CHAPTER 500: WARRIORS

He lifted his head.

For a moment, just one, his eyes didn’t look like his.

Too bright.

Too knowing.

Too ancient.

But then the moment passed, and he exhaled slowly.

"I’m fine," he lied. "Let’s move."

As they left the chamber, the stairs behind them disintegrated, sealing the path forever.

They were being pushed forward.

Toward the next truth.

Toward Dythrael.

And Lindarion could already feel the seal inside his chest, cracked, glowing, alive.

They began the descent in silence—

not the comfortable, steady quiet of companions traveling together,

but the heavy, watchful stillness of a structure that had just awakened.

The moment they stepped through the circular archway leading out of the Core, the air shifted.

Not wind—awareness.

The tower was no longer merely a construct of mana and ancient stone.

It breathed.

Ashwing was the first to speak, his voice a whisper.

"...Okay. So it wasn’t judging me before. But it’s definitely judging me now."

Nysha didn’t respond.

Her crimson eyes were fixed on Lindarion’s back.

He walked a few steps ahead of them, posture steady, movements controlled, but something was wrong.

His aura didn’t feel like his anymore.

Usually, Lindarion’s mana radiated with a quiet, controlled hum, composed, restrained, like a river flowing beneath ice.

Now it... rippled.

As though something inside him thrummed at a different frequency, breathing in time with the tower itself.

Nysha stepped closer.

"Your resonance changed. It shouldn’t be doing that."

Lindarion didn’t turn.

"I know."

There was no confusion in his voice.

Just acceptance.

And that, more than anything, unsettled her.

They reached the first corridor, the same hall of mirrored stone they had passed through before.

Only now it was different.

The mirrors flickered as Lindarion approached, their surfaces rippling like disturbed water. Reflections bent and warped, showing not the present, but echoes.

Lindarion as a child, mana flickering uncontrolled from his hands.

Lindarion bleeding under the truck’s headlights.

Lindarion training under the shadow of Eldorath’s spires.

Lindarion kneeling in the World Tree’s golden light.

Lindarion—

older.

Eyes ancient.

Hair longer.

Expression unreadable.

Ashwing swallowed. "Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. These mirrors can get bent."

Nysha ignored him.

"Lindarion," she said quietly, "is the Seal influencing your mana?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped up to one of the mirrors, raising a hand.

The reflection inside didn’t mimic him.

It moved on its own—

lifting its hand first.

Nysha moved instantly. "Don’t—"

But it was too late.

The mirror-Lindarion pressed its palm to the glass.

And the surface cracked.

Not like a mirror breaking.

More like an egg hatching.

Fractures shot outward, glowing gold, forming a lattice of runes that pulsed with the same heartbeat they felt in the core.

[System Alert: External Mana Synchronization Attempt Detected.]

[Warning: Identity Boundary Distortion Risk — Moderate.]

Lindarion exhaled. "So it begins."

Ashwing flared his wings. "What begins!? This looks like the part where something crawls out and eats us—"

A shape moved behind the cracked reflection—

but it wasn’t a monster.

It was Lindarion.

Another version, older, wearing a mantle of golden leaves and shadowed cloth.

Eyes bright enough to illuminate the hall.

A second heartbeat beating within his chest.

A divine aura braided into his mana.

Nysha stepped back, hand lowering to her daggers.

"Another echo?"

Lindarion stared into the mirror, face as calm as the reflection was intense.

"No," he murmured.

"That’s not an echo."

Ashwing squeaked. "That’s YOU. But... extra."

The reflection spoke.

Not aloud—

the words formed in their minds, deep and resonant.

"You walk a path that cannot fork."

"But two versions of you exist—"

"The one you are..."

The reflection’s eyes sharpened.

"And the one the world needs."

Nysha’s frown deepened. "We’re leaving. Now."

The mirror-lindarion stepped forward—

but the cracked surface sealed itself instantly, the reflection freezing in place again.

Lindarion withdrew his hand.

The cracks faded.

The hallway returned to stillness.

Only then did he speak.

"...It’s not the Seal," he said softly.

"It’s not the tower. This is happening because I touched the Origin Crystal. It unlocked something that should have stayed dormant."

Nysha crossed her arms. "And you didn’t think to mention that?"

"I didn’t know," he said. "Not fully."

Ashwing fluttered nervously. "Did Veyrath know?"

Lindarion’s jaw tightened just slightly.

"Yes."

Nysha swore under her breath.

They continued walking.

The tower reacted to every step he took from then on.

Ribbons of light followed him along the walls.

Ruin-script rearranged itself in real time, identifying him—

evaluating him—

judging him.

The ground hummed beneath each footfall like strings plucked on a celestial instrument.

At one point, the corridor narrowed and arched overhead like a ribcage.

Not metaphorically—

the material shifted, bone-like ridges forming and dissolving as if the tower were reshaping itself to accommodate him.

Ashwing whispered, "I don’t think this place knows whether to worship him or eat him."

Nysha answered,

"I think it’s deciding."

Lindarion kept moving, unfazed.

But inside—

[Internal Resonance: 14% Instability]

[Identity Anchor: Stress Level Rising]

[Warning: Integration Incomplete — Seek Stabilization Immediately]

His fist clenched.

Not here. Not now.

They stepped through the final archway.

And the exit of the tower loomed ahead—

the cold dark forest of Tirnaeth visible beyond it.

But between them and the exit stood a company of Tirnaeth dark elves, ten warriors, armor of obsidian and moonsteel, spears tipped with violet flame.

Their captain stepped forward.

"When you entered," he said coldly, "the tower was dormant."

His eyes locked on Lindarion.

"And now it wakes. You will explain why."

Nysha swore again.

Ashwing muttered, "Told you it was judging us."

And Lindarion—

Lindarion simply stepped forward, golden eyes quiet, steady,

and burning with a power no elf in that hall could ignore.

The tower behind him pulsed once.

The warriors stiffened.

The captain swallowed.

"You... are not what you were before."

Lindarion didn’t deny it.

He simply said—

"We should talk."

And the forest held its breath.

The air outside the tower felt colder—

not the natural chill of Tirnaeth’s forests,

but the kind that came when every pair of eyes was fixed on one man.

The ten dark-elf warriors stood in a half-circle, their obsidian armor reflecting the faint violet glow drifting from the speartips. Each carried themselves with the rigid discipline of soldiers who had dealt with horrors that crawled from caverns older than history.

But even for them, this—

him—

was new.

Lindarion stepped out of the tower like someone stepping out of another era entirely.

The golden light along his skin dimmed, but it didn’t fully fade.

Residual runes flickered around the edges of his silhouette—

brief, ghost-like sigils that whispered of something ancient, awakened, watching.