Razan awoke to the crackle of a campfire, the warmth a stark contrast to the crushing darkness he had felt moments before. His body ached, but he was alive.
The man sat nearby, motionless, golden eyes glinting in the firelight. "You're awake," he said, voice calm yet commanding. "Get ready. We're leaving—and your test is far from over."
Razan forced himself to his feet, every muscle protesting. "Who… are you?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
A smirk curved the man's lips, shadowed by the hood. "Zailthar," he said. "Some call me the Black Dragon Tyrant."
Razan's heart thudded in his chest. A legend. A monster. A warrior beyond human limits—and now, his only chance at changing his fate.
Zailthar tossed a wooden sword at him. "You want to become strong? Then fight me."
Razan's fingers curled around the hilt, knuckles white. This was it—his chance.
He charged, heart pounding, every muscle screaming with anticipation.
But before his blade could even graze Zailthar—BOOM!
A violent force slammed into him, hurling him across the clearing. Pain tore through his ribs as he hit the ground, wind knocked from his lungs. Razan scrambled to rise, but Zailthar hadn't even moved from his spot.
"Pathetic," Zailthar said, golden eyes cold and unyielding. "Again."
Razan swallowed the sting of failure, blood and pride alike, and forced himself to grip the sword tighter.
And so, the trial began.
Zailthar's golden eyes never left him as Razan staggered to his feet, wooden sword trembling in his hands.
"Focus," Zailthar said, voice low but cutting. "Strength isn't given. It's earned. Again."
Razan charged, this time trying to anticipate Zailthar's movements. But before he could close the distance, Zailthar's hand flicked, and Razan was sent sprawling backward. Pain flared along his ribs and shoulders. He gasped, tasting blood, but forced himself upright.
This is impossible… he thought. I can't even touch him.
Zailthar stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the clearing like a living thing. "You're slow. Hesitant. Weak. Fight like your life depends on it—or die trying."
Razan's hands clenched tighter around the sword. Every swing, every lunge, every charge ended the same—blow after blow from Zailthar sent him flying, slammed him into the ground, or twisted his limbs painfully. Bruises blossomed across his body. Cuts opened. Every nerve screamed for him to stop.
And yet, he didn't.
Hours blurred. Pain became a constant companion. Fatigue weighed him down, but he forced himself up again and again, failing, staggering, tasting defeat over and over. Each failure burned like fire in his chest—but a small ember of determination refused to die.
By nightfall, Razan could barely hold the sword. His arms shook. Sweat and blood coated his skin. Yet, when Zailthar struck for the hundredth time, Razan dodged. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But he dodged.
Zailthar's lips curved into the faintest smirk. "Better. Not enough—but better. Again."
And so it continued—day after day. Razan barely survived each encounter, but with every failure, every crushing blow, every near-death, he learned something. Footwork. Timing. Patience. Awareness.
The trial wasn't just about surviving Zailthar's strength—it was about surviving himself, his fear, his weakness, and his limits.
Weeks later, Razan's muscles ached constantly, his body covered in scars and bruises. Yet he had grown. Every failure had taught him something new. He could anticipate Zailthar's moves. He could parry, dodge, even land a strike… just barely.
Zailthar watched silently, expression unreadable. Then, one evening, he spoke.
"Not bad, boy. You still fail… but now you fail less."
Razan's chest heaved. Blood, sweat, and exhaustion coated him. Yet for the first time, he felt it—the faint, terrifying taste of power.
This is just the beginning, he thought. And I will not stop.