The air near the staircase still trembled with lingering pressure. The crowd hadn't yet recovered from the last shock—Swali, barely able to move, had somehow reached the top, even though she'd collapsed just next moment. Nitish had struggled to ascend. Vayu had slightly worse than him. Even Swati, known for her stability, had failed just a few steps from success.

Rudra stood alone now.

All eyes turned toward him—the last to climb.

He inhaled once. Deep. Controlled. But his fists tightened.

He walked towards the staircase. His each step pulsed—not just with pressure, but with memory. Of eyes judging. Of whispers murmuring, "not quite good enough."

'Even Swali made it.'

She couldn't even lift her head after—but she had dragged her battered body to the top.

And Aaryan... he hadn't just climbed. He had owned the staircase. Walked it like it had been waiting for him.

Rudra set his foot on the first step.

The pressure was immediate—an invisible wall of weight folding over him. Every joint felt tight. His breath came shorter.

One step. Two. Three.

He kept going, posture straight, expression hard. From below, he looked unfazed.

But by the fifth step, his rhythm slowed. His breath caught.

By the ninth, his knee gave slightly—just a twitch—but it was enough to stir murmurs in the plaza.

The tenth step hit like a landslide.

His vision blurred. The air thickened like tar. His legs trembled, arms locking at his sides.

Rudra locked his teeth, driving his will upward. He took another step—and staggered. The plaza fell silent.

He froze, knees bent, spine crooked, breath ragged. For a moment, he didn't know if he could move.

Then… he looked up.

There stood Aaryan.

Motionless.

Watching.

He wasn't smirking. Not pitying.

Just there. Like a mountain already scaled.

Rudra's lips quivered. Rage and awe surged in his chest.

'You bastard. You brilliant bastard. You were supposed to be a nobody. A beggar clinging to scraps. But now look at you… I trained for years. Hailed as the future of my clan. The strongest inner disciple, destined for core status. And yet—you, the boy no one counted, walked past us all. Past me.' 'If I fall now… I'll never catch up. Never stand next to you again.'

He shut his eyes, turned inward. Something primal stirred. Not hatred. Not pride. Resolve.

He bit his tongue until blood filled his mouth. His foot rose. Trembled. Slammed onto the next step.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

No grace—only grit. Teeth clenched. Hands shaking. But he climbed.

The crowd was silent. Not a whisper moved through the air.

The climb blurred into pain and soundless screams. Muscles screaming. Heart pounding.

Somewhere in the haze, he saw himself collapse—Aaryan turning away, unimpressed. That image cut deeper than any blade.

At last, the final five steps. Still faintly glowing.

First.

Second.

Third.

He stumbled—but didn't fall. Blood trickled from his nose, ears. Knees wobbled like a frayed bridge. His fingers clawed his palms.

Fourth.

Fifth.

His knees buckled. He forced them straight.

And then—

He stood beside Aaryan.

Chest heaving. Robes drenched. Skin pale. But upright.

The crowd broke into stunned applause and gasps.

In the raised pavilion near the plaza's edge, Elder Kiyan sat unmoving.

The other elders murmured in surprise, but Kiyan had said nothing till now.

His face was stone. His arms were crossed tight against his chest. His jaw was locked. But his eyes—his sharp, eagle-like eyes—shimmered with something fierce and bright.

He had watched every step. Every shake. Every rise.

And now, as Rudra stood victorious atop the staircase, Kiyan exhaled—shuddering, like he'd been holding his breath the entire time.

His lips pulled into a smile, wide and unabashed.

"That's my boy!"

A few startled elders turned. Elder Jun blinked. "Your grandson did well, Elder Kiyan."

Kiyan let out a short laugh, loud and proud. "Did well? He didn't just climb. He conquered."

He pointed toward the staircase, almost like a proud father pointing out his child in a crowd.

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"Did you see that fire in his eyes? He was ready to collapse—and he still climbed. That's him. That's a dragon among men."

He didn't care who heard.

Some elders raised their brows. Others chuckled softly.

But none dared argue—not with the fire in Kiyan's eyes.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The stage atop the staircase was nothing like the one at its base—barely half its size, but somehow far grander. Bathed in the light of high noon, it stretched like a platform laid before the heavens—above the clouds and mists, above the clamour below.

