The plaza before the Evernight Pavilion's main hall crackled with tension.

From moss-covered stone benches to the shadows of broken railings, from leaning balconies to slanted rooftops, disciples crammed every surface. Outer, inner, and even the experimental sect disciples—all had gathered, drawn by something greater than curiosity. It felt less like a crowd and more like a tide pulled by an unseen moon. A hum ran beneath every whisper. Every breath was shared. Every gaze anchored on the steps at the plaza's heart.

And there, beneath that watchful storm of eyes, silence fell. Heavy. Sharp. Like a blade pressed to skin.

Seven figures stood at the base of the steps.

Seven. Cloaked not just in robes, but in purpose.

Each radiated a presence that couldn't be dismissed. Not loud, not showy. Just… felt. The kind that made you stop breathing for a moment before realizing you had. They didn't speak. Didn't move. And yet, in their stillness, the entire sect watched.

One of them was Aaryan.

He looked nothing like the boy who had once flitted through shadowed alleys and eavesdropped behind pillars. No longer the outer disciple with smirks and schemes. Now, he stood where only monsters dared, chin level, posture calm, his robe fluttering faintly in the wind like a war banner refusing to fall. The pain from recent weeks still echoed through his bones, but he showed none of it.

Beside him, Nitish stretched, knuckles cracking like bones splintering under pressure. He grinned at the crowd as though itching for blood. Vayu stood tall and silent, face unreadable as ever, arms folded and thoughts elsewhere. Rudra leaned slightly back, too casual for someone moments away from battle, yet his eyes kept flicking sideways to Aaryan. Not openly. But not quite avoiding either.

The core disciples stood in a line, but only one looked toward the crowd.

And then—they arrived.

The elders.

Robes rustled like dry leaves in a brewing storm as rows upon rows of figures emerged. Elder robes. Cladded in sect symbols. Then the Sect Leader himself, draped in robes darker than midnight and marked by a thin silver sash. His presence drained all sound from the air.

Three grand elders followed behind him, each step paced and regal. They walked like men who had seen centuries pass and dared them to do better.

But the Fourth was missing.

Shiela.

Not a whisper dared rise, but the unease spread like a fever. Disciples leaned toward each other. Eyes darted between empty spaces and elder faces. Even Vayu, normally carved from wood and wind, had a flicker of concern in his eyes.

She hasn't appeared in days…

But before anyone could speak it aloud, the Second Grand Elder raised his hand. The plaza obeyed like a beast snapping back into silence.

His voice came quiet. Calm. And yet it carried across the entire plaza as if the mountain itself leaned closer to listen.

"Mount Veinsunder."

A single name. A weight that dropped into the air and fractured it.

Gasps. Stillness. Even the breeze paused.

"That is where the Mani Disciple Trial shall take place," he said. His eyes were ancient, but his voice was steady. "Before the Evernight Pavilion had its name… before a single jade tile crowned this sect's halls… Mount Veinsunder stood. It was once a crucible. A natural trial ground forged by chaotic forces. A relic of a clan long devoured by time. Its heart shifts. Its shape twists. No two trials within are the same."

Some disciples stiffened as if his words had reached into their spines. Others flinched at the name. A few from the outer sect looked ready to vomit.

"The task is simple," the elder said, allowing a note of dry amusement to enter his voice. "Reach the summit. Exit through the door at its peak. The first to do so shall be titled the Mani Disciple."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, only to be crushed by a single glance from the Third Grand Elder.

"It sounds simple," the Second continued, "but it is not. The mountain does not care for your ambitions. It doesn't bargain. It doesn't warn. It only tests."

He turned, slowly, until his eyes landed on the seven chosen.

"Some sections will be visible to us," he said. "But much of it remains veiled, even to our gaze. You will be watched… but not protected. Choose wisely when to fight. Wiser still when to flee."

His eyes paused—briefly on Aaryan, lingering on Rudra. There was something unspoken there. Not suspicion. Not trust. Just… awareness.

"Come."

He turned. The seven followed, leaving the plaza behind as the crowd parted like waves before a ship. No one dared block their path. Boots echoed against the flagstones as they moved through winding passages behind the main hall, stone corridors twisting like the veins of a sleeping beast.

They entered a chamber. Cold. Silent. Vast.

Half the size of the plaza but twice as heavy in the air it held.

In its centre stood a black altar.

It didn't shine. Didn't gleam. It drank in light. Unlike the sect's polished jade or marbled platforms, this altar felt older. Wrong, somehow. As if it had been carved from the bones of something that had died refusing to yield.

"Stand," the Second Grand Elder said.

