He never even saw it. His hand immediately found another purchase, and he continued his climb as if nothing had happened.
Soon, after what felt like an eternity of grueling ascent, the angle of the rock began to ease. He hauled himself over the final ledge, rolling onto the flat, windswept summit.
The peak was a broad, rocky plateau, scoured clean by the eternal gale. And in the center of it, sprawled like a king upon a bed of lightning, was the trial's guardian.
It was a Massive Storm Drake. Its scales were the color of tarnished silver and bruised storm clouds, and its body was long and serpentine, crackling with ambient electricity.
As Aelion watched, a natural lightning bolt from the raging tempest above struck the creature squarely on its back. Instead of being harmed, the drake shuddered with pleasure, its scales glowing brighter as it absorbed the raw energy.
This was no mere lizard; it was a elemental of the peak, a creature born of and feeding on the mountain's fury.
Aelion rose to his feet, his eyes already shifting to a calculating amber. He knew a direct magical assault with thunder would be useless, even counterproductive. He needed to close the distance. He willed the air around him to thicken, to obey.
He began to float, lifting off the ground, preparing to engage the beast in mid-air combat.
The drake's head swiveled on its long neck. Its eyes, orbs of molten lightning, fixed on him. It opened its maw, not to roar, but to breathe.
Aelion had no time to react. A column of concentrated lightning, far denser and more violent than any natural bolt, erupted from the drake's throat. It hit him square in the chest.
The world vanished in a universe of white, agonizing pain. His digital nerves screamed, overloading. The smell of his own burning flesh—crisped leather, seared meat, and ozone—filled his nostrils, a horrifyingly realistic feedback.
His health bar plummeted, flashing a dangerous red. He was thrown backward, his controlled float broken, his body smoking and convulsing as he crashed onto the rocky ground.
Agony was a fire in his veins. But beneath the pain, the new instinct, the Engraved hunger, roared to life. It was a void screaming to be filled.
Gritting his teeth against the spasms, he pushed himself up on one elbow. The drake was coiling, preparing for another strike, a low thrum of building power vibrating in its chest.
Aelion's hand shot out. A spear of glistening black ice, colder than the mountain's heart, materialized in the air before him. With a grunt of effort, he hurled it not at the creature's scaled back, but at the softer, exposed underside of its neck where it met the body.
The spear found its mark. It wasn't a killing blow, but a deep, piercing wound. The drake shrieked, a sound like tearing metal and crashing thunder, thrashing in surprise and pain.
And then, Aelion pulled.
It wasn't a physical motion. It was the activation of his new fundamental law. A visible, sanguine energy—a vibrant, crimson light—ripped from the spear wound in the drake's neck and streamed across the distance, pouring into Aelion's chest.
The sensation was indescribable. It was not mere healing. It was a rush of pure, stolen vitality, a torrent of life force that flooded his burning body.
His charred skin knitted itself back together in seconds. His shattered nerves calmed. His flashing health bar rocketed back to full, the red warning vanishing. The pain was replaced by a euphoric, terrifying power. The void was sated, for now.
The drake, weakened and enraged by the sudden drain, recoiled.
Aelion was on his feet in an instant. The daggers were gone. In his hands now was a massive greatsword, its blade appearing as a sliver of a captured star, blazing with furious white light.
He didn't run. He took two steps and leaped into the air, high above the stunned drake. He raised the stellar greatsword high over his head.
And then he fell.
He fell like a meteor, like a vengeful star cast down from the heavens. The sword trailed incandescent light, and his body became the hammer to its glowing nail. He descended upon the Storm Drake, a silent, final judgment from the sky he had dared to conquer.
Then, He pierced into the drake like abomination.
But, He didn't stop there.
He drilled into them.
The stellar greatsword's descent was not a strike; it was an act of divine annihilation.
It pierced the Storm Drake's scaled hide not with the sharpness of a blade, but with the absolute, weightless force of a collapsing star.
There was a moment of resistance—a sickening crunch of bone and a sizzle of superheated organ—then nothing.
