The coral-cracked antechamber of the Pavilion trembled as Vorrin of the Deep-Edge Faction faced the advancing colossus.
He had always trained in silence — a blade drawn in ripples, not roars. But the Stone-Beast, towering thrice his height, bore the weight of continents in its gait. Every step left fissures in the Pavilion's enchanted floor.
Carved from ancient mountain-shell and cooled magma veins, it was more than a guardian — it was a judgment etched in the Earth's memory.
Its eyes glowed not with hate, but recognition. As if Vorrin's challenge was less a barrier and more an ancient question, re-asked after millennia.
"You come for Feng Xian," Vorrin said, blade steady in his hand, sea-threaded robes fluttering with each quake.
"You'll pass only if you prove worthy… or I fall."
The Stone-Beast paused, molten symbols shifting across its obsidian plates — unfamiliar glyphs that some Pavilion scholars might whisper belonged to the Dawn-Tongue, a language of creation.
Then it moved.
Its first strike was not a swing, but a pressure wave — its foot slamming into the coral floor with such force the room warped, sending razor-finned currents blasting outward. Vorrin dodged low, rolling under a falling column, launching from its rebound to strike along the guardian's flank.
His blade barely left a scratch.
"We're not dancing, are we?" he muttered, narrowing his stance.
The Stone-Beast lifted both arms — and slammed them together. A shockwave of geostructured force erupted from its body, collapsing coral pillars and sending Vorrin flying.
He hit the far wall, shoulder dislocating with a sickening crack. Blood mixed with seawater. He coughed — and laughed.
"I see now. You're not here for Feng Xian's death."
"You're here to weigh what the world must become…"
And Vorrin stood again.
Through the rubble, the shimmering sigils on the floor began to flicker. The Crown's mark in the deep chamber below pulsed once more — and for an instant, the Stone-Beast paused.
Vorrin stepped into his final form — the Stream Blade Dance passed down by the forgotten Ninth Current — water trailing from every motion in whip-like ribbons, each cut predicting the next.
This would not be a victory.
But it could be enough.
To delay. To warn.
To show the ancient guardian that some in the Pavilion still stood not against fire… but for balance.