While the two deities were engaged in quiet discussion, Adam's thoughts drifted elsewhere.
His eyes remained fixed on the suspended arena, yet he was no longer truly observing it. The voices around him faded into something distant.
He would understand later that the change had not gone unnoticed.
*** *** ***
Man has always been a contradictory being—capable of restraint, yet drawn toward conflict; guided by principles, yet unsettled by instinct.
Fear, morality, pride, hesitation—these forces shape him. Sometimes they protect him. Sometimes they confine him.
There are moments, however, when the line between control and impulse grows thin.
As Clayton confronted Tamiel, Adam felt that line shift within himself.
What stirred in him was not fear.
It was envy.
He had long considered himself calm, reasonable, someone who avoided unnecessary confrontation. That image had comforted him.
Watching the exchange before him unsettled it.
He wanted to step forward.
He wanted resistance beneath his hands.
To test himself against something tangible and unforgiving.
The sensation was not new.
During his school years, arguments had often escalated. Pride was rarely silent in adolescence. When pushed, he responded. When struck, he struck back.
He had called it self-defense. Dignity. Refusal to accept humiliation.
Those explanations were not false.
They were simply incomplete.
His thoughts shifted to Abdillah.
He remembered the day his older brother returned home bruised, jaw tight, eyes steady despite the swelling on his cheek.
Their father's anger had filled the house once the story was told. A classmate had attacked Abdi from behind after mocking him repeatedly.
"I ignored him," Abdi had said. "I thought it would end there."
It hadn't.
Something had changed after that.
Abdi became athletic. Focused. Intense.
He began watching fight programs. Studying movies. Analyzing how to finish an opponent efficiently.
"We're not physically gifted," he had once said. "So prioritize efficiency. If you can hurt someone, you can defeat them."
Adam almost smiled at the memory.
It had seemed funny.
It stopped being funny when his brother started calling him to train.
He had been eight.
Abdi twelve.
Ridiculous. Absurd. Yet strangely nostalgic.
They had practiced dirty tactics—eye strikes, joint locks, targeting vulnerable areas. They awkwardly imitated Chinese martial arts films. They learned to fight unfairly.
They did not train to dominate.
They trained to avoid helplessness.
Looking back, Adam understood the lesson more clearly.
Peace was not always preserved through passivity.
Sometimes it had to be claimed.
Sometimes it rested on decisions unspoken, on actions no one noticed until they were done.
The calm of the moment often hid the weight of what had been endured—and what might come again.
___
Around the four Chosen, silence prevailed.
They had been told that before learning more, each of them would have to defeat an opponent.
Hana's anxiety was visible despite her effort to conceal it.
Clayton remained attentive to his body, measuring the lingering fatigue from his previous engagement.
Sophia stood composed, her posture aligned, her expression unreadable. Whatever conclusion she had reached internally, she kept it to herself.
As for Adam… there was no need to say.
Had the others not been lost in their own thoughts, they might have noticed the tension radiating from him.
The young Comorian stood between fear and anticipation.
And he was no longer certain which of the two was stronger.
___
"My dear friend, I must request your assistance."
The God of Wisdom leapt down from the floating platform and approached the desk where Asteria was working.
A mysterious tome rested silently upon the table. Tamiel allowed himself only a brief glance at it before shifting his attention to his companion.
The Goddess of Magic lifted her gaze toward him. A playful smile curved her lips, enhancing the natural charm she already possessed.
Despite the beauty before him, Tamiel showed no reaction. His expression remained steady, waiting for her reply.
"It is rather admirable," she said lightly, "that a god of your stature involves himself so deeply in the affairs of these children."
She did not answer his request. Instead, she commented on his investment in the Chosen.
"I stand with Elyon, my dear friend," Tamiel replied. His tone shifted—from relaxed to solemn. "This world requires an external perspective. A spark capable of change."
"Hm."
Asteria regarded him with quiet skepticism.
After a moment of silent scrutiny, she finally sighed.
"Very well. I am here to satisfy my curiosity regardless… and, in truth, I am bound to assist."
"Perfect."
Tamiel's smile returned, bright and effortless.
*** *** ***
Minutes later, the group noticed four distinct lights forming on the opposite side of the platform. Each radiated a violet-blue glow.
From within them emerged four silhouettes.
They all bore the same face.
The same attire.
Tight, dark garments reminiscent of Japanese hakama—without belts. Their heads were shaved. Their expressions were resolute—cold, disciplined, devoid of hesitation.
Black fabric clung to disciplined musculature. Their builds alone spoke of warriors not to be underestimated.
They stood at roughly six feet tall, their physiques lean yet tightly coiled—built for explosive movement rather than brute mass.
