Location: The Sealed Space — The Crucible of Ascension — Third Trial — The Pillar Chamber
The ice field gave way to something else.
Not snow—not ice—something older. The ground beneath their skates shifted from crystal to stone, dark and smooth, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The air grew warmer, heavier, thick with the scent of incense and something else—something that made the skin prickle and the hair stand on end.
The pillars rose before them like the ribs of a dead god.
They were massive—each one the size of a tower, their surfaces carved with murals that seemed to move in the corner of the eye. At the base of each pillar, figures were depicted: half-lion, half-goat, their heads crowned with horns that curled like ram's horns. Half-bird, half-serpent, their bodies covered in feathers that looked like scales. Female-headed creatures with wings of bone and eyes of fire.
The proto Aervas, Elijah thought. The abominations that walked the earth before the Sutrans.
The ones who built this place.
The ones who—
He stopped.
At the center of the chamber, an altar.
It was not a table—it was a throne. Carved from a single block of obsidian, its surface polished to a mirror shine. At its peak, a figure sat crosslegged, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes closed.
He was beautiful—not in the way of mortals, in the way of gods. His face was symmetrical, his features perfect, his skin smooth and pale. He wore armor of pale gold, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift and change. His hair was long, silver, flowing down his back like a waterfall of moonlight.
The Aerva , Elijah thought. The lower entity. The one who harvests conflux.
The one who feeds on the energy of those who worship him.
The one who—
"What is this place?"
"I don't know."
"It's beautiful."
"It's dangerous."
"How do you know?"
"Because I can feel it."
---
The trainees gathered around the altar.
Their faces were flushed, their eyes bright, their bodies trembling with excitement. They had survived the ice field. They had made it to the next challenge. They were one step closer to victory.
One of them stepped forward.
His name was Naji. His face was sharp, his eyes cunning, his voice smooth. He wore a dark suit, its surface shimmering with pale blue light.
"Don't any of you know who this is?" he asked.
His voice was reverent.
"This is the Sage. The first proclaimed earthly emperor that all served. Something that even the great Asurim king Gilgamesh failed to accomplish in his thousand years of existence."
"The Sage?" someone asked.
"I thought that was just a legend."
"A bedtime story."
"A fable."
"No."
Naji's voice was sharp.
"The Sage was real. He walked this earth. He built this place. He left his legacy in fragments—and only by following the instructions of the murals can one acquire a piece of that legacy."
He pointed at the walls.
"Just one piece," he said. "And you can break away from Samatva. You can reach levels nearing that of a pseudo-Asurim."
The crowd stirred.
Eyes widened. Breaths quickened. Hands clenched.
"How?" someone asked.
"How do we do it?"
"It's simple."
Naji's smile was thin.
"You just have to drop blood on the altar. And then go to any of the pillars."
---
Through his perception, Elijah saw the truth.
Not the altar—the space around it. The pillars. The murals. The air itself.
It was thick with presences—not physical, not solid, but there. Whisp forms of lower frequency, their surfaces shimmering with the colors of greed, hunger, sloth. They hovered near the pillars, near the altar, near the trainees who were already moving toward them.
"They're not just murals," Elijah thought.
"They're traps."
"And the altar—"
He focused on the altar.
The obsidian surface was not empty. It was full. Filled with the essence of those who had come before—the blood of the fallen, the energy of the sacrificed, the loosh of the desperate.
"This is what they're harvesting," he thought.
"This is what the Devas feed on."
"And this—"
He stared at Naji.
"—this man knows exactly what he's doing."
---
Elijah stepped forward.
His body moved between the trainees and the altar. His hands were raised, palms out, fingers spread.
"Wait," he said.
His voice was calm.
*"Before anyone does anything—"
"Step away, pal."
The trainee he had stopped glared at him. His face was flushed, his eyes bright, his body coiled with tension. Pale blue light flickered around his fists—unstable, chaotic, hungry.
"I don't want any trouble."
"Then move."
"I can't do that."
"You can."
"I can't."
The trainee stepped closer.
"I said move."
Elijah's hand moved—not fast, not slow, just there. His fingers closed around the trainee's wrist. Not hard. Just firm.
"Slow down, tiger," he said.
His voice was soft.
"Think about what you're doing."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then answer me this."
Elijah's eyes moved to Naji.
"If this man knows so much about the Sage's legacy—if he knows how to acquire a fragment of its power—why is he telling all of you? Why didn't he keep the secret to himself?"
The trainee's expression flickered.
Confusion. Uncertainty. Doubt.
"That's... that's a good point."
"It is."
"Why would he—"
"He wouldn't."
---
The crowd stirred.
Whispers spread through the trainees like ripples in a pond.
"He's right."
"Why would Naji share this secret?"
"Unless—"
"Unless it's not a secret."
"Unless it's a trap."
Naji's expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
His eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened. His hands, clasped behind his back, curled into fists.
"That's a good question," he said.
His voice was smooth.
"Why would I share the secret?"
"I don't know."
"Because I'm generous."
"Generous?"
"Yes. Generous."
Naji's smile was thin.
"I want to help my fellow trainees. I want to see them succeed. I want to—"
"You want to use them."
Naji's expression flickered again.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
Elijah's voice was flat.
"You know what's really on that altar. You know what's really in those pillars. And you know what will happen to anyone who drops their blood on that stone."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do."
Naji's eyes were cold.
"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."
---
"You're a clever one, aren't you?"
Naji's voice was quiet.
"A clever, clever boy."
"I'm not a boy."
"No. You're not."
Naji stepped closer.
"You're a Jerkins. One of the BOH defects. The one who can't even sense the field. The one who—"
"I'm not the same person I was."
"No. You're not."
Naji's eyes were cold.
"You're something else entirely."
He turned to the crowd.
"Don't listen to him," he said.
His voice was loud.
"He's trying to sow confusion. He's trying to steer you away from the prize."
"Is he?"
"He is."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know his kind. I've seen his kind before."
"His kind?"
"The Jerkins family."
Naji's voice was sharp.
"They've been parasites for generations. Feeding on the work of others. Claiming credit for things they didn't do. And this one—this one is the worst of them."
"I'm not—"
"You are."
Naji's voice was flat.
"You're a liar. A manipulator. A—"
"I'm not the one lying here."
"No?"
"No."
Elijah's eyes were cold.
"You're the one who's been lying from the beginning."
---
The crowd was silent.
Their eyes moved from Elijah to Naji. Their faces were pale. Their bodies were still.
"What's he talking about?" someone whispered.
"I don't know."
"But I want to find out."
Naji's hands moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
He made a gesture—his thumb across his throat.
The meaning was clear.
"You've made a mistake," he said.
His voice was quiet.
"A very big mistake."
"I don't think so."
"You will."
The crowd began to close in.
Their faces were hard. Their eyes were cold. Their bodies were coiled.
"Step away," someone said.
"Step away from the altar."
"Step away from—"
"Stop."
Elijah's voice was calm.
"Think about what you're doing."
"We know what we're doing."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
The crowd surged forward.
---