The seven obeyed.

Aaryan stepped onto the stone. It was freezing even through his boots. He felt it creep into his soles like a warning. But he did not flinch.

The Sect Leader raised his hand. The grand elders flanked him. Around them, the rest of the elders began their chant, low and wordless. Their fingers wove seals into the air, each one distinct, yet flowing together like a single, ancient language.

Qi flooded the chamber.

Radiant threads of red, gold, blue, green, violet—weaved into shimmering shapes across the stone walls. The altar pulsed.

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Once.

Again.

And a third time.

The air tore.

A blinding light exploded outward. Not heat. Not pain. Just… displacement. The kind that makes the world forget where you stood. Whispers echoed, not from mouths, but from the stone itself.

And just before the world tore—Aaryan thought of Kalyani's smile, of Dharun's steady voice.

He hoped they were safe. Far from the sect. Far from what was coming.

Then—silence.

The seven were gone.

No wind. No flare. Just absence.

The elders lowered their hands. The Sect Leader exhaled, a faint curve tugging at the edge of his lips.

Not pride.

Not hope.

Only satisfaction.

The trial had begun.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The world returned like a breath held too long.

Aaryan staggered forward as his boots met uneven ground, the cold stone beneath them slick with dew. He blinked against the disorientation, the echoes of teleportation still ringing in his bones. A low hum, like the tail end of thunder, faded into the silence. Around him, pale fog curled through the silence.

Veinsunder.

The mountain loomed ahead, shrouded in thick gloom that clung to its slopes like coiled spirits. No summit could be seen—just the broad, jagged base, rising in ridges that disappeared into the shifting gray. It wasn't tall in the way of snow-tipped peaks, but wide, sprawling, ancient. Alive.

Aaryan exhaled slowly and turned his gaze sideways. Not far off, the others had arrived too—spaced apart but within reach.

Nitish cracked his neck, already grinning, his shadow falling long on the pale stones. Rudra stood still, unreadable, arms hanging loose by his sides. Vayu was to the right, closer than the others, yet oddly tense—his arms no longer folded, fingers twitching occasionally. That was unusual.

Two girls stood near one another, identical in height, hair, and expression—mirrored reflections of quiet calculation. Swati and Swali, the twins known to be the personal disciples of the Second Grand Elder. Their black robes were trimmed with fine silver thread, and though neither spoke, their gazes lingered on Aaryan longer than necessary. Just behind them stood a broad-shouldered youth with a serious face and arms crossed over his chest: Hemant, disciple of the Third Grand Elder.

Aaryan caught it then—the subtle thing beneath their silence. Not suspicion. Not open hostility. Just… expectation. As if he were an act on a grand stage they had come to see play out.

He ignored it.

His feet carried him to Vayu's side. "You alright?" he asked quietly, eyes scanning the haze ahead.

Vayu nodded, but his jaw was clenched. "Something's… off."

Aaryan followed his line of sight. Nitish was spinning a dagger through his fingers while Hemant seemed carved from stone. The twins whispered between themselves in a language too soft to catch. Rudra's eyes were on the mountain—but his fingers drummed restlessly.

Vayu leaned in just slightly. "Be careful," he murmured. "Especially them."

Aaryan gave a soft hum of agreement. "Noted."

They stood together, not speaking again, as the minutes passed in slow, dragging silence. The damp shroud hung low around them, hiding everything beyond a few feet. The mountain made no sound. No birds. No wind. Just stillness.

And then, slowly—too slowly—it began to lift.

The fog unspooled upward, slow and reluctant. Clarity came in shades. Only the jagged base had been visible before—bare and lifeless—but as the fog thinned even further, split trails slowly came into view. They veered in unnatural directions, fading into ravines, rocky groves, and folds of stone. Veinsunder didn't rise like a normal mountain—it sprawled like a creature mid-transformation, its ridges twisting where no stone should bend.

The last tendrils of mist slipped upward, revealing the full stretch of the strange, fractured base. The trails were clearly visible now—thirteen in total. Each path twisted in unnatural patterns: one vanished into a craggy ravine, another climbed up sharp, jutting stone teeth, and one dipped into a narrow gulch lined with pale, thorny roots. Not a single one looked safe.

For a long moment, no one moved.

The silence stretched—until Hemant scoffed and stepped forward.

"What? All of you frozen already?" His voice echoed off the cold stone. "If you're too afraid, I'll go first."

He strode toward the path closest to him, a narrow corridor between two leaning ridges. But just as his foot reached the trail's start, an unseen force slammed into him. The impact was subtle—no light, no flash—just a solid thud as if he'd walked into glass. Hemant recoiled slightly, his frown deepening.

