The silence that fell over the plaza was almost unnatural.

Moments ago, gasps, curses, and murmurs had echoed as disciples stumbled, ducked, and flailed about under the puppet's relentless barrage. Vayu's graceful footwork had nearly failed him. Nitish was crouched behind a boulder like a child beneath a quilt, trembling at thunder during a stormy night. Rudra, desperate and determined, had still taken two painful blows to his shoulder and thigh. Even Aaryan had looked like a staggering drunk in a storm—dodging wildly, as he tried to avoid the boulders.

But now… what was this?

That same Aaryan was tossing rocks—yes, rocks—into the air with casual flicks of his wrist, each one drawing a flurry of puppet fire. As the puppet unleashed its fury on stone, Aaryan slipped through the chaos like a fox weaving through thorns. His pace was steady, almost relaxed, a faint grin playing at the corner of his lips. Within thirty breaths, he had covered nearly five meters.

Only ten more to the gate.

The plaza erupted—not in cheers, but in stunned silence. The crowd didn't know whether to gape or scoff. Had they all misjudged him? Or had they misunderstood the trial?

"That's… that's cheating, right?"

"No, look. The puppet's still firing at him."

"At him? More like at the rocks!"

Sect Leader Pryag's calm face cracked for just a fraction of a second. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, an eyebrow raised—then stillness again. His eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the boy's strange rhythm.

"This boy…" he muttered under his breath, voice so soft that only the wind might have heard. "Give him another year or two, and he would've been a real headache."

The elders seated beside him exchanged glances, confusion flickering across their faces. Some leaned forward, peering at the puppet. Others frowned.

"That's odd," murmured someone, rubbing her chin. "Is the puppet broken? Why's it firing at those rocks?"

"Can't it tell the difference between a disciple and a stone?"

"Maybe it's blind?" grunted another.

But even as they questioned it, none could explain how the puppet failed to lock onto Aaryan's movements. He wasn't invisible or cloaked in illusion. And yet… it was as if the puppet simply missed him—like he was a shadow hiding behind other shadows.

They didn't know the truth.

The puppet didn't track based on sight alone. It hunted movement, yes, but its true targeting system was based on aura. The moment two moving presences appeared, the puppet locked onto the stronger, clearer signature. Disciples, still clinging to their Body Tempering cultivation, radiated traces of will, tension, and desperation. Aaryan, thanks to a certain peculiar technique—the Heavenly Silken Mask—had erased all traces of his presence. To the puppet, he might as well have been another falling stone.

Even if the elders had known this, what could they do?

None of the other disciples possessed a technique so rare and obscure. None had access to the kind of unorthodox methods Aaryan wielded. Most wouldn't even believe a technique like that existed in his hands. It wasn't just cunning. It wasn't just luck. It was something else—something that slipped through their grasp each time they thought they had figured him out.

In the trial ground, the puppet roared once more, its limbs clicking with sudden precision as it shifted stance.

Aaryan's eyes sharpened. He pulled another rock from his sleeve.

Twenty meters.

He was nearly there now.

All of Evernight held its breath, waiting to see if the trickster would reach the gate first.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan kept moving, weaving between the chaos like a phantom. His fingers flicked pebbles into the air with the same ease a bard might play a lute string, each stone dancing mid-flight and drawing a fresh wave of puppet fire. He ducked behind a thick tree trunk, slipped past a half-cracked boulder, then pivoted and slid behind another obstacle. It wasn't elegance that drove him now—it was grit stitched with cunning. His silhouette vanished and reappeared like a mirage, always just out of reach.

Another minute passed. Seven meters more covered.

Now only three remained between him and the gate.

But it wasn't easy. The injury in his ankle, sustained earlier when he'd tested his theory, pulsed with each step. He had crushed a few pills between his teeth—bitter and numbing—and smeared a thick herbal salve over the skin. It helped dull the ache, sure, but the joint itself was still stiff, still swollen. He wasn't limping outright, but every movement had lost its edge.

He huddled low behind the final boulder, the gate shimmered just ahead—perhaps a meter away—but there were no more trees, no more rocks. Just open ground. Exposed. Empty.

Aaryan stared at it. At salvation. At the trap.

He inhaled once, steady and long, then pulled ten pebbles from his sleeve. With practiced fluidity, he hurled them all in different directions—high, low, far, near—scattering them like seeds in the wind.

