The ancient stillness of the chamber was deceptive.

Aaryan stood just past the threshold, breath low, shoulders squared. He had retreated the instant the statue's eyes flared open—right as that blast of Qi carved a molten scar into the ground. Now, the bronze giant sat motionless again, eyes sealed in false serenity. There was no formation pressure. No ambient killing intent. Just silence.

And that silence was worse.

His gaze dropped to the scorched line just meters away, the floor blackened and warped. That could've been him.

He exhaled sharply.

This was survival now. Becoming a Mani Disciple was secondary.

They hadn't thrown him into this without intent. Pryag wouldn't gamble authority on a whim. Someone wanted him here—and they were watching.

Which meant Aaryan had to stay relevant. Visible. Spectacular. As long as eyes were on him, no one would dare move too soon.

But the moment he faltered, the moment they dismissed him as a footnote—the knives would come. He'd be alone in the dark again.

So others could afford to lose.

He could not.

He clenched his jaw and moved.

This time he didn't hesitate. His feet launched him sideways, a blur streaking toward a jagged slope jutting from the chamber's side—curved like a broken fang. Not for cover—nothing here could block an attack that charred and melted stone—but for angles. For terrain that broke line of sight, forced the statue to track.

He surged past the thirty-meter mark.

The statue's eyes opened.

The air hummed.

Aaryan flung himself forward.

A blinding blast of heat cut through the space he'd just occupied, exploding against the far wall. Stone hissed. Slag dripped in glowing rivulets. The aftershock alone seared his shoulder, reddening the skin beneath his scorched sleeve.

He didn't slow. One breath. Two. Then a sharp pivot, zigzagging to the opposite flank.

Another flash. Another beam.

This time, it missed by less than an inch.

Sweat blurred his vision. His limbs burned. But he didn't stop.

Because the moment he stopped moving—

He'd die.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

A muted hush had settled over the plaza.

The spirit mirrors shimmered faintly, each displaying a different chamber somewhere deep within the mountain. Fiery beams, splintering trees, collapsing boulders—every screen pulsed with danger. But one by one, heads turned toward the mirror showing Aaryan.

A razor-thin beam had just grazed his side, searing stone behind him into molten slag.

"Insane…" someone whispered. "He wouldn't last for long."

The reflection of flame danced in eyes of Ravi. He stood with arms folded, lips tight. Sweat beaded his brow, but it had nothing to do with the heat the contestants were enduring inside the trial. "That statue… its attacks are too precise."

A sharp gasp cut through the murmurs. Another mirror flared—Nitish was collapsing inside his chamber, half-buried beneath a pile of smoking rubble. His limbs twitched once, then went still.

A few outer disciples shouted his name. An elder nearby raised a hand, murmured something, and the image dimmed.

"Fainted," another voice confirmed. "He's alive, but out."

Elder Kiyan remained silent, though his gaze was fixed on a spirit mirror showing Rudra. He was engaged in a brutal rhythm of evasion, his movements efficient, precise—mechanical even. Sweat poured down his jawline, but his eyes were calm. Cold.

Only a handful noticed that he hadn't blinked once.

"Four contestants," An elder nearby murmured, her voice low with unease. Her tone held no mockery now. Just unease. "And all four are getting hammered."

"This seems like the final trial." Elder Kiyan's brow was furrowed. "None of them are facing normal tests anymore."

A sudden flare from Aaryan's mirror stole the plaza's attention again.

Another beam. Another leap. Another near miss.

He was moving like a shadow straining against death's reach, the ground around him glowing with heat where the statue's attacks landed—mere seconds behind him each time.

"He'll burn out," an inner disciple muttered. "He's not even looking to preserve his strength. His body can't hold up."

"No," another said suddenly, eyes sharp. "Look at his pathing—his movements, his eyes. He's not just dodging randomly."

That earned a few frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"He's testing it. Mapping its reaction time. Line of sight. Reset period. He's planning something."

As if to echo his words, Aaryan slid behind a fractured stone ridge—then paused, just long enough to draw the statue's eyes again. It fired. He vanished again into a burst of dust and smoke.

A hush deeper than before followed. No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

Even the Elders stood watching now. One had lowered his fan. Another's wine gourd dangled forgotten from his belt.

And at the centre of them all, Sect Leader Pryag stared silently into the mirror, the image of a boy dancing through fire reflected in his narrowed eyes.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Inside the plaza, the tension thickened. No one spoke now—not even to whisper predictions or complaints. The four spirit mirrors flickered in eerie synchronization, each offering a glimpse into a different kind of struggle.