A hush followed.

Then Nitish grinned. "Looks like the mountain doesn't like arrogant types."

He sauntered to a different trail, one that twisted leftward and dipped behind a crooked boulder. He reached out with a booted foot—and met the same invisible wall.

Rudra, silent as ever, moved to a third path. He didn't test it with his foot—just slowly reached out a hand. Nothing. The barrier repelled him too.

One by one, the chosen warriors tested the paths near them. All blocked. All coldly unyielding.

Far away, in the Grand Plaza of Evernight Sect, a sea of disciples and elders watched from raised stands. Floating above the central dais, several spirit mirrors hovered—each showing a contestant, each glowing faintly.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as Hemant stumbled. Murmurs followed as Nitish and Rudra failed too.

"The mountain's behaving differently this time," murmured one of the seated elders, running a hand through his silver beard. "None of this happened during the last trial."

"The barriers are active far earlier than before," another noted, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks. "Maybe this trial will be more difficult than the last cycle."

Back at the mountain's base, Vayu moved.

He said nothing, didn't even glance at the others. Just walked forward toward the trail second from the right—a narrow, downward sloping path vanishing between mossy overhangs.

He passed through.

No flash. No ripple. He was simply there one moment—and gone the next. Not a sound remained. Even the spirit mirrors in the plaza lost track of him.

Aaryan saw it all. His brows furrowed slightly, but he made no move.

Swati and Swali exchanged glances. Hemant stepped toward the now-accessible trail, frowning. Yet he stepped toward the trail beside Vayu's—only to be stopped cold. The invisible wall held firm.

One by one, the others tested the remaining paths. Nothing. Only the one Vayu had vanished through remained open.

"This one then!" Nitish called, already moving. He disappeared with a grin.

His followers followed—then Rudra, with a glance back at Aaryan.

Aaryan remained last.

He stood for a breath longer, then stepped forward—and vanished into Veinsunder.

The mountain was silent again. The base left empty. Seven figures lost to the stone.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan found himself standing on a circular platform carved from the mountain's flesh—smooth stone veined with silver, humming faintly beneath his feet. Around him stood six others, spaced like points of a compass. No words passed between them, only wary glances and the quiet tension of uncertainty. No one knew what would come next—only that this trial was not meant for the weak.

Before them rose a staircase, white and gleaming, as though sculpted from bone rather than stone. Its surface shimmered faintly, untouched by dust, unweathered by time. Half of it was visible—twenty or so steps—before vanishing into a dense curtain of mist. The air was still. No instructions. No guidance. Just the path upward.

Vayu moved first.

He inhaled slowly, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward with the assurance of someone used to being first. The instant his foot landed on the first white slab, his body jolted. Muscles tensed. His jaw locked tight. He pushed forward.

By the third rise, his shoulders hunched slightly, veins beginning to rise against the skin of his neck. By the sixth, his movements had grown laboured—each footfall a battle. His steps slowed. The strain wasn't loud, but it was visible—his legs shook, and his arms instinctively curled inward, as if trying to shield his ribs from invisible pressure.

With every upward push, the pressure deepened—not just on the body, but into the marrow. Like the stairs themselves were trying to grind his bones into powder.

By the tenth step, his breaths came in short bursts, as though his lungs were being squeezed. Sweat dripped down his temples. He paused before the mist, his chest rising and falling like bellows. The fog rippled, then peeled back—revealing five pale ridges that gleamed with a pale, spectral light.

He took one trembling stride.

Then another.

On the third rise, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto all fours, gasping as if drowning on dry land. He tried to rise, failed, and instead clawed his way up one more step with pure grit. The final stretch was agony—his limbs shaking violently, eyes bloodshot—but somehow, he dragged himself onto the summit and collapsed, barely able to sit upright.

Nitish stepped forward next, his expression unreadable.

He moved more quickly at first, but by the seventh step, his rhythm broke. His feet scuffed the white incline. His arms tensed unnaturally, and he began to lean forward as if each step was pulling him into the ground. His breath hitched. Even he—calm, calculating Nitish—was reduced to trembling hands and clenched teeth by the time the mist revealed the final five levels.

His aura flickered like a dying flame, not flaring for dominance but out of instinct—like a body flinching from a blow it couldn't see.

When he reached the top, he didn't stumble, but his legs nearly gave out. He hid it better than Vayu—but only just.

Then Aaryan stepped forward.

No one said a word, but he felt the weight of their eyes. The silence pressed closer than the gravity.

His foot touched the first stair—

And the mountain pushed back.

Hard.

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