The puppet reacted instantly, spinning on its axis, arms twitching, cannons locking onto the bursts of movement.

Aaryan bolted.

His feet struck the ground with raw urgency, his breath ragged, chest pumping like a war drum. He surged forward, every tendon screaming, ankle throbbing with each step. The glowing gate loomed closer—and closer—

And then came the whine.

The puppet's core pulsed red.

After briefly locking onto one of the decoys, the statue corrected its aim. The scattered pebbles—faint, fast-falling—lost their draw. The real presence, the real threat, was charging straight at it.

Him.

"Damn it—" Aaryan hissed between clenched teeth.

Too late to stop. Too far to dodge.

The Qi beam flared to life with a sizzling crack, like lightning caught mid-birth. It shot forward—

But just before it landed, his hands reached forward, fingers outstretched.

They brushed against the barrier—a thin, glowing veil over the gate. It rippled at his touch, like the surface of a soap bubble.

Then—

Silence.

The beam halted mid-air, dissipating into light. The puppet froze, its mechanical limbs stiffening one final time before falling still. Its eyes dimmed. Aaryan collapsed forward, his momentum carrying him through the membrane and onto the stone beyond.

At the exact moment his body crossed the threshold, far across the trial ground, similar scenes unfolded.

Inside the chamber where Rudra fought, the puppet's attack—mere inches from Rudra's body—halted mid-air. Vayu, mid-leap, landed hard but safe as the construct before him powered down with a dull thrum.

In the corner room, Nitish remained curled behind a boulder, eyes shut, barely breathing. His puppet had already stopped, lulled by his stillness.

Now, all four statues closed their eyes in unison.

Like monks entering meditation.

Their bodies returned to the same placid state they held when the disciples first arrived. Weapons retracted. Energy cores dimmed. The grinding, humming gears faded into quiet.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the trial ground exhaled.

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Stillness returned. No beams. No footsteps.

Just the faint, almost imperceptible sound of a boy panting behind the gate, fingers still twitching from the adrenaline that had nearly failed him— yet proved enough.

The gate pulsed once, a soft ripple spreading across its surface—then it opened.

Mist spilled out, slow and dense, swallowing the air like creeping breath. Beyond the threshold, nothing could be seen. No walls. No ground. No light. Just that thick, swirling fog, as if the world itself had folded inward.

In the other three chambers, the same phenomenon occurred. Each gate shimmered, then parted, revealing identical clouds of white obscurity.

Vayu stood motionless for a heartbeat. His chest heaved with each breath, his robe torn and streaked with soot and sweat. A shallow cut traced his cheek, and his sleeves were in tatters, the aftermath of his frenzied dodges still clinging to him. But his eyes—calm and steady—narrowed in quiet understanding.

A quiet exhale escaped his lips.

He stepped forward, boots pressing against the stone floor one last time, before vanishing into the mist.

In another room, Rudra lingered, his gaze fixed on the now-still puppet before turning toward the gate. He limped, each step uneven, dragging one foot behind the other. Blood ran freely from a gash in his thigh and soaked through the fabric at his shoulder. Angry red burns webbed across his arms, pulsing like smouldering embers under his skin. But he didn't slow. He didn't pause. One hand gripped his side as he hobbled forward, and with a pained grunt, he passed through the gate.

Into the fog.

Gone.

In the far room, Nitish peeked out from behind the same boulder he'd clung to for what felt like hours. The puppet's eyes were closed. No glow. No sound.

Still, he hesitated.

He slowly raised one hand and waved at it—half test, half prayer. No response.

Then, with cautious steps, he moved out from behind his cover, inching forward.

There was nothing. No beams, no flickers, no movement

The statue remained still, indifferent.

Relief bloomed across his face, chased quickly by disbelief. His pace quickened, arms flailing slightly as he crossed the final stretch. And yet, as he passed beside the statue, he turned—just for a second—to glance up at it. The fear hadn't left his eyes.

The statue never moved.

Nitish stepped into the mist, the fear in his eyes trailing behind

And then there was Aaryan.

Still crouched near the threshold, one hand pressed to his knee, he stared at the swirling gate. His breath was calmer now, but his fingers still twitched faintly from the fading adrenaline.

He lingered for just a breath—no thoughts, just a thrum in his chest. Then he stepped into the white void.