Rudra's boots scraped softly as he stepped forward, breath still uneven, the world still slightly tilted. But he was upright.

And they were all here.

Nitish. Vayu. Swali. Aaryan.

None of them said anything at first.

Then—

"Hmph." Nitish folded his arms. "Lucky bastard. The trial probably sighed and gave up by the time he climbed."

His tone was casual. But his jaw was tight.

No one answered him.

Swali sat a little apart from the rest, legs folded, eyes half-lidded. She studied Rudra in silence, her breathing shallow but measured. She had seen Rudra before, as the grandson of Elder Kiyan, he was an influential figure even when he was only an inner disciple.

'He looked different—not in appearance, but in weight—like someone who'd stopped carrying pride and started carrying purpose.'

The sharpness in his posture was gone. So was the performative pride. Now, there was no pretence. Only breath, effort… and presence.

"Brother Rudra!"

Vayu's voice cut through gently, a half-laugh tucked behind it.

"I was starting to worry you'd pass out just to spite us. But you made it."

He stepped forward, clapping a hand lightly to Rudra's shoulder. "Well done. Truly."

Rudra looked at him, then nodded once.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was hoarse, but his gaze was steady.

And then, finally—

Aaryan turned.

He'd been standing at the far end of the platform, back to the wind, his sleeves fluttering slightly.

He walked toward Rudra with the same loose gait he always had—unhurried, slightly lopsided, like the whole world was a game and he was just waiting for someone to blink.

"Didn't die halfway, huh?" he said, stopping just in front of him. His voice was light, but not mocking. "Tch. Guess I owe myself a spirit stone."

Rudra met his gaze.

But he didn't smirk. He didn't look away either.

Once, his gaze had burned with superiority—the kind born from certainty and legacy. Then, after the hall incident, came guilt—brief, sharp, swallowed by pride.

But now—

Now it was something else.

Something quieter.

Not shame. Not jealousy. Maybe… rivalry. But also something quieter. Something truer.

And perhaps… a strange, unspoken respect.

Rudra inhaled once. "I saw you climb," he said simply. "And I realized something."

Aaryan tilted his head, amused. "Oh? Don't tell me you finally realized I'm handsome. Happens to everyone eventually."

That earned him a tiny twitch of Rudra's lips. Almost a smile. Almost.

"No," Rudra said. "I realized… I've been running the wrong race."

Aaryan blinked.

Not in confusion—just surprise.

Rudra continued, voice low, steady. "I thought strength meant walking ahead of others. But maybe… it means climbing even when you fall behind."

There was no weight to prove. No arrogance to reclaim.

It wasn't guilt.

It wasn't surrender.

It was something firmer. Something forged anew.

Aaryan looked at him for a long beat, wind tugging lightly at both their robes.

Then, he grinned. "Well. About damn time you caught up."

He stuck out a hand.

Rudra looked at the hand. His eyes lingered—not with hesitation, but with thought. And then, after a breath… he took it.

Not as a rival.

Not as a follower.

But as someone who had chosen—truly chosen—to walk beside him.

The silence that follows their handshake is broken by a tremor beneath their feet. A low rumble echoes from the far side of the platform. Mist parts to reveal a wide stone archway etched into the cliff wall, behind which looms a vast maze of stone, carved into the peak's plateau. Colossal boulders shifted and rumbled with glacial patience, turning corridors into walls, walls into paths. It was like watching a mountain breathe.

No warning. No chance to rest.

Just strength, mind, and time.

A glyph above the entrance flared to life, inscribed with jagged mountain script.

"The Maze of Stone and Strain. One path for each. Tools are given. Time is not."

From the side, a section of the floor split open to reveal a raised pedestal. Upon it lay small leather satchels—identical.

A murmur passed among the disciples gathered in the plaza, while the sect leader and elders watched calmly. There was no bloodshed in this trial, but that made it no less cruel. Strength alone would not carry them.

The five disciples exchanged glances. No words.

Swali had already picked hers up, checking the contents quickly: a short coil of rope, a piece of chalk, a blunt chisel, and a flint stone. Primitive. But clean.

