CHAPTER 56: CHAPTER 56

Chapter 56

The fog shifted.

It wasn’t the natural drift of mist in an enclosed dungeon.

This fog crawled, curled, and pulled back—like something alive was making way for the thing that stepped forward.

A figure emerged, but to call it a figure felt wrong.

Its shape was vaguely humanoid, but twisted, as if the sculptor had been drunk or mad. The spine bent at a crooked angle, jutting like a ridge of black rock beneath its skin. Its arms hung too long, ending in claws longer than daggers. And its head... was wrong. No eyes, no nose—just a jagged maw splitting its face from ear to ear.

The mana in the air trembled. The stench of rot hit them a moment later.

The creature’s claw twitched. Then—

With a guttural snarl, it raised one claw high and slammed it into the ground.

A deep, splitting crack ran across the stone floor, radiating outward like lightning. The ground shook violently—chunks of rock tearing free as the fissure spread under their feet. Debris burst upward.

"Move!" Ezra barked.

The group reacted instantly. Ezra, Renji, and the others leapt away, avoiding the widening rift just as the ground beneath them gave way.

Ezra’s boots barely touched air before his eyes flicked to a chunk of debris rising beside him. He didn’t hesitate. Mana pulsed into his legs.

He landed on the shard of stone mid-air, compressed his body, and kicked off—turning the falling debris into a launching pad.

The air split as he shot toward the monster.

The creature raised its claw to intercept, but Ezra’s blade met it in mid-swing.

The impact rang like struck iron, shockwaves rippling through the mist. Ezra didn’t stop—he channeled mana into his muscles, letting the force carry him upward. His foot slammed against the creature’s shoulder, and he vaulted over its towering frame.

"Down," he murmured.

His heel came down in a roundhouse kick, striking the side of its head. The blow landed with a thunderous crack, sending the monster crashing into the floor. The stone beneath it shattered, a crater blooming outward as dust billowed.

Ezra didn’t waste a heartbeat.

He landed on the monster’s thrashing head, his free hand already pressing against its temple.

Mana surged into his palm.

A sharp word of command tore from his lips—not loud, but enough to make the air hum.

The mana snapped inward, targeting a single point.

There was a brittle crack.

The monster’s head jerked once. Then its body went still.

A dark, glossy sphere—its core—fractured beneath Ezra’s grip. Cracks spiderwebbed across it before it split in two. Blood, thick and steaming, began to pool on the stone.

Ezra stepped off the corpse, shaking his hand once to flick away the blood. His eyes moved to the rest of the group, who had watched in tense silence.

"That," Ezra said calmly, "is why you don’t give them a chance to recover."

The corpse lay twitching, the last remnants of mana leaking into the air. The beast had been a peak Rank 2.

Ezra hadn’t just beaten it—he had subdued it with surgical efficiency.

Renji’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. The others shifted, clearly re-evaluating Ezra’s strength.

Ezra sheathed his blade and turned toward the paths ahead. Four tunnels yawned into the mist, each one carved with unnatural precision. Faint mana threads drifted from their depths, each with a different "flavor" to its presence.

He spoke without looking back.

"We’re splitting up."

A few surprised glances flickered between the others.

Renji frowned. "Why risk it? We’ve been fine as a group so far."

Ezra stepped forward, crouched, and traced a fingertip against the stone floor.

Under the dust and debris was a faint, glowing pattern—old runes, etched deep into the rock.

"This isn’t a normal dungeon," he said, his voice level. "You clear most dungeons by killing the final boss. But this one... is different."

He stood and turned to face them fully.

"This place is a mana core mine. Every participant here has their own trial to complete before the dungeon even allows access to the final chamber. If even one of us fails, the gate to the boss room won’t open. That’s why there are multiple paths—four trials, four passes."

He let that sink in before continuing.

"And the final boss isn’t... static. It has three phases. Each phase, it ascends a realm. If we go in unprepared, we die."

Renji tilted his head slightly. "And you’re assuming each road has what we need?"

"I’m not assuming." Ezra’s gaze hardened. "I can feel the mana signature of something buried in one of these paths. A weapon. The kind that can actually kill the final boss in its last phase. Without it, the third form will be invulnerable."

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

Ezra went on. "The weapon is attuned to the dungeon’s core. I can track its signature. Which means I’m going down the path where it’s hidden. The rest of you will take the others."

Renji’s tone was casual, but Ezra caught the edge beneath it. "And you think we can handle ourselves?"

Ezra’s lips curved slightly. "I know you can. Or..." His eyes locked on Renji’s. "We’ll find out."

Renji’s brows drew together, just slightly.

Ezra didn’t break eye contact.

