The Spirit hovered above the restrained clones, her smile dripping with arrogance. She reached out, her finger gently tapping the centre of Ronan's forehead.
"I have prepared the best trial for you," she whispered, her voice echoing in the void. "Enjoy it."
Behind her, the two clones struggled violently against the invisible Aether binding them. Their muffled shouts were desperate, their eyes wide with panic, but the Spirit ignored them completely. She flicked her finger, and a new screen materialised in the air.
"I never thought Ronan would be able to trigger this part of the trial," Mr. Alaric murmured, his usual sharp demeanour replaced by genuine surprise. He glanced at the other instructors.
"Most fail," Ms. Rose added, crossing her arms. "It targets the will. It is so potent that per Academy rules, merely triggering this trial grants Ronan a passing grade for the exam, regardless of whether he succeeds or fails inside. But... watching it is never easy."
Inside the illusion, the world shifted.
Ronan blinked. The darkness was gone, replaced by the chaotic, deafening roar of a battlefield. He stood in the centre of a town he vaguely recognised, but it was being torn apart. Buildings crumbled under the weight of massive, shadowed beasts. The sky was choked with smoke.
Is this... another illusion? Ronan thought, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. It has to be.
He stood frozen, analysing the Aether flow, looking for the cracks in reality. But while he analysed, the world didn't wait.
A massive, serrated claw swung down from the smoke, aiming directly for his head.
"Move, kid!"
A blur of steel intercepted the blow. A man—a town guard with a rough beard—shoved Ronan aside, blocking the strike with his own claymore. The impact shattered the guard's blade like glass. The claw didn't stop; it drove deep into the man's chest.
Splatter.
A spray of blood hit Ronan's cheek.
He flinched, his hand coming up to wipe it away. He stared at the red liquid on his fingers.
It was warm.
The realisation hit him like a physical blow. Illusions were cold. Visuals were tricks. But this... the metallic smell of iron, the fading warmth of the blood, the wheezing gasp of the dying man... it felt real.
"Don't... just stand there..." the man choked out, blood bubbling past his lips. "Run..."
The man went limp.
Something inside Ronan fractured. The analytical distance vanished. He grabbed the fallen man's broken sword and screamed.
"No!"
For what felt like hours, Ronan fought. Other survivors joined him—militia, villagers. But it was a losing battle. No matter how fast Ronan moved, no matter how many beasts he cut down, it wasn't enough.
He watched a woman get dragged into the shadows. He watched a house collapse on a family he had just told to hide.
Every passing second, the helplessness clung to him like wet clay, weighing him down. It wasn't a battle; it was a torture session designed to strip away his hope.
The battle ended, but the silence was worse than the screaming. Ronan wasn't the only one left standing, but that offered no comfort. A few yards away, a militia woman fell to her knees, wailing as she cradled the crushed body of a teenager—the very boy she had sworn to protect. An old man wept silently over the ruins of his home, where his family lay buried.
The survivors didn't celebrate their survival; they mourned their failure. Their cries of grief pierced the air, accusing Ronan without words. We fought, their tears seemed to say. We fought so hard, yet we saved almost no one. The weight of their collective loss pressed down on Ronan, heavier than any physical blow.
Outside the trial, in the real world, Ronan's body had collapsed to the floor. He was crawling, his fingers scraping against the stone, shivering as if he were freezing to death. His face was twisted in pure agony.
Back in the illusion, the battle ended. Not with a victory, but with silence.
Ronan stood amidst the ruin, his chest heaving, his body covered in cuts and grime. He was exhausted—spiritually and physically hollowed out. He looked at the chipped blade in his hand.
I hold this sword to protect, he thought, his eyes dull and lifeless. But who did I save? Everyone is gone.
High above, invisible to him, the Spirit smiled. "Not bad, not bad," she mused. "You are still able to feel yourself. Your guilt is delicious. Now... let's see what lies beneath it."
She waved her hand. The ruined town dissolved.
The scene shifted instantly.
Now, a very young Ronan—no older than six—stood in a sunlit courtyard. He was holding a heavy earthen water jug with both hands. It was a simple memory, quiet and unassuming.
"Oh?" The Spirit leaned in. "A core memory?"
In the illusion, the Little Ronan didn't move. He took a deep breath, his small face tightening with a maturity that didn't belong to a child. Slowly, he turned his left hand over, looking at his palm.
There, etched into his skin, was a complex Golden Sigil.
It pulsed once. Twice.
