The arena was alive.
Stone platforms floated like shattered islands in a sea of golden mist. Gravity bent and twisted around the edges. Runes carved into the air shimmered and shifted with each breath Angel took. It wasn't just a training ground—it was a reflection of his mind.
And inside it, his enemies waited.
Enemies he had created.
The moment Angel stepped into the arena, the glyph behind him sealed shut. Silence followed. Then—
Thoom.
A dark figure stepped from the fog. Towering, armored, faceless. Its body was made of flowing ink, its blade forged from a memory—one of the first stories Angel had imagined as a child: The Night-Knight, a vengeful warrior who rose whenever a dream was abandoned.
It raised its sword with a hiss of steel. Behind it, others emerged—echoes of Angel's mind:
A serpentine fox cloaked in laughter and fire.
A hooded girl with eyes that dripped shadow.
A colossal beast made of broken clocks and stardust.
They were beautiful. Terrifying. Familiar.
Angel's heart pounded.
I made them. I gave them life… now I have to survive them.
❖ ❖ ❖
The first attack came fast.
The Night-Knight lunged, blade crashing down like thunder. Angel dodged instinctively—barely. The stone beneath him cracked from the force. No spell. No chant. These were creations of his will, and he had to fight them with the same.
He closed his eyes. Focus. Visualize. Shape.
A blade appeared in his hand—gleaming blue, wrapped in lightning. It crackled to life, humming with thought.
The Knight's next swing met his own.
Metal clashed. Sparks exploded.
Ink hissed against aura.
The fox darted in next, claws glowing, laughter echoing in the mist. Angel spun, his blade shifting mid-motion—becoming a shield, then a whip, then wings. His Gift surged, bending reality around his thoughts.
But for every creation, there was strain.
Pain bloomed in his temples. His nose bled.
Too much. Too fast. Too many ideas at once.
The arena spun.
❖ ❖ ❖
Up in the observation tower, Archmistress Vireya watched closely, hands folded, expression unreadable. Behind her, a panel of instructors and silent-robed observers scribbled notes and whispered.
"He's unstable," one muttered.
"He's adapting," another countered. "He's evolving in real-time."
Vireya said nothing.
Instead, her gaze narrowed.
"Let him break. Or let him transcend."
❖ ❖ ❖
Back in the arena, Angel dropped to one knee. The stardust beast approached, clock-hands spinning on its chest like a countdown. Its voice was not a roar, but a ticking—tick tick tick—a reminder of time wasted in his first life.
"You don't deserve this world," the beast said.
"You're a ghost in flesh. A creator of fiction."
Angel's hand trembled. His sword flickered.
But then—he laughed.
It started quiet. Then grew.
The beast halted. The Knight tilted its head.
Angel rose slowly, eyes gleaming.
"You're right," he said.
"I'm a creator of fiction.
But fiction is truth waiting to be born."
He raised his hand.
A storm of color exploded from his chest—ink, fire, light, thought—blending into a new form. A creature not from his old dreams, but born in that moment: a phoenix made of broken stories, its wings stitched from pages, its beak a fountain pen dripping with fire.
It screeched, and the arena burned with possibility.
The dream-beasts faltered.
They weren't alive. They were memories.
And Angel no longer feared them.
With a single breath, he unraveled them. Not with violence—but with rewriting.
Each creature dissolved into stardust, reabsorbed into the mind of their maker.
Silence followed.
Then, the glyph at the edge of the arena flashed open.
He had won.
But he didn't walk out proud or triumphant.
He walked out changed.
Because now, he knew:
His Gift wasn't just about creating.
It was about letting go.
About mastering the chaos within.
About becoming the author of his own fate.