Clayton recognized the type immediately: versatile. Controlled. Dangerous.
The four stood in perfect symmetry. Without close inspection, distinguishing one from another would have been impossible.
Crimson pupils contrasted sharply against disciplined, expressionless faces.
?!!
Tamiel reappeared beside the Chosen without warning. Their attention had been entirely fixed on the figures ahead; none had sensed his approach.
For a brief instant, they nearly startled—
—but quickly regained composure.
"Ah… I almost forgot something."
Tamiel turned toward Clayton with a faintly embarrassed smile.
Even for a deity, it would be excessive to send a mortal into trial in such a state.
"Though," he added lightly, tilting his head, "you may attempt the trial as you are. It could prove… interesting. What do you say?"
"What?!"
Clayton's eyes widened. For once, the veteran's usual calm composure faltered.
"With all due respect," he said evenly, though tension edged his voice, "what exactly would I gain from that? I would be far more likely to fail than succeed."
Tamiel did not appear offended.
"You would gain nothing, from your point of view," he admitted. "And yes—you would likely fail. But I considered it an excellent opportunity for you to surpass your limits."
Silence followed.
Even Asteria, standing nearby, seemed unsure whether he was being serious or merely indulging in poor humor.
"Oh, stop teasing him," she said at last, waving a dismissive hand. "Do not worry. I will heal you. I expect you to succeed. All of you."
She lifted a finger.
A violet light intertwined with streaks of emerald, forming a complex geometric sigil in the air—precise, elegant, deliberate.
Before Clayton could react, the construct drifted toward him and dissolved into his body.
Warmth surged through his arms.
The lingering ache vanished.
The heaviness in his muscles evaporated as though it had never existed.
Clayton flexed his hands slowly.
"I feel… better than before," he murmured, astonished. "It's as if my body was broken just to be rebuilt stronger. Fascinating."
Since arriving in Astra, wonder had replaced certainty more times than he could count.
Asteria lowered her hand.
"There. Now, Tamiel—explain the rules. Let us not delay them any further."
"You are right."
Tamiel's tone shifted, pride replacing playfulness.
"Advance."
The four silent figures stepped forward in perfect unison.
Their movements were precise—synchronized without hesitation.
"At your service, Master."
Their voices rang out simultaneously.
The tone of their voice was detached, almost robotic.
The sound unsettled the group.
"They sound… aware," Adam muttered under his breath.
"They appear human."
He studied them carefully.
If they had been chosen as opponents, they were not ordinary constructs.
Tamiel clasped his hands behind his back.
"These are your adversaries. Constructs formed by Asteria's magic. Their awareness and judgment are simulations crafted by me."
His gaze sharpened.
"This trial will test only what belongs to you."
"Your physical conditioning. Your reflexes. Your judgment. Your intelligence."
"Eidos will not be involved."
"Your opponents follow human standards. In fact… they have not even reached the outer limits of human potential."
Tamiel gestured upward.
A massive hourglass materialized in the air, suspended above the platform.
Its crystalline surface reflected the glow of the luminous triangular constructs that illuminated the Tower of Trials.
The upper chamber remained completely full—its sand still untouched.
A subtle pause.
"If you defeat your opponent, you succeed."
"If you remain standing when the final grain of sand falls, it will also be counted as a victory."
"The only failure… is defeat."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"You will each be transported to separate platforms, where you may fight without restriction."
Sophia stepped forward slightly.
"Lord Tamiel… forgive me. Could you clarify what constitutes defeat?"
Her voice was steady, but the concern beneath it was shared by Adam and Hana—and, though less visibly, by Clayton.
Tamiel regarded them in silence for a moment.
"Defeat occurs through immobilization, incapacity, or reaching the brink of death without yielding."
The words were calm. Almost detached.
"This is not cruelty. It is necessity. Potential does not awaken through comfort."
A stern expression came over his face.
"The path before you will not allow hesitation. We push you now because we would rather see you break here… than perish later."
A quiet tension lingered in the air.
He had expected fear. Resistance. Resentment.
He saw those emotions.
But he also saw something else.
Resolve.
Sophia inclined her head.
"Thank you for your honesty. We only wished to prepare ourselves mentally. Do not underestimate us."
Clayton stepped forward.
"She's right. The previous trial already made it clear. There's no room for denial anymore."
He glanced briefly at his companions.
"It will be difficult. Painful. But better to suffer now than fail when it truly matters."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"And we intend to return home."
A brief silence.
"Agreed?"
"Agreed."
The response came in unison.
Tamiel observed them quietly, something faintly luminous stirring in his eyes.
"Magnificent," he murmured.
"This is what I admire about mortals."
"That confidence that borders on arrogance."
"That willingness to challenge what appears insurmountable."