Rudra shouldered his satchel silently, eyes drawn to the maze ahead. The pillars creaked like ribs of sleeping giants—slow, but unyielding.

Nitish scoffed. "What kind of trial is this? You want strength, give us a real fight, not a puzzle crawl."

But no one responded.

Swali was the first to move. Her eyes flicked over the boulders, reading the chaos like a ledger. She picked the rightmost path and vanished into the maze without hesitation.

Vayu followed, eyes calm. He gave a faint nod to Aaryan and Rudra before stepping toward the central gate, wind teasing his robes.

Nitish muttered under his breath and chose the far left, jaw clenched.

Rudra said nothing. He walked into the shadows of the second path with the focus of a man moving through memory, not terrain.

Aaryan was the last. He turned back once, grinning at the sky.

"Let's see if you can outsmart stone," he murmured, and stepped into the fourth gate.

The maze swallowed them all.

The stone groaned. Again and again. Floor and ceiling shifted subtly. With each step, the world rearranged.

Swali marked each corner with chalk, noting the grain of rock, the temperature, the timing. She timed her breath to the tremors beneath her feet. This was not a maze—it was a pattern. A rhythm.

But it wasn't enough.

A wrong turn. A dead end that hadn't been a dead end before. When she turned back, her chalk was gone. Erased.

She reached the fork again. Tried the other path. A loop. Another shift. Another dead end.

Breath quickening, she ran. She wasn't supposed to run.

Her foot hit a loose edge. Her shoulder slammed into cold rock. The boulder slid.

And the path behind her vanished.

A moment later, she reappeared at the base of mountain in a flash of blue light, cast out by the formation. Sitting. Exposed.

Some elders whispered. Some didn't react. One of her junior sect mates looked away.

She said nothing. She didn't weep.

But her hands wavered.

Nitish's knuckles were white around the chisel. "Shit. Shit—move, dammit."

He shoved, sweat pouring down his brow, chest heaving. His first corridor had seemed easy. Then it folded in on itself.

Twice, he ended up back at his entry gate.

His rope markings vanished. His chalk bled into the walls like water.

He dropped to his knees.

The sound of grinding stone echoed like mockery.

"I can't—"

Then his fingers brushed something small, hidden near his chest.

The token. Flat. Warm.

No one had seen him take it, but he remembered. It was his prize for the task he had yet to complete.

But for that, he needed to ascend to the summit.

Nitish clenched it. The warmth pulsed once.

He stood again. Walked without looking. Turned corners with confidence he hadn't earned. Marked only what was necessary to show.

In the plaza, Sect leader Pryag watched with a faint, knowing smile.

Vayu didn't push.

He didn't force or mark anything.

He walked.

Paused.

Felt.

Every rumble in the ground spoke to him. He crouched often, laying a palm flat against the stone. Listening. Timing.

He watched for shadows.

When he pushed, it was gentle. When he waited, it was without fear.

Once, a massive slab lowered before him. He sat cross-legged and waited. Thirty breaths later, it slid away.

He walked on.

And kept walking.

Rudra was silent.

Not out of pride. Not out of fear.

Out of choice.

He studied the stone. When he struck the chisel, it was deliberate—never more than necessary. His rope formed no net, just a trail. His chalk made no shapes, only dots.

Once, he turned back on his own. Once, he let the wall shift around him instead of forcing it.

He was no longer chasing. No longer proving.

He was simply moving forward.

Aaryan's hands had small cuts all over it.

He'd scraped his shoulder against the wall more times than he could count. But he was smiling now. The grin of a man who had seen through the lie.

The maze repeated. Not exactly—but in echo.

He began to count the rumblings. Not just their frequency, but their tone.

Some boulders scraped. Some hummed. Some clicked.

He stopped carving arrows. Instead, he began drawing tiny shapes: sunbursts for turns, triangles for false paths. A swirl when he heard a high-pitched groan, a cross when the wind pulled backward.

His path made no sense to the eye.

But it flowed. Like him.

Twice he passed stone faces etched with old carvings. The second time, he knew he was close.

Aaryan paused mid-step. The scraping hum returned — same pitch as before. A beat later, the corridor shuddered sideways. He grinned. Not chaos. Cadence.

He sprinted and dashed through the door, passing the second trial with ease.

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