The boat scraped across the shallows and came to rest against a beach of crushed glass.
Lacolone stepped off first. Cold mist clung to his skin, slicing through the heat of his breath.
Everything around him felt sharper—every edge of sound, every line of shadow. Even color seemed to drain from the world, as though he'd entered a place where light itself feared to linger.
His boots sank into the shore's mixture of grit and bone dust. The wind rose suddenly, biting through his clothes. Behind him, the waves whispered with the sound of grinding shards.
Americano floated beside the wreck, his aura cutting the fog into jagged ribbons. His eyes glinted with inhuman calm.
"No one who enters here," he said, voice echoing like steel dragged across stone, "leaves unchanged."
Lacolone stared at his trembling hand. His resolve didn't steady the shaking. When he closed his fist, the bones in his fingers ached as if memory itself rebelled against him.
---
The Arena
They walked through the mist until the ground dropped away. Below them stretched a hollow expanse—a broken coliseum of black stone and buried weapons. The sky above swirled with violet bruise-colored clouds, shifting like a wound that refused to heal.
Every step hummed beneath Lacolone's boots, the earth whispering echoes of suffering long buried.
Americano's voice carried over the hum.
"Every scream carved here still breathes through the dust. You will learn to master that agony—or it will claim you."
---
The Five Pillars
Americano raised a finger, and the air bent around him. Five sigils appeared—each a different hue, each vibrating with a strange, living resonance.
"Soul Control," he said, "is survival. Five Pillars. Your weapons. Your shields. Your limits."
He gestured once, and the first sigil burst into life.
Thunderbrand—blue lightning traced his palm, cold and sharp enough to burn.
Veilward—red light expanded into a translucent net that pulsed like muscle, deflecting invisible strikes.
Whispercall—a silver fog rose; Lacolone could hear his heartbeat echo through it, his senses stretching outward like a second skin.
Riftquake—Americano stamped his foot, and the ground split open; sound warped, the air trembling with raw energy.
Driftform—a golden shimmer wrapped his outline, blurring him into the wind itself.
"These are not tricks," Americano said softly. "They are extensions of your soul—and every use costs a piece of it."
---
The Combat Trial
The arena floor rippled. Dozens of phantom soldiers crawled out of the stone—armor etched with battle scars from forgotten wars. Their eyes burned like torches in a storm.
Lacolone didn't wait. He lunged forward, Thunderbrand alive in his fist. Lightning carved across the battlefield, cutting through mist and memory alike.
Each strike met resistance—a face screaming, a body dissolving, a shadow reforming behind him.
One claw found him. It tore across his chest; pain flared white, searing straight through to his spine.
Americano's shadow stretched over him. "Every hit," he said, "is earned with suffering."
---
The Gun of Will
A pistol clattered across the ground. Its barrel was carved with runes that seemed to breathe.
"Every shot carries your intent," Americano warned. "Miss, and you'll feel the truth of it."
Lacolone lifted the weapon. Targets appeared—spinning, darting through fog like ghosts.
He fired. The recoil cracked through his chest like thunder. A miss, and the world spun; agony crawled through every nerve until his breath broke.
He gasped, clutching his side. Americano said nothing. The silence was punishment enough.
---
The Cycle
"Switch pillars," Americano commanded. "Balance them—or your soul will split apart."
Lacolone obeyed.
Blue lightning surged from his fists. Red shields rippled into existence, catching phantom blades mid-swing. Silver fog whispered of invisible foes, and black tremors split the earth beneath them. Gold shimmer flashed, and he vanished between moments.
Each transformation left scars—burning marks crawling along his skin like brands. Pain became rhythm. Rhythm became focus.
---
The Soul Pulse Gauntlet
Americano led him to a corridor lined with floating stones that glowed and flickered erratically.
"Run it," he said.
The first step triggered a blast. Lacolone struck the rune with Thunderbrand, Veilward shielding him from the returning pulse. Another stone erupted; the air itself turned to fire. He felt the delay—Whispercall warned him in time to flicker into Driftform, avoiding a Riftquake wave that shattered the floor behind him.
Each mistake burned. Each scar taught precision.
---
The Shattered Reflection Maze
Next came a hall of mirrors. Every surface reflected not only his image but his guilt, twisted into smirking mockeries.
Whispercall made him see too much—every false heartbeat, every echo of doubt. Riftquake shattered fragments at his feet, and his Veilward strained to hold against the shards slicing through the air.
Driftform carried him between illusions.
Thunderbrand shattered them one by one until only his real reflection remained—trembling, but alive.
---
The Weight of Silence
The next chamber devoured sound.
Even his breathing vanished into nothing.
Whispercall failed him here; there was nothing to hear. No rhythm. No guidance.
He felt only the pressure of existence itself, crushing from all sides.
Americano's disembodied voice cut through the void.
"Use Riftquake. Let your soul scream where your mouth cannot."
Lacolone slammed his foot down. The silence fractured like glass. Gold Driftform light ignited around him, and he moved through the collapsing void with newfound control.
---
The Trial of the Mind
Then came memory.
Blood. Screams. The ocean's roar. The girl's face disappearing beneath the waves.
His chest constricted. Riftquake energy pulsed wild, tearing fissures through the ground. His body couldn't take it.
Americano appeared at his side, calm as a tomb.
"Pain is the gatekeeper," he said. "Endure it—and it will kneel."
---
The Baptism
Time lost its meaning.
Lacolone fought, fell, rose again. Each wound glowed faintly before sealing. Each breath was a pact between agony and survival. He no longer distinguished fear from focus.
Lightning, fog, quake, speed, shield—all five Pillars danced through him in perfect succession. He felt the rhythm of their unity—a heartbeat too vast for flesh to contain.
---
The Fusion
When it ended, the arena was still.
Lacolone stood alone, aura blazing with five intertwining lights. His skin glowed like molten gold over cracks of blue and red. His breath shimmered. Even the mist dared not touch him now.
Americano hovered beside him, unreadable.
Far in the distance, three figures appeared on the horizon—tall, cloaked, each bearing sigils of power older than nations.
The air thickened with the promise of the next trial.