The chamber reeked of cold ash and burnt incense.
The MC stood on legs that felt brittle, his reborn body trembling under the weight of existence. Every heartbeat echoed louder than it should, each breath ragged, like his lungs were stitched together with smoke.
The Demon Lord leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand, silver eyes unblinking. "Survival is not victory. It is a beginning. You must now learn what your sect denied you: strength without obedience. Will you kneel again, or will you stand?"
The MC's first instinct, born of years of drilled loyalty, was to kneel. His body twitched toward it before his mind caught the motion. He stopped, swaying slightly, fists clenched at his side.
"I… will stand." His voice cracked, but the words carried.
The Demon Lord's lips curled in something not quite a smile. "Then you may yet be worth my time."
The obsidian floor trembled. From the shadows, stone shifted and reformed into an arena, its edges marked by glowing runes.
"Your first lesson," the Demon Lord said, "is not to fight an enemy. It is to fight yourself."
The air rippled. A figure stepped into the arena—himself.
Not the broken, trembling self he was now, but the man he had been moments before his death. Armor dented, sword chipped, face tired yet loyal. His doppelgänger's eyes burned with devotion, not anger. The old him raised his blade and saluted, exactly as he once had toward his captain.
The MC froze. His chest tightened as if the captain's sword had pierced him again. This… this is…
[System Notice: Trial #1 – Sever the Past]
[Objective: Defeat your former self]
[Failure Consequence: Permanent stagnation. Host will be unable to progress.]
[Warning: Emotional instability detected. Collapse likely.]
He wanted to scream. You want me to kill myself? You want me to betray who I was?
But even as panic rose, he knew. That loyal version of him, that "dog of the Sect," had died already. What stood before him was a ghost—his faith, his obedience, his innocence, weaponized against him.
The doppelgänger attacked.
Steel flashed. The MC stumbled backward, grabbing at nothing. His body was unarmed.
Pain blossomed across his ribs as the phantom blade sliced shallowly, and the copper taste of blood filled his mouth again. He staggered, clutching the wound. He's stronger than me. Faster. That was me at my peak. And now… I'm nothing.
[System Prompt: Power is earned. Sacrifice required. Offer one memory to activate emergency protocol.]
A list of memories flickered before his eyes like fragile lanterns in the dark:
The captain's voice telling him, "You held the pass well."
The laughter of two junior disciples who once shared roasted chestnuts with him on winter patrol.
His first sunrise on the mountain, when he believed service to the Sect was the greatest honor imaginable.
Each memory pulsed. To choose one was to erase it forever.
No… not that. Anything but that…
But his doppelgänger pressed the attack, relentless, blade whistling toward his throat.
With trembling resolve, he chose.
[Memory Offered: The first sunrise on the mountain.]
[Confirmed. Memory erased. Power allocated.]
A scream tore itself from his throat—not of pain, but of absence. The golden warmth of that sunrise vanished. He knew he had once experienced it, but the sensation was gone, the awe and pride erased. His chest ached with the hollow where it had been.
Black flame coiled around his hands, solidifying into a crude blade.
He raised it just in time to parry his former self. Sparks scattered. The impact rattled his bones. His opponent's eyes gleamed with unshakable faith.
"Why do you resist?" the phantom said, voice eerily his own. "Loyalty was your strength. Betrayal is weakness. Obedience is safety."
"I was betrayed," the MC snarled, forcing the words past clenched teeth. His blade shuddered against the phantom's. "And you… you are the weakness. Blind, obedient, disposable!"
He shoved forward. Black fire flared, swallowing the steel of his phantom self's blade. The arena roared with heat.
When the flames died, only ash remained.
[Trial Completed: Sever the Past]
[Reward: Soulbrand — Blackfire Blade obtained.]
[Warning: Host's emotional instability has increased. Monitor closely.]
The MC dropped to his knees, chest heaving. The crude black blade in his hand pulsed like a living thing, heat biting into his palm. He hated it. He needed it.
A slow clap echoed through the hall. The Demon Lord leaned back, amusement flickering across his face.
"Good. You broke yourself rather than clung to chains. Painful, was it not?"
The MC couldn't speak. His throat was raw, his mind buzzing with the hollow where that memory had been.
"Strength is forged in sacrifice," the Demon Lord continued. "The Orthodox Sect shields its disciples with lies, feeds them scraps, then discards them when convenient. I demand more. I demand you carve out your strength with blood, memory, and will. Do you still wish to follow this path?"
Every part of him screamed to stop. But the wound of betrayal still bled in his heart, hotter than any flame.
"I… do," he rasped.
The Demon Lord's silver eyes glinted. "Then rise, Disciple."
A figure stepped forward—the girl who had lingered in the shadows before. She moved gracefully, yet there was an edge to her presence, as though she carried blades in her silence. Her eyes were silver like her father's, but where his were molten, hers were cool moonlight.
She tossed a flask toward him. He fumbled but caught it, hand trembling.
"Drink," she said. Her voice was calm, precise, but carried no condescension.
The liquid burned his throat, bitter and metallic. Strength seeped into his limbs, dulling the raw ache of his trial.
"You'll collapse if you keep glaring at the floor," she added. "Stand."
He obeyed before realizing he had done so. Then his shame burned hotter than the fire in his hand. "Who are you?"
"Call me what you like," she said, brushing back a strand of dark hair. "Most call me 'princess.' Few survive long enough to earn my name."
There was no arrogance in her tone—only truth. She studied him the way one might study a broken blade to see if it could be reforged.
"You endured the first trial," she continued. "That means you have worth, however small. My father has taken disciples before. Few survive. Fewer matter. Do not mistake his interest for mercy."
He wanted to ask why she spoke so plainly, why her words seemed sharper than her father's fire. But the system interrupted.
[System Notice: New Quest Assigned- First Steps in Darkness]
[Objective: Survive training under the Demon Lord for seven days.]
[Warning: Failure will result in permanent death. No reincarnation possible.]
The words cut deeper than any blade. He had died once already. The idea of dying again, truly, permanently. it should have terrified him. Instead, he felt something else. Determination.
He looked up, meeting the Demon Lord's silver eyes, then the daughter's cool gaze.
"I will survive," he said, voice steadier this time.
The Demon Lord's laugh rumbled like thunder. "Then let the suffering begin."