha. See? Survived. Easy. Barely an inconvenience—"

The blood reformed.

This time, they weren't spheres.

They elongated, stretching into narrow shapes, edges sharpening, surfaces hardening. The crimson gloss faded into dull, matte forms as iron and bone replaced fluid.

Arrows.

Dozens of them.

They hung in the air for a heartbeat.

Then they fired.

I screamed and dove.

The arrows moved faster than the blood balls had, whistling through the air, embedding themselves deep into the stone walls with explosive force. One grazed my side, tearing fabric and skin. Another punched through my sleeve and lodged itself inches from my ribs.

I rolled, came up coughing, heart hammering, adrenaline roaring in my ears.

"Still fine," I wheezed. "Still alive. Definitely planned."

The arrows kept coming.

From above.

From below.

From angles that made no sense.

I learned very quickly that moving straight was a bad idea. Predictability was death. I zigzagged, slid, leapt, dropped to the floor and sprang back up, my muscles screaming in protest.

And I kept getting hit.

Small wounds.

Glancing blows.

Enough pain to make my vision swim.

Then the arrows changed again.

They thickened. Broadened. Lengthened.

Swords.

Long, heavy blades spinning end over end, moving so fast the air screamed around them. They struck the walls and floor with thunderous crashes, carving grooves into stone, shattering chunks that exploded outward like shrapnel.

One slammed into my back.

I felt it before I understood it—an impact so brutal it knocked the breath from my lungs and sent me skidding across the floor. I hit hard, rolled, and lay there for half a second too long, gasping.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

I forced myself to move just as another blade buried itself where my head had been.

My body was failing me.

Muscles trembled.

Vision blurred.

Pain stacked on pain until it became a constant background roar.

And then the pattern broke.

The swords stopped moving in straight lines.

They curved.

One veered mid-flight, correcting its path to chase me. Another looped back after missing, accelerating again as if angry. They began to move wrong, jerking, stuttering, shifting directions without warning.

Unpredictable.

I laughed again, this time thin and strained. "Oh, come on. That's cheating."

I tried to rely on instinct, but instinct was built on space, on knowing I could escape. Without that safety net, hesitation crept in.

And hesitation got me hurt.

A blade clipped my calf. Another tore across my ribs. A third smashed into my shoulder, spinning me around and sending me sprawling.

I dragged myself upright, hands shaking, blood dripping onto the stone.

And then...

They vanished.

Every projectile disappeared at once, leaving the chamber empty and silent again.

I sagged with relief.

Too early.

The swords reappeared behind me.

They didn't fly this time.

They teleported.

One blinked into existence inches from my face. I jerked back just in time, feeling the edge slice the air where my nose had been.

They blinked again.

Closer.

Every dodge became a gamble. I couldn't track them. Couldn't predict where they'd appear. My reactions lagged, exhaustion dragging my body down.

I took hit after hit.

Cuts.

Bruises.

Cracks of pain that made my teeth chatter.

Then one appeared too close.

I twisted, but not fast enough.

The blade carved into my arm from elbow to shoulder, a deep, vicious gash that tore muscle and sent a wave of white-hot agony through me. I screamed, staggered, nearly dropped to my knees as blood poured down my side.

Dozens of swords hung around me now, blinking in and out of existence, waiting.

My arm burned.

My legs shook.

My breath came in shallow gasps.

I couldn't dodge forever.

I couldn't rely on space.

And for the first time, it really sank in.

This trial wasn't about survival.

It was about stripping me bare.

About forcing me to confront the truth I'd been avoiding.

Without my affinity…Without my tricks…Without my shortcuts…

I was still here.

Bleeding.

Standing.

Unbroken.

The swords surged forward.

And I braced myself—not to run, not to escape—but to endure.

Because if this trial wanted to break me…

It was going to have to work a lot harder.

The swords lunged.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, I thought that was it.

Not because I was afraid—fear had burned itself out somewhere between the third rib cut and the arm that no longer wanted to lift—but because my body had finally reached a point where it simply could not keep pretending it was fine.

My legs trembled.

My vision pulsed at the edges. Blood slicked the stone beneath my boots and made every step uncertain.

I didn't dodge.

I didn't reach for mana.

I didn't even curse, which in hindsight was probably the most alarming sign of all.

Instead, something inside me shifted.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. There was no sudden flash of insight or booming declaration from the heavens. It felt more like a pressure change—like something deep in my chest finally realizing it didn't need permission anymore.

I had spent my whole life relying on space.

Bending it.

Skipping through it.

Treating distance like a suggestion instead of a law.

I had told myself that was strength.

But standing there, bleeding and exhausted, staring down a storm of blades I could no longer outrun, I understood something uncomfortable and very, very important.

Running had never been the same thing as surviving.

The swords blinked closer.

I exhaled.

And for the fifth time since the trial began, I stopped trying to avoid what was happening.

I let it hit me.

Not the blades—those were still very much a problem—but the truth underneath all of this.

I had always believed that power meant escape. That being untouchable was the goal. That if nothing could reach me, nothing could hurt me.

That belief shattered quietly.

Because here I was, reached, hurt, bleeding… and still standing.

Something old and heavy inside me cracked.

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