And he was gone.

From outside, those watching through the spirit mirrors saw only the fog—and then nothing at all.

The four disciples disappeared.

The gates remained open.

And the puppets slept once more, unmoving beneath the hush that blanketed the trial ground.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The spirit mirrors shimmered once more.

Faint ripples distorted their surfaces, and the images within shifted—no longer showing swirling mist or sleeping puppets. One by one, each mirror refocused. The scenes that emerged were not of battle, nor some hidden chamber, but of a familiar open clearing.

The base of Mount Veinsunder.

The very spot where the trial had begun.

There, seated on scattered stone outcrops or the grass itself, were three familiar figures—Hemant, Swati, and Swali. They hadn't moved far since their elimination. With no way to leave on their own, they had been left waiting for the trial to conclude, their gazes occasionally drifting upward toward the distant mountain.

Hemant sat with his back to a tree, arms crossed, silent as a shadow. The shame of being the first to fall still clung to him like a stain he couldn't scrub off. He hadn't spoken a word since his arrival. Not to the others. Not even to himself.

Swati and Swali sat close by, tending to each other's minor wounds in silence, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Their faces were tired, wary. But it was more than exhaustion. A subtle frustration simmered beneath their calm expressions.

Then, a shift.

Some distance away, the fog thickened suddenly, curling up from the earth like breath on winter air.

A pulse.

Then it parted.

Nitish stumbled out of it.

His clothes were torn, his face pale, and his eyes wide. He looked like someone who had narrowly escaped death. For a moment, he blinked in disbelief, as if not trusting that the nightmare was truly over. But when he saw the others—real, alive, familiar—his lips parted in a stunned grin.

He had never been so happy to see someone before.

But before he could speak, the fog behind him pulsed again.

Vayu stepped through with quiet grace. His robes were dirtied and torn, his sleeves half burnt away. There was a shallow cut across his cheek, and soot stained his skin—but his expression remained composed, eyes serene, posture unshaken.

And then Rudra emerged.

He looked like he'd walked through hell itself.

Blood soaked through his tunic from his shoulder and thigh. Angry scorch marks marred his arms and neck, and his breathing was ragged, like every step had cost him something. Yet he stood tall, his gaze sweeping across the group without flinching.

One by one, the six disciples met each other's eyes.

No words were exchanged.

They didn't need to.

They all understood what this meant.

They had been eliminated.

Which meant… the trial was over.

And the winner had been chosen.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Back in the main plaza of the Evernight Sect, a hush fell over the crowd.

Dozens of disciples stared wide-eyed at the spirit mirrors, while the elders leaned forward in stunned silence. For a breathless moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

Then realization dawned.

All six had been eliminated.

The trial had ended.

And the one left standing—the one who had not appeared—was Aaryan.

It began with a single clap.

A sharp sound from a young experimental disciple near the outer rings. Ren. The very same youth Aaryan had fought in Green Veil City just to earn the right to join the sect as outer disciple. He clapped again, then again, the sound catching on the wind.

More joined.

The silence broke.

Cheers, confusion, even disbelief rippled through the gathered sect members like a delayed wave.

Elder Kiyan exhaled sharply, a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. His eyes locked onto the bloodied image of Rudra in the mirror.

"He's alive…" he murmured, as if only now believing it.

But then he frowned.

Realization settled in.

That brat Aaryan had won.

He scoffed, his voice low and sharp. "Tch. Chicken or phoenix, it makes no difference. A rat in the clouds is still a rat."

But as he looked back to the spirit mirror, a new question surfaced—Where was Aaryan?

The sect leader Pryag smiled, whispering to himself "I didn't expect you to be the last one standing but it doesn't matter, the real game has just started."

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

On the slopes of Mount Veinsunder, the six disciples gathered in silence.

Even without words, disbelief hung heavy in the air.

Nitish's brow furrowed. "He… really won?" His voice cracked at the edges.

Hemant's expression twisted with disbelief. "How? No, he must've… he must've had some trick…"

Swati's lips pressed into a line. Swali, beside her, shook her head but said nothing.

Only Vayu and Rudra remained still, their eyes distant.

After a moment, Vayu gave a soft smile. "Brother Aaryan… is truly amazing."

There was no envy in his tone—only quiet admiration.

