The second test wasn't announced with fanfare. No drums, no flames, just a soft gong echoing through the stone corridors of the monastery, guiding the remaining applicants toward a quiet chamber below the main temple.
Jyang followed the others down a winding staircase that seemed to descend forever. The air grew colder with each step, until they reached a massive iron door etched with unfamiliar symbols. A monk in crimson robes pushed it open, revealing a circular room lit by floating candles and filled with the scent of old parchment and incense.
In the center, twenty meditation cushions were arranged in a ring, each placed before a small pedestal holding a bowl of black ash.
A monk with thick-rimmed glasses and a calm, unreadable expression stepped forward. "This is the Trial of the Fire Within. You will not fight, you will not cast. You will not move. You will sit, breathe, and awaken the flame that lies dormant inside you."
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"How do we awaken it?" someone asked.
The monk gestured to the bowls. "Figure it out."
And with that, he stepped aside.
Jyang took his seat, Ursu hopping off his shoulder and curling up beside him. He stared at the ash, then at the flickering candlelight above. No spells. No movement. Just... sit?
For ten minutes, nothing happened. Candidates fidgeted, coughed, scratched their heads. Some whispered chants, others closed their eyes in deep meditation.
Then it began.
Jyang's bowl shimmered faintly. A whisper filled his ears:
"A flame with no heat. A fire with no fuel. What burns without burning?"
He nearly jolted. Ursu croaked in annoyance.
What kind of riddle is that? Jyang thought. He closed his eyes.
Memories tried to pull at him—embarrassing failures, lonely nights, whispers of being talentless. He ignored them.
What burns without burning...
He opened his eyes. The ash remained still. The others seemed equally puzzled.
A girl across the circle suddenly gasped. Her bowl burst into gold flame, then died. She slumped forward, unconscious.
"Too fast," murmured a monk.
One by one, some bowls flared. Some students passed out. Some cried. Most failed.
Jyang kept breathing.
And then it clicked.
Desire. It's not about anger or power. It's about the thing that never stops. Even when you sleep. Even when you fail.
His bowl stirred. A blue ember rose. He stared, saying nothing. The flame flickered and stayed.
Only ten candidates remained.
As they stood, exhausted but proud, the center of the room split open, revealing a final illusion.
Two items floated before each of them: a sword made of lightning, crackling with pure power, and a mirror with a surface like still water.
Jyang hesitated.
The sword was raw strength. It felt good. Easy.
The mirror, though...
He reached out. Touched it.
It shimmered, and he saw himself. Tired. Bruised. But still trying.
The mirror vanished. A bell rang.
As they returned to the courtyard, voices echoed from the stone walls.
"So these are the brave brains who survived?"
Jyang turned. A boy leaned against a column, arms crossed. He was shorter than most, sharp-eyed, with spiky hair and five fingers showing on one hand—clearly on purpose.
Two others flanked him, quiet.
"Name's Chiyo," he said. "Didn't take the test. Didn't need to. I already passed mine. Just here to see who's worth rivaling."
He eyed Jyang.
"You look like you meditate in the rain for fun."
Ursu blinked. "He does, actually."
Chiyo smirked. "Figures. See you around, Raincloud."
As Chiyo walked off, one of his friends whispered something. The trio laughed.
Jyang frowned. "What was that guy's deal?"
Ursu shrugged. "Probably jealous of your lashes."
Jyang rolled his eyes.
Above them, bells rang across the monastery.
Tomorrow: the Final Test.
Torma of chen.