When the darkness subsided, Arin opened his eyes. The battlefield was gone.
He stood within an endless stone hall, its walls glowing faintly with a mysterious blue light, as though carved from unknown crystals. No footsteps of his companions echoed nearby.
"Where… am I?" His voice reverberated, multiplied endlessly, as if trapped in a cavern without end.
From the shadows, a semi-transparent figure emerged—a man clad in broken armor, his eyes burning like fire.
"You are not ready yet," the figure's voice echoed like a thousand whispers. "But destiny always finds its way."
Arin drew his sword.
"Who are you?!"
The spectral warrior gave a bitter smile.
"I was one who stood against this darkness before you… and I failed."
Suddenly, mournful cries echoed from afar. Other images materialized—ancient warriors, sorcerers, even fallen kings who had been consumed by the shadows. All carried the same message:
"Each of us fell here… now it is your turn to find another path."
Arin's heart pounded in his chest. He felt as though he stood at the crossroads of history, where every past hero's failure had carved a way forward for him.
Then, a mysterious woman's voice resonated through the chamber:
"Arin… you are the last chance. Should you fall, there will be no world left to save."
The chill of her breath filled the air. He was alone—but he knew this was not just a trial. It was a warning.