The students followed Master Zareth in a tense silent procession through the academy's grand halls. His steps were slow, deliberate—the measured pace of a guide leading lambs to a sacred, terrifying altar.
Ronin fell beside Kaira, leaning close. "Hey. Any clue what's in his head?"
Kaira shook her head, her usual playfulness subdued. "No one knows. His tests are... kind of legendary. I heard."
Master Zareth led them out into vast, open-air training grounds. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—a palpable, gathering dread. He turned to face them, that thin, knowing smirk still etched on his pale face.
"A final inquiry," he said, his voice echoing softly in the space. "Are you prepared?"
Ronin crossed his arms. "Prepared for what? You haven't told us what the test is?"
Master Zareth gave a slight nod, leaning casually against a lone, gnarled tree. "Your doubts will be clarified momentarily. As for the test... it will measure your combat aptitude, strategic thinking, decision-making under duress, physical endurance, and most importantly..." His hazel eyes glinted. "...your ability to identify and exploit a threat's weakness."
He pushed off from the tree and took three deliberate steps back. His eyes began to glow with a sickly, pulsating mix of gold and violet energy.
"Realm Creation: Abyssal Charnel House."
The world warped.
The sunny training grounds vanished. They now stood in a vast, silent necropolis under a perpetually twilight sky the color of a fresh bruise. Endless rows of bleached bone monuments and crumbling mausoleums stretched to a horizon that seemed to curve inward. The air was thick, stagnant, and cold carrying the ghostly echo of countless sorrowful whispers. It was a dimension where hope came to die.
Ronin stumbled back, his bravado shattered. "WHAT THE FUCK?! Where is this?!"
Razen stood perfectly still, her mercury-silver eyes analytically scanning the hellscape. "A Closed Domain. Of course."
Kaira whirled to her face. "A closed what? Speak clearly!"
Razen didn't turn, her voice clinical. "Realm Creation. A supreme-tier spell that manifests a personal pocket dimension, a micro-universe shaped by the caster's will and energy. It is the only known method for a non-Hirata to achieve true spatial manipulation. " Her gaze flicked to Ronin for a millisecond.
Ronin's eyes narrowed. "Was that a dig at me?"
"It was a statement of fact," Razen said coolly, finally looking at him. "There are two types. Open Domains are less draining, overlaying the caster's will on existing space—breakable with sufficient force. Closed Domains, like this..."
A low vibration rippled through the necropolis. The bone spires around them shuddered, fine dust raining down like pale ash. Somewhere far beyond sight, something massive exhaled—slow, wet, and patient.
She gestured at the oppressive sky. "...are dimensional prisons. The caster serves a piece of reality itself. The only exits are to drain the caster of all energy... or to defeat them."
A low, humorless chuckle resonated from everywhere and nowhere at once. Master Zareth's voice was the domain itself. "Excellently deduced, Silversmith. You have diagnosed your cage. Now, the experiment begins."
"Primary Objective: Survive. Defeat the manifested threats.
Rules: No inter-student combat. No external aid. Cheating is a conceptual impossibility here."
Ronin yelled into the greenish gloom. "What 'threats'?!"
As if in answer, a nearby bone monument ten feet tall detonated.
KRA-KOOM!
Shards of razor-sharp bone whistled through the air. From the plume of dust emerged a nightmare.
It was a hulking, multi-limbed creature encased in jagged, black chitinous armor. Acidic saliva drooled from a fanged maw, sizzling where it hit the stone ground. Four powerful, claw-tipped limbs raised as it let out a ground-shaking roar that was pure, projected malice.
Ronin's eyes widened in horror. "What the thing is this!"
"A projected False Tyrant," Razen said, her voice dropping to a tactical monotone as she began to back away. "Maintain distance. Observe its attack patterns before engaging."
Ronin's instincts screamed. He shifted his stance, golden energy flaring around his shoulders as he braced to counter.
Ronin's head snapped toward her. "Pattern? Who has time for—WHOA!"
The Tyrant moved with shocking speed. One massive limb lashed out like a whip. It didn't aim to maim; it aimed to capture. The claw closed around Ronin's torso and, with a violent heave, hurled him like a ragdoll across the necropolis.
He vanished into the side of a crumbling bone-mansion in a thunderous crash of splintering debris.
Kaira flinched, covering her eyes but peeking through her fingers. "Is he... Ronin...?"
A faint, golden light began to glow from within the pile of rubble.
A voice, thick with dust and fury, growled out.
"Armageddon Chains... DRAGON'S MAW CLEAVER."
SNAP-CRACK-WHOOSH!
Six chains of solidified golden light energy erupted from the debris. They didn't strike; they whirled, a blinding, destructive hurricane of metal that sliced through the ancient stone and bone structures around them as if they were made of parchment.
The chains found their target. They wrapped around two of the Tyrant's raised limbs.
SHLIKT!
The limbs severed cleanly, tumbling through the air in arcs of black ichor. The False Tyrant stumbled back, emitting a deafening, confused shriek of agony as it thrashed on the ground.
The dust cloud settled.
Ronin stood in the wreckage, brushing grit from his shoulder. A thin trail of crimson blood traced from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing not with pain, but with exhilaration.
A wide, terrifying grin split his face.
"You thought..." he laughed, the sound echoing in a silent domain. "...that would work on me? Your first mistake was touching me. Your second..."
He flexed his wrist. The chains, dripping with false ichor, retracted and coiled around his right arm like possessive, living serpents. The rainbow gem in his ring pulsed with a deep, blood-red light.
He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and let out a lazy, theatrical yawn.
"...was thinking I'd stay down. Sayonara, ugly."
"ARMAGEDDON CHAINS: CROSS SLASHER!"
The six chains shot out again, not in a whirl, but in two intersecting, scissoring arcs that formed a gigantic, glowing 'X' in the air. They passed through the Tyrant's torso at the speed of thought.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the upper half of the False Tyrant slid diagonally from it's lower half, both sections collapsing into piles of dissipating, shadowy smoke and fading ectoplasm. The gore was illusory, but the visceral finality was not.
Several students turned away, gagging or shutting their eyes.
Kaira's jaw dropped. Then, a brilliant, excited smile erupted on her face. RONIN! THAT WAS INCREDIBLE!"
Ronin's grin widened into something feral and triumphant. He punched a fist into the air. "HELL YEAH, IT WAS! WHO'S NEXT?!"
As if answering his challenge, a chorus of guttural growls and scraping chitin rose from the darkness all around them. Dozens of gleaming, acidic eyes ignited in the gloom. More False Tyrants, drawn by the noise and the release of energy, began to emerge from the shadows of the monuments.
Ronin stepped forward, placing himself between the emerging horde and his stunned classmates. The chains around him tensed, humming with eager power.
"Looks like the party's just getting started," he declared, his voice ringing with a battle-joy that was both thrilling and slightly unhinged. "Alright, you ugly bastards! Let's dance!"
***
The trial had begun.
The nightmare horde was unleashed.
Some students froze. Others looked for escape.
But for Ronin Hirata, this was not a test of survival.
It was an invitation to a slaughter—and he had just accepted with a smile.