Suddenly, the air before the throne rippled. From nothingness, a plume of black smoke coalesced. It twisted and solidified, not into a monster, but into a perfect, mirror image of himself. It wore his armor, bore his Sovereign Mark, but its eyes were voids of deepest space, and its smile was a cruel, mocking slash.
Aelion stared into his own reflection, and his reflection stared back.
The mirror image opened its mouth, and when it spoke, its voice was a distorted echo of his own, layered with a thousand whispers.
"This isn't over, Little King," it hissed, the words slithering through the air. "The throne is a rest stop, not a destination. There is one more trial. The real one. Your choice to take this chance."
A new, blood-red prompt, unlike any system text he had ever seen, burned in the air between them:
[Do you want to partake in the Hidden Trial?]
Aelion's narrowed eyes glinted from his throne, reflecting the void in his copy's gaze.
The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp focus.
The game was still on.
Without a single moment of hesitation, his finger a blur of decisive motion, Aelion selected 'Yes'.
The hollow feeling was a distant memory, replaced by the electric thrill of the unknown. The promise of a challenge beyond the game's designed limits was the only thing that could truly captivate him now.
Reality dissolved not in a flash of golden light, but in a swirl of oppressive, dark energy. The throne, the staircase, the accolades—all were wiped away in an instant.
His senses reassembled on a vast, circular battled platform made of a strange, non-reflective metallic alloy. It was eerily familiar.
This was the exact same arena—the same scuffed floor, the same faint glyphs etched into the material—where the game's most famous NPC rivals, Samuel, Novick, and Razen, had their legendary scripted showdown. It was a place of lore, not meant for players.
The entire battlefield was encased in a dome of shimmering, multi-layered runic barriers. But these were not for show. They were under assault. From the void beyond the platform, torrents of pure white flames, hotter than any sun, constantly bombarded the shield.
The runic scripts glowed a desperate, furious red as they resisted, but they were slowly, inexorably, dissolving under the relentless onslaught. The air crackled with the sound of screaming magic and the heat of a dying star, a constant reminder that this arena was a fragile bubble in a hostile, unimaginable environment.
Then, his opponent appeared. Not a monster. Not a beast.
An Angel.
She materialized in a beam of soft, golden light that seemed almost pathetic against the apocalyptic backdrop. She was tall, radiant, with features of impossible perfection and eyes that held the cold emptiness of deep space.
Her wings were vast and feathered, gleaming with a soft, internal luminescence. Aelion's gaze didn't narrow in caution; it lit up with intense, analytical curiosity. 'A humanoid race. Intelligent. Sapient. Legend of Dungeons has never featured anything like this. This is new. This is real.'
The Angel regarded him not as a challenger, but as a specimen. She opened her mouth, and her voice was a melodic, yet utterly soulless, chime.
"Hey, Ascension Pioneer," she began, her tone breezy, dismissive, as if reading from a script she had recited a thousand times. "I hereby declare that you are part of the Shrine of End. Your trial is complete. You may now—"
Fury, cold and absolute, ignited in Aelion's eyes. It was not the hot rage of a insult, but the icy wrath of a king being patronized by a messenger. Her tone was the worst kind of affront—not one of malice, but of sheer, utter indifference.
It was the perfunctory motion of a functionary stamping a form, a charity bestowed without a shred of respect. It was the same condescension he saw in the eyes of his relatives, the same pitying dismissal he felt from the world that saw only his chair.
He cut her off with a derisive snort, the sound harsh and out of place in her curated ceremony. "We can talk about your declarations," he said, his voice low and laced with a dangerous amusement, "after the fight is completed."
The Angel's perfectly composed face darkened. The placid emptiness in her eyes swirled with something new: offense. The script had been disrupted. "As if," she spoke through gritted teeth, the melodic chime now a discordant scrape, "you would win."
The formalities were over. Her body shifted, and with a beat of her magnificent wings, she launched herself forward. Light gathered around her hands, forming a blazing spear of pure energy. She moved with blinding speed, a golden comet aimed at his heart.
Aelion's grin returned, a predator's smile. "Do you think," he taunted, "you are the only one with wings?"
