The winds howled over the mountains, dragging with them a cruel, biting chill.
Somewhere unseen, a voice rose from the darkness, slicing through the stillness like a dagger.
"He is not like the others," it mused, a thread of dark amusement hidden behind the words.
"Let's see how different he truly is."
Out of the gloom, a monstrous form emerged—hulking, unnatural. The very ground seemed to shrink away from it, trembling under its weight.
A presence made of nightmares. A harbinger of destruction.
"This trial..." the voice whispered, thick with cruelty, "will be unlike the rest."
"Make him experience what it truly means... to come alive."
The beast's eyes gleamed—ravenous, seething with a violent hunger—as it lumbered forward, its growls tearing through the fragile night.
***
My heart thudded faster with every step, instinct screaming at me to prepare. But no...
I couldn't let this spiral into chaos. Not yet.
"I'll fight you after the trials, Zakir," I said, my voice steady as steel. "For now, we finish what we started."
Zakir's gaze stayed locked on mine, his hand twitching at the hilt of his blade. He burned to push the issue—I could see it—but after a tense breath, he exhaled sharply and stepped back.
"Fine," he muttered.
Moments later, Sylva returned, a smug grin playing across her lips.
"Job's done."
Up ahead, the first threads of chaos unraveled.
It happened in the blink of an eye—a whisper of motion among the trees, a shadow slipping between branches.
Then the bloodshed began.
The three demons we'd marked earlier were already bleeding, their swords flashing wildly in desperation. They'd spent too much strength racing up the mountainside, and now they were too exhausted to defend themselves properly.
And our trap was only just springing shut.
A second group stumbled onto the scene, confusion turning sharp and deadly. A single mistake—a misread movement, a twitch of the wrong hand—and violence exploded outward.
Steel kissed flesh.
A scream split the air.
Sylva snickered beside me, admiring the carnage like an artist admiring her latest masterpiece.
Zakir, by contrast, stood rigid, tension radiating from him.
I didn't need to ask. I already knew what was spinning in his mind.
Zakir, raised to believe in fair duels, honorable fights. Still clinging to those naive ideals. But survival demanded more.
"The strong prey on the weak," I said quietly, keeping my voice even. "This trial isn't just about reaching the summit. It's about eliminating the competition before they eliminate us."
"I know that," Zakir snapped.
"Then why do you hesitate?"
He said nothing, only tightened his grip on his blade.
Below, one of the demons collapsed, a gaping wound at his throat.
Zakir exhaled through his nose, sharp and angry.
"They were already weakened. Attacking them like this… it's disgraceful."
I turned fully toward him. "And if they were at full strength, would you fight them?"
"Of course."
"And if they begged for mercy—would you hesitate, even knowing they might stab you the moment you let your guard down?"
He flinched, the unspoken truth plain on his face.
I stepped closer. "Honor won't save you, Zakir. It won't stop them from plunging a blade into your spine the second you turn away."
His teeth clenched. Thoughts churned behind his eyes—slowly, painfully shifting.
Before he could reply, Sylva cut in, rolling her eyes. "Enough. Moral debates won't get us to the top any faster."
She was right.
Ahead, the battle was almost over. Two groups had whittled each other down to barely a handful of survivors.
Perfect.
I turned. "Let's move."
***
The night stretched on as we climbed higher, each step bringing us closer to the summit—and deeper into blood-soaked air.
Sylva slipped into the shadows often, returning each time with the glint of satisfaction in her eyes and the stench of death on her clothes.
"As expected from the former successor of the Celeris family," I thought grimly.
Meanwhile, Zakir grew quieter, his energy fading into something colder, heavier.
By the time we stopped to assess our position, his silence was a thundercloud pressing down on both of us.
I sighed. "Out with it."
He didn't look at me.
"I don't like it."
I waited.
Finally, he turned, his eyes sharp with barely restrained anger.
"I understand why we're doing this. I understand it works. But this deception, this trickery... it's not the way of the sword."
I let out a slow breath. "Then tell me, Zakir—what is the way of the sword?"
He looked at me like I'd just insulted everything he lived for.
"The way of the sword isn't just strength or skill," he said, voice low and steady. "It's discipline. Respect. Purpose. Every swing, every cut—measured and true. It's the bond between one's word and one's blade."
"And what happens," I asked, "when your enemy spits on that bond? When they don't care about your honor?"
Zakir faltered.
I stepped closer, my voice quiet but relentless.
"Strength isn't just skill with a blade. It's knowing when to abandon pride for survival. It's understanding your enemy, twisting their instincts against them before they can do the same to you."
For a long moment, he stared down at his sword, silent.
Then, finally, he sheathed it.
"...I still don't like it," he muttered.
I smiled, not unkindly. "You don't have to."
But he was changing.
I could see it in the way his shoulders set, the way his stance shifted.
***
As we pushed further into the mountains, the cold grew sharper, digging into our bones.
Zakir's silence deepened until even Sylva—normally unbothered by anything—threw him a concerned glance.
He wasn't just brooding.
He was remembering.
"Zakir," I said quietly, falling into step beside him. "You're thinking about them again, aren't you?"
He stiffened, then gave a short nod.
From the flashes of memory I could recall, I knew his story.
Once, not so long ago, he'd been a wandering boy with nothing but a sword and a shattered home. His world had been burned to ash in a single night by enemies who didn't fight fair, who slaughtered without honor or mercy. His family, his teachers, his comrades—erased.
He'd clung to his ideals because they were all he had left.
And yet...
Honor hadn't saved them.
It had doomed them.
"I thought," Zakir whispered, his voice barely audible, "I thought if I stayed true to the sword, I could honor them. That it would make them proud. That I could avenge them."
"And did your honor protect them?" I asked softly.
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was like a cracked blade.
"No."
I nodded slowly.
"In this world, Zakir, honor won't avenge the fallen. Only survival will."
For a moment, something shifted behind his eyes—something raw, vulnerable.
But he said nothing more, and neither did I.
Some things didn't need to be spoken aloud.
***
We climbed in silence.
The cliffs were close now, jagged spires clawing at the moonlight.
The air was sharp enough to bite, and an invisible weight pressed against my chest—an omen.
Then—
A low, primal growl shook the ground beneath our feet.
Sylva's smirk vanished instantly. Zakir's sword was halfway out of its sheath before I even moved.
From the blackness, two massive eyes glowed—molten gold, burning with intelligence.
A monster stepped into the moonlight.
It towered over us, fur dark as obsidian, claws like sickles dragging sparks from the stone. Its breath reeked of rot and death.
Zakir's voice was a grim whisper. "This wasn't part of the plan, was it?"
Sylva clicked her tongue, irritated. "Fantastic. I hate cats. Especially the giant ones."
I met the creature's gaze.
It wasn't just a beast.
It understood.
It was here to stop us.
No...
It was here for me.
I wasn't surprised. We'd climbed too easily. Fate had been too kind.
Something like this was inevitable.
But as I stood there—weak, drained, the wounds of betrayal still fresh—I realized something else:
The two people standing beside me now...
The same two who had once driven blades into my chest...
Were now the only ones standing between me and death.
Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor.
I drew a slow breath, steeling myself.
No matter what it took, I would survive this night.
I had to.