Vayu's image shimmered first.

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The elegant youth was panting, his robes scorched but mostly intact. He hadn't suffered any major injuries, yet his face was pale with restrained desperation. He crouched low behind a curved, broken ridge, muscles coiled. Twenty meters still separated him from the gate, but it might as well have been a chasm. One mistake. One misstep. A direct hit would leave him broken—if not dead outright.

He wasn't moving because he couldn't—not without a plan. His hand trembled slightly, fingers twitching—torn between lunging forward or bracing for the next blast. But neither would help. Not here. Not against this.

"He's thinking," someone murmured. "He's trying to outmanoeuvre it."

"Or he's stalling," another said grimly.

Meanwhile, Rudra's mirror pulsed with a more chaotic rhythm.

He was limping now, one hand pressed against a bleeding wound on his thigh, his breathing shallow. The first trial had drained too much from him, and although he'd swallowed pills and smeared his wounds with healing salve, it hadn't been enough. His idea had been bold—charge forward in the brief pause between attacks—but it had failed. Twice.

A dark scorch mark marred his side from where a glancing beam had clipped him, and another blast had shattered the ledge he'd used as cover. His theory—ten breaths between each statue's attack—had gone up in smoke.

He crouched behind a jagged boulder—thirteen meters from the gate. So close… yet each breath felt like a death knell.

"He's slowing down," someone muttered.

"He's hurt," Ravi replied quietly. "But he's still moving forward. That's more than most would manage."

Elder Kiyan stood rigid, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The grin from earlier had long faded. Each step Rudra took made him flinch—as if he were the one dodging those beams. Now his only wish was to get Rudra back safely. He didn't care if he won or not, as long as Rudra was safe, he would burn incense for his ancestors.

Then the mirror showing Nitish shifted—startling many in the crowd.

He had regained consciousness.

The plaza exhaled collectively as they saw him stir, eyes wide, panic etched across his face. He looked around in disorientation, mouth whispering something inaudible. A thank you, maybe. Relief. Gratitude that he hadn't been vaporized in his sleep.

Maybe the statue didn't attack the unconscious. Or maybe he'd just gotten lucky.

But he had no time to ponder it.

The moment he moved—barely a twitch—the statue's eyes opened.

A crackling beam exploded toward him. He shrieked, instinct taking over, and rolled clumsily to the side, scraping his forearm raw against the stone. The blast hit the wall behind him, raining rubble. Dust and heat choked the air.

When he stopped rolling, his chest heaved.

And he froze.

His trembling fingers clawed at his inner robe, searching desperately for something. Something hidden. But it was gone. His expression twisted.

"No…" he whispered.

It must've fallen. The token—whatever it was—was buried beneath the rubble, the same place the blast had landed.

He stared in its direction, paralyzed. Fear anchored his limbs. His confidence—his pride—had shattered like the stone beside him. The bravado of the strongest core disciple had vanished—replaced by the hollow-eyed stare of a boy who had brushed death... and couldn't look away.

The statue hadn't fired again yet.

But its eyes were open.

And watching.

The plaza remained hushed. Some looked away. Others stared harder.

Because what they watched in horror, the ones inside endured. And if roles were reversed, they wouldn't have lasted long enough to scream.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Inside the mirror that showed Aaryan, silence reigned. No quips. No smirks.

The youth was breathing heavily, his body hunched low behind a jagged stone outcrop. Faint burns marked his sleeves and shoulders, and blood clung to a shallow cut above his brow, tracing a path down his temple. No single wound looked severe—but the accumulation was wearing him down. His movements were a shade slower than before, his dodges more desperate than measured.

Then something changed.

Aaryan paused, blinking. His fingers brushed a scratch—and felt the skin knitting. It wasn't dramatic. Not like a healing pill. But it was happening. Quietly. Gradually. Somewhere beneath his skin, flesh was mending, cells were moving. His injuries were healing on their own.

His eyes narrowed. 'Was this his Dominion Tyrant Physique?'

He couldn't be sure. It wasn't fast enough to matter in the short term. New wounds outpaced the old. But it was there. Real. A thread of resilience winding through his bones.

Another beam screamed toward him.

Aaryan clenched his jaw. He couldn't keep dodging—not all the way to the gate. Every sprint, every roll, drained him further. And unlike him, the statues didn't get tired.

He had a theory. And now was the time to test it.

Instead of diving fully out of the way, Aaryan twisted his body at the last second—just enough to shift the beam's trajectory. The attack struck low, searing across the side of his ankle.