Aelion landed in a crouch within the crater his impact had created, the glowing sword vanishing from his grasp.
He rose slowly, methodically. The scene around him was one of grotesque victory. Blood, a strange iridescent blue-black, pooled in the rocky crevices. Entrails, still crackling with dying arcs of lightning, steamed in the thin, cold air.
The coppery scent of blood and the ozone-tainted smell of spilled viscera filled his nostrils, a perfume of conquest.
He stepped out of the carnage, his boots leaving prints in the gore, his expression one of cold, detached assessment. The Engraved hunger within him pulsed, satisfied and silent.
The world did not wait to acknowledge his triumph. Before he could take a second breath, reality itself flickered and dissolved into a blinding, golden light. The mountain peak, the dead drake, the storm—all were wiped away as if they were a painting on a canvas that had been suddenly rolled up.
His senses snapped back to the familiar. The hum of the ascension path. The cool, moonlit stone beneath his feet. He was back on the staircase, but he was no longer on the first step. He stood firmly upon the second.
Golden script, more ornate now, bloomed in the air before him.
[You have completed the second trial]
The words shimmered and transformed into his reward.
[Reward: Soldier Mark]
A beam of concentrated, liquid-gold light descended from the void above, striking the back of his right palm.
It was not painful, but carried the weight of immense significance. The light cooled and solidified, leaving behind a permanent tattoo. It was a simple, stark design: a single, unwavering word written in an ancient, commanding script.
SOLDIER.
It was a brand. A designation. The first and lowest rank in an unseen, celestial army. It hummed with a faint power, a slight but perceptible increase to his base resilience and obedience to command—even if he was only obeying his own.
He had no time to ponder it. The moment the Mark settled, the staircase reacted. The third step glowed, and the world flashed again.
Trial Three. A labyrinth of mirrors, each reflection a mocking, hostile doppelgänger. His solution was not subtlety, but overwhelming force. He didn't search for the exit; he shattered every mirror, every double, with blasts of concussive thunder until the entire trial collapsed into glittering dust.
[You have completed the third trial]
[Reward: Skill (Berserk)]
A new icon, a raging beast's head, slotted into his skill list. A dangerous, double-edged sword he would master later.
Trial Four. A vast desert under twin suns, a test of endless endurance against swarms of scorpion-like constructs. He didn't merely survive; he eradicated them, his Engraved Life Steal turning the endless tide into a perpetual fountain of vitality, making the trial trivial.
[You have completed the fourth trial]
[Reward: All stats increase by 50%]
A wave of raw, overwhelming power crashed through him. His muscles corded with new strength, his mind sharpened to a razor's edge, his mana pool expanded into an ocean. He was no longer just a max-level player; he was something more.
Trial Five. A strategic battle against a phantom army. He didn't just win; he commanded. His tactics were so flawless, so brutally efficient, that the very magic of the trial was forced to acknowledge his superiority.
[You have completed the fifth trial]
[Reward: Soldier Mark upgraded to General Mark]
The word SOLDIER on his hand burned away, replaced by a more intricate design: a stylized helm over crossed swords. The word GENERAL was etched beneath. The passive bonuses surged, granting him an aura of command and tactical insight.
Trial Six. A puzzle of souls, requiring the governance of lost spirits. He didn't guide them; he dominated them, his will a tyrant's fist that brooked no dissent, bending the ethereal beings to his purpose.
[You have completed the sixth trial]
[Reward: General Mark upgraded to Lord Mark]
The helm and swords morphed into a crowned lion's head, regal and fierce. The word LORD now graced his skin. His authority was no longer just over armies, but over domains.
Trial Seven. A duel against a perfect copy of himself. He didn't fight the copy; he out-evolved it. Using the combined, Engraved might of his elemental magics and his newfound stats, he performed a combination the system could not replicate, vaporizing his double.
[You have completed the seventh trial]
[Reward: Lord Mark upgraded to King Mark]
The lion dissolved, replaced by a simple, stark, yet utterly formidable crown. The word KING was etched below it. The air around him seemed to bow. He was royalty here.
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