Crack.
The sound wasn't visual; it was a sonic boom that shook the entire trial space. The Golden Sigil didn't just fade; it shattered, breaking apart into motes of light.
Outside the illusion, the Spirit's eyes widened. "Is that... some kind of seal? It broke?"
Before she could process it, the Little Ronan in the memory looked up—not at the sky, but directly at her. And then, he vanished.
The memory didn't fade. The subject simply deleted himself from it.
"What the hell happened?" The Spirit stood up, genuine confusion replacing her arrogance. "Even if the seal broke, he shouldn't vanish from his own mindscape!"
She whipped around to face the two clones. With a snap of her fingers, the Aether binding their mouths dissolved.
"What is going on?" she demanded.
The clones didn't fight her. They just looked at her with grim resignation.
"That's what we were trying to tell you," one clone said, his voice hoarse. "You shouldn't have shown that memory."
Whoosh.
A gust of wind—cold and sharp—swept through the void.
The Spirit turned.
The original Ronan was standing up.
The shivering was gone. The crawling helplessness was gone. He stood perfectly straight, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. When he raised his head, his eyes were no longer the eyes of a student, nor the eyes of a victim.
They were pitch black, dilated, and utterly cold. There was no rage on his face—only a terrifying, disdainful calm.
"You..." the Spirit started.
Boom.
Ronan moved. There was no buildup, no stance. He simply appeared in front of her, his fist burying itself in her stomach.
The Spirit gasped, sliding backwards across the air. She barely had time to recover before Ronan reappeared behind her. She threw up a barrier, but he didn't stop. He punched the barrier, the force sending cracks through her defence.
Three orbs of flame condensed instantly around him and fired at point-blank range.
She dodged, weaving through the flames, her heart pounding. "What is happening to him?" she thought, panic rising. He's not defending. He's not blocking. He's only attacking.
One of the clones stepped forward. "Boss! Calm down!"
Ronan didn't even look at the clone. "I will kill her."
Outside the trial chamber, the spectators were stunned into silence. But Mr. Arnold, watching the screen, let out a heavy sigh.
"He has failed the trial," Mr. Arnold stated, though his brow was furrowed in deep confusion. "He has succumbed to his emotions."
But internally, Arnold's thoughts were racing. "This isn't a normal berserker state. Usually, a student lashes out blindly in rage. But Ronan... he is calm. Too calm. It feels as if he has completely bypassed anger and settled on extermination. He wants to kill her, and he is willing to pay any cost to do it. What kind of monster is sleeping inside that boy?"
Inside the void, Ronan stopped moving.
He brought his hands together. A series of rapid, intricate signs flashed in the air.
Poof. Poof.
His two clones vanished, their energy rushing back into his main body.
Ronan raised his right hand. Aether surged, violent and unstable. A Crimson Flame erupted from his palm—but it wasn't normal fire. Swirling within the deep red was a pale, ghostly Silver flame that hissed like a serpent.
The Spirit, sensing the lethal intent, panicked. She raised both hands, slamming her immense spiritual pressure down on him. "Kneel!"
The gravity of a mountain crashed onto Ronan's shoulders. The stone floor beneath him cracked and caved in. Blood burst from Ronan's nose; his capillaries ruptured in his eyes, turning the whites red. But he didn't kneel. Shaking violently, using every ounce of his Aether to fight the pressure, he forced himself to stand upright. The Crimson Flame on his hand didn't flicker—it roared higher, the eerie white streaks within it sensing her fear.
The Spirit backed away, her heart hammering. "This is just an innate flame," she thought, terror gripping her core. But my instincts are screaming. "If that touches me... I won't just be defeated. I will cease to exist. What the hell is this flame?"
"Stay back!" she shrieked.
Ronan didn't listen. He lunged, the flame roaring as he thrust his hand toward her chest.
"I said OUT!"
In a panic, she ripped open a portal in space directly in front of him. The tear in reality was jagged, its edges razor-sharp.
Ronan didn't care. As the suction pulled him in, he reached out, his bare hand clamping onto the edge of the dimensional rift to anchor himself.
Squelch.
The sharp space-edge sliced deep into his palm, severing skin and muscle. Blood sprayed into the void, but Ronan didn't let go. He stared at her through the closing rift, his bleeding hand gripping the impossible sharpness, trying to pull himself back in to finish her.
But the momentum was too great. With a final, wet tear of flesh, his grip slipped, and he was flung backwards out of the trial.