"You are fragile. Ignorant of this world. Weak, by our standards."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"And yet… you dare."
For a being who had never truly known limitation, there was something profoundly instructive in such audacity.
___
Tamiel no longer remained where he stood. The god floated away from the initial platform.
He did not gesture.
He did not speak.
And yet—
The air shifted.
An unseen force seized the Chosen.
The platform beneath them dissolved.
They were lifted effortlessly, drawn in different directions across the vast chamber.
No one understood how.
They only knew it was happening.
Only one person remained with his fated opponent.
⸻
"Woah—!"
Adam's stomach dropped as the ground vanished beneath him. Weightless, suspended, unable to control his direction, he caught a glimpse of one of the constructs being carried along the same invisible current.
They landed almost simultaneously on a distant platform.
The impact was light.
Deliberate.
The construct straightened immediately.
Its crimson eyes fixed on him.
⸻
"Yabai—!"
The word escaped Hana before she could stop it. To the others, it sounded like nothing more than a startled gasp.
She landed several meters away from her assigned opponent.
Her pulse was racing.
But the construct facing her did not move.
It simply watched.
⸻
"Aah—!"
Sophia's composure shattered for a brief instant as she was swept through the air. The loss of control struck deeper than she expected.
Heat rushed to her face.
How ridiculous.
How humiliating.
But when her feet touched solid ground and she saw her opponent standing ten meters ahead, the embarrassment faded.
Focus replaced it slowly.
Breathe.
Regain posture.
Stand.
She did.
⸻
Clayton stayed in the same place. He was slightly surprised. Perhaps he was beginning to grow accustomed to these miracles.
He withdrew his gaze from his companions and turned forward.
Across from him, his opponent showed a subtle change. The construct regarded him cautiously, as though it recognized the threat before it.
Clayton exhaled slowly.
A faint smirk touched his lips.
Good.
Just a fight. No extraordinary powers.
His arms felt stronger than before—Asteria's restoration still fresh in his muscles.
He rolled his shoulders once.
Tamiel had been clear.
Then this was simple.
He would not lose again.
⸻
Above them all, the golden stream flowed without interruption.
The flow was constant, unbroken—a steady stream marking the beginning of something irreversible.
Tamiel's voice carried across the chamber, clear and measured.
"Begin."
And the stillness gave way to motion.
*** ***
As Tamiel's voice echoed through the chamber, the untouched sand began its descent.
Adam understood at once.
This was no longer observation. It was confrontation.
For a fleeting instant, concern for the others surfaced within him—but he forced it aside. Whatever happened beyond this platform was no longer within his reach.
His focus narrowed.
He raised his guard, adopting a stance shaped by fragments of close-quarters combat and amateur boxing. It was not refined. The structure was imperfect. But it was familiar.
His heartbeat was not.
It raced.
A restless pressure built inside his chest—an urge to strike, to release everything that had accumulated since their arrival.
I have to win.
His fists trembled faintly.
In his agitation, he abandoned what he had been taught—steady breathing, measured observation, conservation of movement. The Vital Breath that Tamiel had introduced. The efficiency Abdi had insisted upon.
Emotion had replaced discipline.
Across from him, the construct stood motionless.
Then it began to advance.
Its steps were unhurried. Balanced. Economical.
"You are unstable," it said calmly.
The voice carried no mockery. No inflection beyond statement.
Adam tightened his jaw.
He circled slightly, careful of the platform's edge. The drop beyond it was not decorative.
The construct adjusted without haste, reducing the distance with precise steps.
When half the space between them had vanished—
It accelerated.
Not wildly.
Decisively.
Adam's reaction lagged by a fraction too long.
Impact.
A fist drove into his left side, just beneath the ribs.
The strike was compact—no wasted motion—yet the force behind it felt disproportionate to the movement.
Air left his lungs at once.
His body folded before he could prevent it.
Pain bloomed along his flank, deep and compressive, as though something solid had struck bone.
He staggered back several steps, guard raised too late.
Breathing refused to obey him.
The construct did not pursue immediately.
It reset its posture.
Stable. Neutral.
"Your guard collapses under pressure," it observed. "Your breathing is erratic. Your stance is reactive rather than structured."
Its red pupils remained fixed on him—not with hostility, but assessment.
Adam forced air back into his lungs.
It burned.
Too fast… I moved too late.
He shifted his weight, attempting to steady himself.
The platform felt narrower than before.
The construct stepped forward again.
Not aggressively.
Inevitably.
Adam struck first this time—an impulsive right aimed toward the jaw.
The construct tilted its head just enough.
The punch cut through empty air.
A counter followed almost immediately.
A short hook to the abdomen.
His muscles tensed too late to absorb it fully. Pain spiked sharper than before.
