The blinding light from the magic portal vanished abruptly, throwing Lasron into an entirely different space. He staggered, his mind reeling from the instantaneous teleportation. Gone were the clamor and bustle of the Shrine of Acknowledgment's courtyard, gone were the curious or pitying eyes. Instead, a suffocating silence, a chilling sense of solitude, enveloped his small frame.
As his vision gradually cleared, Lasron found himself standing at the beginning of a narrow, straight path paved with an obsidian-black stone, slick and unnervingly cold. The path stretched into a thick, white fog in the distance, concealing what awaited him. On either side, towering grey stone walls loomed like silent, colossal giants, creating a suffocating, confined feeling. The air here was heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang of dried blood and an eerie stillness, broken only occasionally by the whistling wind through unseen crevices in the stone.
Just then, a series of System notifications appeared clearly before Lasron's eyes, blood-red text standing out against the gloomy, cold atmosphere:
[Welcome to the S+ Trial!]
[This trial consists of 4 Zones, corresponding to 4 Core Missions.]
[Current Zone 1: The Hundred-Meter Path.]
[Mission: Survive and traverse the 100-meter distance.]
[Note: The difficulty of this zone is equivalent to a High-Tier B Trial.]
[In this Zone, a designated safe area is located at the starting point. If injured, returning there before death will result in full recovery. Upon returning to the safe zone, all progress on the path and all hazards will be reset.]
[Reward for clearing each Zone: +20 basic stat points and one special hidden reward. Completing all 4 Zones will grant a total of 80 basic stat points and 4 hidden rewards.]
Lasron read and reread each line, his throat dry. Four zones, four missions. The dark path before him was merely the prelude to a nightmare. "Difficulty equivalent to a High-Tier B Trial..." He recalled the chatter in the Shrine's courtyard. Difficulty B was for children with at least 30 to 35 stat points, children who were well-fed and had basic training. And he, with a mere 10 stat points, a malnourished body riddled with a slave's injuries, had to face something even harder than a regular B trial.
"What in the hell is this?!" Lasron gritted his teeth, a bitter despair surging in his chest. "This is just the first zone... This strength, this speed... even the overseers bragging about their children passing B trials didn't describe anything this horrific!" The thought of turning back, of the false safety of doing nothing, flickered, but then he remembered he had no choice. The safe zone could heal him, but it also meant facing pain and failure endlessly. And the rewards... 20 points for each zone, a total of 80 points, plus four hidden rewards. It was too great a temptation, a single, fragile ray of light in the suffocating darkness that enveloped his life.
Taking a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in his chest and knees, Lasron cautiously took his first step onto the cold, black stone path.
WHOOSH!
A terrifying, sharp whistling sound, like the scythe of Death, tore through the air. Lasron only had time to feel an icy gust brush past the top of his head, the hairs on his neck standing on end. A massive arrow, as large as a short spear, its black metal tip wickedly sharp, slammed into the stone wall right in front of him, mere inches from his forehead. The arrow's shaft quivered violently, emitting an unpleasant buzzing sound. His entire body froze like a statue, cold sweat drenching him. If he had been a little taller, or had stepped half a beat faster, his small head would have undoubtedly been smashed like a watermelon.
Recovering from the horrifying moment, Lasron swallowed hard, his heart still pounding in his chest as if it would burst. He cautiously stepped back, then forward again, slower, more observant, trying to take in everything around him, from the cracks in the stone walls to the strange patterns on the path's surface. He reached the second meter. This time, he was more prepared, his ears perked, his eyes constantly scanning.
THWACK!
Excruciating pain ripped through him before he even realized what had happened. Another arrow, not from the front but from an almost invisible slit in the left wall, had embedded itself squarely in his right calf. It felt as if a red-hot iron bar had pierced through him, crushing bone. Lasron screamed, a choked cry of agony, then collapsed, fresh blood gushing from the wound in a torrent, staining the cold black stone crimson. He looked down; the arrow had gone clean through, nearly severing his lower leg. The horrific sight left his mind blank. Panicked, in utter agony, he bit his lip until it bled, using his hands and remaining left leg to drag himself back towards the starting point, towards the safe zone the System had announced. Every movement was torture, blood trailing behind him in a long smear, the metallic stench filling his nostrils.