In truth, this wasn’t just about the weapon. One of these paths led to monsters far stronger than the rest—multiple Rank 2s and at least one Rank 3. Enough to force Renji to stop holding back. Ezra intended to make sure Renji was sent that way. If Renji survived and still kept his true strength hidden... then Ezra would know the man was more dangerous than he let on.

He looked over the group one last time. "This isn’t optional. The dungeon’s structure forces us to separate. If you don’t pass your trial, you don’t leave. And neither does anyone else."

Silence. Then, reluctantly, they began to nod.

Ezra turned back toward the tunnels, inhaling slowly. The mana signature of the weapon pulsed faintly in his senses, like a heartbeat calling him forward.

Without looking back, he said, "We move now. Every second we waste gives the dungeon more time to adapt."

He stepped into the mist of his chosen path. The others hesitated only briefly before splitting off into their assigned tunnels.

The fog closed behind them.

——————

As the mist swallowed each of them in their separate tunnels, the air seemed to shift.

The faint, collective rhythm of footsteps faded into silence until only Dravis’s remained—steady, heavy, echoing off the damp stone.

He walked without hurry, hands loosely clenched at his sides. The tunnel here bent sharply left, then sloped downward, the ceiling lowering until the tips of his hair brushed cold rock. A faint glimmer of pale light pulsed ahead, like a heartbeat deep inside the dungeon.

The others were already gone. Ezra’s voice still echoed faintly in his mind.

"Each path is yours alone. Pass it, or none of us leave."

Dravis didn’t answer back then. He didn’t answer now. He just kept moving.

The tunnel opened into a wider passage, its walls streaked with veins of dull silver. Mist curled along the floor, clinging to his boots. The temperature dropped with each step, until his breath came in visible clouds.

Then the light ahead suddenly swelled—blinding.

When his eyes adjusted, he wasn’t in the tunnel anymore.

The stone walls, the damp air... gone.

Instead, he stood in a black expanse. No ground beneath his feet, no horizon—just endless dark.

A voice cut through it, low and resonant, vibrating in his chest.

"Who are you?"

Dravis’s jaw tightened. "...What?"

"Who are you?"

The words weren’t a simple question—they were a demand, heavy with weight. A demand for truth, not whatever he told the world.

He almost scoffed. He knew what it wanted to hear. What everyone wanted to hear when they looked at him.

Grandson of the Fist Emperor.

Heir to a legacy feared across continents. A name that could open any gate... or crush any who defied it.

But to Dravis, that name wasn’t pride—it was poison.

He saw it again. Four years ago.

Standing in the grand courtyard of the Emperor’s estate, the stones slick with rain.

An old family friend kneeling before the Emperor, accused of betrayal without proof. Dravis had shouted, protested—it didn’t matter. His grandfather had ordered the execution.

And his father... had obeyed.

Beating the man to death with his own fists, in front of Dravis. His mother watching in silence.

That was the day Dravis left. The family name turned to ash in his mouth.

The voice rumbled again.

"Who are you?"

He stared into the darkness, fists curling.

"I am not my blood. I’m not a title. I am just a man... who uses his fists."

The void shivered.

Stone erupted beneath his feet, forming a vast, circular arena.

From the far side, a hulking figure stepped forward—a creature of living rock, twice his height, fists like granite boulders, eyes glowing faintly with molten light.

The voice spoke one last time.

"Then prove it—not with strength alone, but with mind."

The golem roared and charged.

The Trial of the Fist had begun.

—————

The lifeless plain stretched endlessly around Xavier.

The gray sky above was unmoving, like a painting without wind.

The voice came again, low and patient.

"Who are you?"

He didn’t need to think about the answer—he had already chosen it before stepping into this dungeon.

"I am a sword," he said. His voice was steady. "The sword of Ezra Celestrian."

But even as the words left his lips, the thought cut into him:

Can I really stay that way?

Following Ezra wasn’t about blind loyalty. It was about conviction. Ezra walked a path sharp enough to bleed anyone who strayed from it, a path with no space for hesitation. Could Xavier keep pace with him? Could he carry that title without shaming it?

Life had a way of dragging you back—pulling your feet toward the shadows you thought you’d escaped. Xavier had walked the wrong road before, for longer than he cared to admit.

But this time... this time would be different.

The past could whisper all it wanted—he wasn’t listening.

As Ezra’s sword, he would not waver. He would hold, he would cut, and he would endure.

The voice’s tone shifted, almost approving.

"Then show me you will not break."

The ground around him cracked open.

Figures of shadow clawed their way up—faceless, formless, each one armed with a different weapon. Their presence pressed in, suffocating, as if each carried the weight of every doubt he had ever felt.

Xavier drew his blade.

This wasn’t just a battle.

It was the dungeon’s way of asking the real question:

Can you keep walking forward... even when the past comes for you?

He raised his sword in a clean guard, his stance unshaken.

"Come," he said.

And the first shadow moved.