The air of the Serium Realm was electric, though calm in a way that belied the imminent trials. Shinjiru stepped cautiously through the Travel Band, feeling the familiar tug of essence wash over him. His feet touched the crystalline ground, solid yet luminous beneath the soft light of floating spheres that hovered like artificial moons. The world shimmered in an impossible spectrum: purples, silvers, and golds bleeding into one another, reflecting off the towering spires and terraces that stretched into the clouds.
Around him, participants from across the realm gathered. Himen of every age, skill level, and aura intensity murmured among themselves, sizing each other up. Some bore the marks of combat or endurance—scars etched with gold or silver essence—but all carried the disciplined poise of elite warriors. Despite his memory being erased, Shinjiru felt a strange confidence settle in his chest. It was as though his body remembered what his mind could not: the rhythm of combat, the pull of essence, the balance between instinct and strategy.
"Welcome, participants," came a voice, calm and commanding. Kaoru Myojin, the White-Gold Monk, stood on a raised platform at the center of the arena, his aura glowing faintly like sunlight through mist. "You have been chosen to compete in the Succession Games. Your skill, judgment, and adaptability will be tested. Only one may ascend to the 9th Elite Himen. Failure is not fatal—but it is permanent. Remember, the games are as much a test of character as of strength."
Shinjiru's gaze flicked across the crowd. Faces blurred together, some stern, some confident, others arrogant. But he focused inward, feeling the dormant stirrings of hybrid essence, the faint pulse of violet-silver energy beneath his skin. The shard in his pocket vibrated faintly, almost like a heartbeat, as if urging him onward.
The first trial was announced: The Arena of Shifting Platforms.
A vast chasm of glowing essence stretched below them. Platforms floated above the chasm, each suspended by unseen energy, shifting, rotating, and oscillating unpredictably. Some were wide, some narrow, some tipped at precarious angles. The challenge was simple in theory: traverse the arena from one end to the other without falling. In practice, it required speed, precision, balance, and instinctive control over one's aura.
Shinjiru stepped onto the first platform. It wobbled beneath his feet, tilting slightly. His chains, reacting instinctively, shot out, wrapping around nearby handholds and snapping taut to stabilize him. Participants ahead struggled, some losing balance and plummeting into the soft, harmless glow of essence below. A few cursed, some scrambled back up, and a couple simply froze, paralyzed by fear.
Instinct guided Shinjiru's movements. Each leap, swing, and landing was precise, the chains weaving through the air in perfect arcs. The violet-silver aura flared faintly around him, brightening as he gained momentum, lashing out to stabilize rotating platforms or deflect debris that occasionally shot upward from the chasm below. Even without memory, the motions felt like muscle memory—natural, fluid, almost preternatural.
Halfway through, a sudden gust of wind swept through the arena, a simulated test by the organizers. A massive, ethereal arm of essence swung toward him, attempting to knock him off balance. Shinjiru twisted mid-air, extending chains to anchor himself to multiple platforms at once. He felt the surge of energy coursing through him, the hybrid essence quietly synchronizing with his human reflexes. The shard in his pocket pulsed violently in resonance, as if recognizing its purpose in this moment.
Below, other participants struggled, panicked, or gave up entirely. Shinjiru focused solely on the rhythm of the arena: the pulse of the platforms, the energy of the air, the subtle shifts in gravity that no ordinary human could detect. Step after step, leap after leap, he moved with grace and precision, the crowd of spectators watching with growing astonishment.
Finally, he reached the last platform. Landing, he exhaled slowly, feeling the rush of completion, a quiet thrill coursing through him. His aura pulsed brightly, though he did not yet understand why. Around him, murmurs ran through the participants—some in awe, others in disbelief at how quickly and flawlessly he had navigated the arena.
Kaoru Myojin descended from the platform, his gaze meeting Shinjiru's. "Exceptional," Kaoru said, his tone measured but approving. "Few Himen could traverse the arena so flawlessly on instinct alone. You have potential beyond your peers. Watch closely, for the next trials will test more than agility—they will test strategy, morality, and endurance."
Shinjiru nodded, feeling an unfamiliar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. There was no memory, no conscious recollection of past battles, yet his body and instincts knew something critical: this was more than a game. This was a proving ground. A gateway to something far larger than himself.
The second trial began as soon as the first concluded: The Labyrinth of Essence. A sprawling maze appeared, walls of shimmering energy stretching in impossible angles, corridors folding back upon themselves. Illusions of danger, deceptive passages, and moving platforms challenged perception and logic. Shinjiru's violet-silver aura flared instinctively. Chains snaked forward, tapping walls and ceilings, testing stability, revealing hidden pathways.
Inside the labyrinth, Shinjiru encountered other participants. Some tried to hinder him, whether out of rivalry or instinct, while others fell victim to illusions that mimicked collapsing corridors or rising lava of pure essence. He adapted swiftly, balancing offense and defense, moving with the precision of someone who had trained countless hours for scenarios he could not remember.
Hours passed. The labyrinth tested endurance and problem-solving, forcing Shinjiru to lead instinctively, using his aura to stabilize corridors and protect weaker participants when necessary. By the time he reached the center, he had not only survived but assisted others in completing the trial—a feat that caught the attention of the Elite 8, observing from above.
Tensei Raidon's golden aura shimmered as he watched. "He has the instincts of a warrior and the empathy of a guardian," Tensei murmured. "Rarely do we see such balance in one so young. The hybrid blood must play a role, though he cannot know it himself yet."
Shinjiru emerged from the labyrinth exhausted but triumphant. His chains, still faintly glowing, wrapped around his forearms as if alive, a subtle whisper of the dormant power waiting to awaken. The shard in his pocket pulsed, almost imperceptibly, a heartbeat that matched his own.
That evening, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon of the Serium Realm, casting long violet-gold shadows across the crystalline towers, Shinjiru stood alone on a balcony. The wind tugged at his hair, and he could sense the faint vibrations of the realm itself—a living entity responding to the presence of one of its rarest and most unique inhabitants.
For the first time since his rebirth, he felt a flicker of understanding: this world, the trials, the Elite 8—none of it was random. It was preparing him, shaping him, awakening something that could no longer remain dormant.
And somewhere deep inside, the hybrid essence stirred, whispering a single promise: I am here. I am ready. I will rise.