Rudra, battered and bloodied, didn't look disappointed. If anything, something burned behind his eyes. Not anger. Not bitterness.

Resolve.

He nodded once, to no one in particular. "Next time," he murmured.

Then he looked around.

Still no sign of Aaryan.

The fog had delivered them all.

But not him.

Where was he?

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The mist clung to Aaryan's skin like sweat as it slowly cleared around him. The cool scent of damp leaves filled his lungs. He blinked.

Trees.

A thick canopy overhead swallowed the fading light, casting the forest in a murky twilight. The sun had almost set—darkness curling at the edges like smoke licking through cracks. The air was still. Too still.

He stepped forward cautiously, eyes flicking between trunks twisted like gnarled fists. No sounds. No birds. No insects. No breeze.

"Another trial?" he muttered, squinting toward the darkened path ahead.

A dry chuckle echoed between the trees.

"So, you finally arrived."

Aaryan stiffened.

Three figures emerged from behind the trunk of an ancient tree, each stepping into view like players taking the stage.

First was Dhawan—cutting and poised, his expression razor-sharp. His stance spoke of precision, of someone who never struck twice unless the first blow failed to kill.

Next came Kuni, flamboyant as ever, twirling a dagger between his fingers with the air of a street performer mid-show. His grin was wide, exaggerated, almost painted on.

Last was Shoya, and unlike the others, he didn't smile. He didn't blink. He merely stared—silent, unblinking, like a predator watching something already dead.

Aaryan's eyes narrowed. They were the ones who had abstained from the trial.

More than that—they weren't supposed to be here.

He inhaled through his nose, slow and steady, then exhaled with a smirk. "Kuni," he drawled, "wasn't your mother gravely ill last week? Shouldn't you be at her bedside?"

Kuni's smirk twitched.

Aaryan's gaze shifted. "And Shoya… weren't you about to make a breakthrough in seclusion? You said no distractions until the heavens cracked or something."

Shoya's jaw flexed.

"And Dhawan… didn't you get that tip about some bounty mission of yours? High-paying, high-risk, high-glory. Or was that just for show?"

All three faces shimmered with fury. They hadn't answered—but they didn't need to. Their presence said enough.

They were here for him.

Aaryan's grin widened. "So, what's the truth, boys? Acting on someone's command… or just couldn't stomach the sight of someone leaving you behind?"

Shoya finally stepped forward, voice like gravel grinding bone.

"I'll break your arms first. Then we'll see if that tongue still works."

They moved.

No posturing. No more words.

The forest exploded into motion.

Dhawan lunged from the right—sharp, direct, aiming for Aaryan's shoulder joint. Kuni flashed in from the left, blade spinning, eyes glinting with mischief and murder. Shoya followed straight on, silent, deadly, a crushing force behind the others.

Three disciples at the mid-10th stage of Body Tempering. By all logic, it should have been over in a breath.

Except—

They didn't know.

Aaryan wasn't at the 8th stage anymore.

Only Elder Dharun had known the truth.

He was at the peak of the 10th stage.

And even if he hadn't been, capturing him wouldn't have been easy.

He moved.

Twenty breaths.

That's all it took.

In the first three, he ducked beneath Kuni's slicing strike, pivoted, and kicked Dhawan in the chest mid-spin—dropping him unconscious with a gasp and a crack of ribs.

The next seven, he twisted between Shoya and Kuni like smoke, his movements sharp and unpredictable. His foot caught Shoya's ankle while his elbow slammed into Kuni's gut.

Ten more breaths.

That was all he needed.

By the time the forest calmed again, all three were sprawled in the dirt. Kuni groaned once before blacking out. Shoya's hand twitched faintly, then fell still.

Aaryan stood over them, dusting off his robe with mild irritation. "Well. That was disappointing."

He sighed, cracked his neck, and looked up at the dark canopy. For a moment, it was quiet again.

Then—movement.

Two figures stepped out from the shadows at the forest's edge. Taller. More refined. Their presence heavier, sharper—like swords unsheathed without a sound.

Aaryan's eyes flicked up to meet them. His grin returned, sharper now, gleaming with mischief and mockery.

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Straight from 'easy' to 'hell-difficulty'? No medium-level bosses in between? What kind of game design is this?"

He flexed his fingers, already feeling the heat rising in his blood.

The real game had begun.

And he was ready.

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