The moment Lasron's blood-soaked body touched the invisible boundary of the safe zone - a faint white circle of light on the ground - a gentle, warm energy enveloped him. The tearing pain in his leg subsided immediately, the wound stopped bleeding, and the arrow embedded deep within slowly vanished as if it had never existed. However, with such a grievous injury, his lower leg nearly severed, recovery couldn't be instantaneous. Lasron lay there, helplessly watching his mangled leg slowly regenerate within the dim light of the safe zone. New flesh began to form, tiny blood vessels reconnected, and shattered bones gradually mended. The itching, throbbing ache from within was almost more unbearable than the initial pain. It took two full, agonizing days, in absolute solitude and haunted by the horrific memory of the pain he'd just endured, for his right leg to fully heal, without a scar, muscles and bones miraculously restored. In those two days, he not only recovered physically but also struggled to rally his spirit, to find a sliver of courage to face that deathly path once more, the memory of losing a part of his body still far too vivid. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the arrow flying, felt the flesh-tearing pain.
After two days of torment, Lasron stood up, his right leg fully recovered. He no longer felt pain, but the fear remained, hidden deep in his eyes. He began to think more carefully. He noticed that in those first two meters, the arrows seemed to aim at predetermined spots on his body, based on his speed and movement. They weren't random. There was a pattern.
With more caution than ever, Lasron tried again. He took a deep breath, trying to recall the trajectory of the first two arrows. He stepped onto the first meter, and as predicted, the arrow shot from the front. He leaned and dodged it. Reaching the second meter, he also avoided the arrow from the left wall by calculating its timing and trajectory, sidestepping it precisely. A small flicker of joy ignited within him. But as he set foot on the third meter, a third arrow, lightning-fast and far more insidious, shot out from a small hole in the ground he hadn't noticed, piercing straight into his abdomen. The pain blacked out his vision, bile rising in his throat. Blood gushed out once more. Fortunately, he had experience this time; though the pain nearly made him pass out, he managed to crawl back to the safe zone just in time, before losing too much blood. Once again, he lay in the safe zone, waiting for his wound to heal, but this time, besides the physical pain, there was a crushing disappointment.
And so, Lasron began a long, unending cycle of agony and trials. Dying and reviving, injured and then healed in solitude. It took him a full 90 days, and over 50 attempts - he'd lost count after the thirtieth - just to clear the first 30 meters of this deadly path. Each failure was a torment, both physically and mentally, but it was also a lesson learned - about the arrows' patterns, how they were triggered, the blind spots, his own limits of endurance, and most importantly, about a brutal, relentless perseverance. He no longer cried or feared as he had in the beginning; his tears had long since dried up. Instead, there was a terrifying silence, an intense, almost numb focus in his eyes, now deeply etched with exhaustion and callouses. He memorized every arrow's origin, every angle, every delay. He learned to listen to the wind, to feel the changes in the air. Sometimes, he deliberately let himself be lightly injured in non-critical areas to trigger a trap, observe it, then crawl back to heal. The safe zone became his reluctant home, where he spent more time than on the trial path itself.
Finally, on a day he couldn't number in this hell, after countless failures, Lasron cleared the first 30 meters. He stood there, panting, his body caked in sweat and dried blood, but his eyes held a strange light - the satisfaction of one who had conquered himself, even if it was just a small victory. But the joy barely had time to form before it was extinguished.
Having overcome the first 30 meters riddled with arrow traps, Lasron thought he could breathe a little easier. He was wrong. The next twenty meters of the path abruptly transformed into a literal sea of fire. Eerie orange-red flames danced on the stone surface, licking up the side walls, the scorching heat distorting the very air. The heat wave blasting his face felt like he was being roasted alive.
There was no other way, no detour, only a single path through the inferno. Lasron gritted his teeth, remembering the pain he had already endured. Compared to being pierced by arrows, being burned probably wasn't much better. He summoned all his courage, closed his eyes, and plunged straight into the sea of fire. Each step was a burning sensation, like thousands of fiery needles jabbing into the soles of his feet. The acrid smell of his own burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. He bit his lip until it bled to keep from screaming, trying to run as fast as he could through this horrific stretch, not daring to stop even for a second. His feet felt like they were treading on hot coals, every cell of his flesh screaming in agony.
When his feet were nearly cooked through, swollen, and bleeding, Lasron finally escaped the path of fire. He collapsed onto the ground at the 50-meter mark, his whole body trembling, gasping for breath. He looked back at the fiery path, then ahead, where the fog still hung thick, concealing the remaining 50 meters. A new, heavy feeling pressed down on his mind. This path, it seemed, would never end.