From his back, with a deafening crack of splitting air, two massive wings erupted. But they were not made of feather and light. They were constructs of raw, violent lightning—crackling, spitting arcs of blue-white energy that hummed with unimaginable power. He met her charge not with a weapon, but with an open hand.
As her spear thrust toward him, his left hand shot out. Instead of blocking the spear, he willed the very moisture in the air around her to obey. A wave of absolute cold, born from his Engraved Ice Magic, exploded outwards.
It didn't target her directly; it flash-froze the air surrounding her wings and torso. The result was instantaneous. A shell of super-hardened ice encased her wings, their majestic beat arrested mid-flight. The light around her sputtered and died.
Momentum carried her forward, now clumsy and earthbound. As she stumbled within his reach, his right hand came up in a casual, almost contemptuous motion. It wasn't a punch meant to damage, but a slap. A dismissive gesture.
His palm connected with her perfect cheek, and upon impact, his Engraved Fire Magic ignited.
SMACK-CRACKLE.
The sound was a mix of a sharp impact and the sizzle of burning divinity. The force of the blow, combined with the searing heat, sent her spinning backward. She crashed onto the metallic floor in a tangle of frozen wings and smoldering robes, skidding several feet before coming to a stop.
Silence, save for the relentless hammering of white flame on the barrier.
The Angel pushed herself up on one elbow, her free hand rising to her cheek. The perfect, alabaster skin was now marred by an angry red handprint, the edges slightly blackened. The cold emptiness in her eyes was completely gone, replaced by a shock so profound it curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. She trembled, not from pain, but from the absolute blasphemy of the act.
She looked at her fingers as if expecting to see ichor, not the evidence of a mortal's strike. Her voice, when it finally came, was a low, venomous whisper that carried across the arena, dripping with cosmic indignation.
"How dare a pathetic ant... hit me?"
Aelion smirked, a cold, predatory expression that held no mirth. "You still think I am a pathetic ant?" The question hung in the air, dripping with contempt.
The Angel's dangerous smile returned, tighter and more brittle now. Golden light streamed from the environment, knitting the burn on her cheek and repairing the ice-damaged feathers of her wings until they were once again pristine.
A lance of solidified light, humming with annihilating power, materialized in her grasp. "Your defiance is a curiosity. Nothing more."
In response, Aelion's own sword—the obsidian blade that had tasted the essence of a Storm Drake—appeared in his hand, its edge humming with contained elemental fury.
What followed was not a brawl, but a deadly ballet. They flashed across the battlefield, their movements too fast for a normal eye to follow. Blades of light and darkness clashed, sending showers of white and black sparks cascading across the metallic floor.
The sound was a constant, shrieking symphony of impacts—a screech of divine energy meeting Engraved magic. Aelion was a tempest of ice, fire, and lightning, his movements unpredictable, his attacks flowing from one element to the next. The Angel was precision incarnate, her lance a needle of absolute light seeking a fatal flaw in his defense.
It was during one of these blindingly fast exchanges that a catastrophic sound echoed through the arena—a sharp crack that was not from their weapons.
A fissure, no wider than a hair, had appeared in the battled platform itself, directly between them. And through that infinitesimal crack, a single, wispy tendril of the all-consuming white flame from outside seeped through.
It was barely more than a candle's flicker, but its effect was immediate and profound.
The Angel let out a terrified, ear-piercing shriek that was utterly devoid of her previous divine arrogance.
She recoiled as if from a venomous serpent, her wings folding protectively around her. Her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably.
"How?!" she stammered, her voice a ragged whisper of pure panic. "How did the Divine Barrier fail? This is impossible!"
Aelion halted his advance, watching her unravel with intense fascination. Her terror was palpable, a stark contrast to her earlier condescension.
A slow, understanding smirk spread across his face. The ultimate power, the thing that truly terrified this celestial being, was right here.
"You're really afraid of this, right?" he mused, his voice a low, thrilling rumble.
Without another second of hesitation, driven by an insatiable curiosity and a gambler's instinct for ultimate power, he lunged. But not at her.
_____
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