The pain hit like a spike. He staggered with a grunt, nearly buckling, and threw himself behind the next closest boulder. Dust kicked up as he landed hard, clutching his leg, breath ragged.

Fifteen meters remained.

But for a moment, no one in the plaza was watching the distance.

They were staring at the impact.

A core disciple—struck directly.

Gasps rippled through the square. The collective wince was nearly audible. Even the elders flinched, their eyes narrowing.

The silence broke.

"That idiot," came a scoff from the crowd. A tall disciple wearing outer disciple robes sneered, folding his arms. One of Nitish's known supporters. "Even Senior Nitish is barely surviving. What did this fool think he could do? Gamble his way through? There's not going to be a winner this time. Only ashes."

No one answered him.

Not this time.

Aaryan was no favourite. He didn't come from a renowned family. He hadn't risen through a prestigious sect hall. But he had earned his place. His battles had been public. His rise, undeniable. From outer disciple to core in less than a year—without favours, without handouts.

The plaza didn't speak. But many looked down, shame flickering in their eyes. Others stared harder at the mirrors, fists tightening.

He wasn't popular.

But he was respected.

Meanwhile, Elder Kiyan didn't so much as glance toward Aaryan's mirror.

His gaze was glued to Rudra's, veins taut across his forehead. Rudra had yet to move from behind the crumbling ledge. He was thinking. Calculating.

And Kiyan? He didn't care about victory anymore. Not if it came at the price of that boy's life.

Let the others fall.

Let Aaryan crawl or burn or vanish—so long as Rudra came out breathing.

But even so… even he couldn't deny what he'd seen.

That hit should have taken Aaryan down.

And yet, somehow, the boy was still crawling forward.

Still bleeding.

Still moving.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan clutched his ankle, breathing hard, the pain still fresh and raw—but a grin had crept back onto his face.

He was right.

His theory was right.

Ten breaths. That was the limit. The statue required ten full breaths to recharge and strike at full power. But full was the key word. If someone moved again before that countdown completed, the statue would still attack—just with less force. And the shorter the gap between attacks, the weaker the next strike.

The only problem?

They all looked the same. Same speed. Same glow. Same sound.

Unless you took the hit yourself, you'd never know the difference.

Aaryan had found out the hard way—cuts and burns all over his body. But as soon as he felt that difference, a tiny thread of hope had taken root. Hope... or madness.

He'd tested it because he had no choice. That hit on the ankle—calculated, if reckless—was the least dangerous place he could afford to get struck. Any higher and he might've passed out. Any lower and he'd be crawling.

If he'd been wrong?

He'd be crippled. And when the real threat appeared—because it would appear—he'd be done.

But now?

Now, it was time to cheese the hell out of this trial.

He let his breath settle, chest rising and falling with steady rhythm. His fingers brushed the ground, picking up a small chunk of stone. Then another. And another.

His grin widened.

With the Heavenly Silken Mask Art, it would be too easy.

His presence blurred, aura weaving itself into the very air. He didn't disappear. Not quite. But he stopped standing out. To the statue, he might as well have been just another rock.

He focused on the one in his hand, fine-tuning his aura until it matched perfectly. No difference.

These statues weren't conscious guardians. No will. No thought. Just ancient constructs reacting to movement.

He could've just thrown them—but at this point, he couldn't afford the risk. His body was slowing. Another blow—even a weaker one—and he'd be crawling instead of dashing.

Soon, six chunks of stone rested in his hands. Each one laced with his technique, masked and ready. He peeked around the edge of the jagged boulder, teeth flashing in anticipation.

The statue hadn't moved. Still seated. Still silent.

Perfect.

With a sharp breath, Aaryan hurled the six rocks—each flung in a different direction, each veering far from the others. His arm blurred with speed, and the very moment the last left his hand, he bolted.

Now, he had a one in seven chance of getting hit.

Dust kicked up as he dashed to the next boulder, sliding behind it just as the first beam fired.

A streak of blinding light tore through the plaza—not toward him.

One of the masked rocks vanished in a burst of scorched rubble.

The statue whirred, humming again as it twisted toward another stone nearby—not Aaryan.

He didn't move.

Didn't need to.

There were plenty of rocks left. No need to test luck again.

He leaned against the cool stone, exhaling softly.

"Let's see how long you can play fetch, you oversized paperweight."

His grin widened.

"Daddy brought a whole bag of pebbles."

It wasn't just about dodging anymore. It was about steering the trial itself. And for someone like him… that was far more fun.

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