His balance faltered.
He retreated again, this time dangerously close to the edge.
The construct halted.
"Emotional escalation detected," it stated evenly. "Decision-making efficiency decreasing."
Adam's vision flickered for a moment.
His side throbbed with each breath.
The desire to charge—to silence that measured voice—surged through him.
But beneath it, something else emerged.
A quieter realization.
I am weaker.
Not only in strength.
In control.
The admission did not comfort him.
It unsettled him.
The construct advanced once more.
Adam attempted to reset his stance, but tension still dominated his limbs. His thoughts scattered between anger, pain, and the relentless descent of sand above.
He could hear it now.
A steady stream.
Time moving without regard for his condition.
Another exchange.
He misjudged the distance.
A straight strike grazed his cheek, snapping his head to the side. His vision blurred briefly.
He stepped back too far—
His heel met nothing.
For a fraction of a second, panic surged through him.
He recovered his footing just in time, barely avoiding the fall.
His breathing had grown shallow.
His ribs ached sharply.
His hands trembled—not from anticipation now, but strain.
The construct studied him in silence.
"Physical resilience within expected parameters," it said. "Mental stability declining."
Adam swallowed.
For the first time since the trial began, a thin thread of fear wound tightly around his composure.
He had wanted to fight.
He had wanted resistance.
Now resistance was all around him.
And it was heavier than he had imagined.
The construct did not waste motion.
Each exchange ended the same way.
Adam attacked with urgency.
The construct responded with structure.
A strike to the ribs.
A controlled shove to destabilize his footing.
A measured blow to the thigh that weakened his support.
Minutes passed.
The sand continued its descent.
Adam's breathing deteriorated.
His movements lost cohesion.
He attempted a feint—too obvious.
The construct deflected and countered.
A sharp strike landed across his shoulder.
Something shifted violently inside the joint.
Pain exploded.
A strangled cry escaped him as his arm dropped uselessly at his side.
He staggered back, barely maintaining balance.
The construct stepped forward.
Efficient. Unhurried.
Adam's vision swam.
His body was slower now. Heavier.
He could not win like this.
Not in strength, nor in precision, nor in endurance.
The truth settled with brutal clarity.
He is better.
Not divinely.
Not monstrously.
Simply better trained. Better structured. More disciplined.
The sand.
Adam glanced upward.
Less than a quarter remained.
Time.
Tamiel's voice echoed in memory.
"This trial will test only what belongs to you."
Abdi's voice followed.
"We're not physically gifted. So prioritize efficiency."
His breathing was chaotic. That was wrong.
He forced air through his lungs deliberately.
Slow.
Controlled.
The Vital Breath.
The construct advanced.
Adam did not charge.
He stepped back.
Then sideways.
Then back again.
Not fleeing blindly—measuring.
The construct pursued, adjusting its angle to cut him off.
Adam shifted posture subtly.
Looser.
Less rigid.
His movements changed—not aggressive, but economical.
The construct increased pressure.
A straight strike came.
Adam slipped half a step to the side.
Not clean.
But enough.
He retaliated—not with force, but with placement.
A sharp kick snapped upward, not to overpower, but to disrupt.
The construct's crimson pupils narrowed by a fraction.
It recalculated.
Adam moved again.
Back.
Side.
Forward.
Out.
The platform became a field of angles and calculations.
Distance became strategy.
Five minutes.
Not of dominance.
Of survival.
The construct pressed harder now.
It recognized the intention.
Adam was not trying to win by impact.
He was trying to endure.
A final exchange.
The construct lunged to end it—aiming to drive him toward the edge.
Adam stepped in unexpectedly.
A quick jab—not powerful, but precise—followed by a twisting motion that redirected the incoming force.
The construct's shoulder jerked slightly off alignment.
Not damaged.
Disrupted.
Adam's own injured shoulder screamed in protest from the torque.
He nearly collapsed from the pain.
The construct raised its arm for a finishing strike.
Behind Adam—
empty space.
Below—
jagged projections.
His remaining arm trembled.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Slow.
Heavy.
The construct stepped forward—
"Enough."
Tamiel's voice cut through the chamber.
The sand finished its descent.
Silence followed.
The construct froze instantly.
Adam remained standing.
Barely.
Relief flooded him—not triumph.
Just survival.
"I… made it."
His knees gave out.
He fell backward onto the platform, staring upward at the distant ceiling of the Tower.
His entire body throbbed.
The pain felt familiar.
Not divine.
Not extraordinary.
Like carrying wood across uneven ground for too long.
Like endurance without glory.
A faint, tired smile formed on his lips.
I wasn't stronger.
He closed his eyes.
I simply endured.
Darkness claimed him.