Location: The Sealed Space — The Crucible of Ascension — Third Trial — The Pillar Chamber
The crowd surged forward.
Faces twisted with greed. Eyes burning with desperation. Bodies coiled like springs, ready to strike, ready to tear, ready to kill. They had been promised power—the fragment of the Sage's legacy, the chance to break free from Samatva, the opportunity to become something more than what they were.
And they would do anything to get it.
Elijah's hands came up.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His palms faced the crowd. His fingers spread. His breathing slowed—in, out, in, out—a rhythm that had nothing to do with the chaos around him. His chest rose and fell with deliberate precision, each breath drawing the Tenryu core deeper into his awareness.
Half a unit, he thought.
That's all I need.
That's all I'm going to use.
The rest—
The rest is for later.
---
Through his perception, he saw the bean.
The spherical containment of vibrational energy in his chest. The Tenryu core, pulsing with crimson and amber-gold light. The orbiting ring around his torso, rotating slowly, steadily.
He reached into it.
Not with his hands—with his will. He pulled a fraction of the energy from the core, a sliver of the power that slept within him. It flowed through his veins, his muscles, his bones.
Half a unit, he thought again.
Just half.
Enough to move.
Enough to fight.
Not enough to kill.
The first attacker lunged.
His fist aimed for Elijah's face—wild, desperate, uncoordinated. There was no technique behind it, no training, no discipline. Just a man who had seen an opportunity and was trying to take it.
Elijah's body moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His head tilted—a fraction of an inch, just enough. The fist passed where his face had been, close enough that he could feel the wind of its passing. His hand shot up, his palm pressing against the attacker's chest. Not hard. Just firm.
The attacker stumbled back.
His eyes went wide.
"What—"
"You're not thinking."
Elijah's voice was calm.
"You're just reacting. And that's going to get you hurt."
"I don't—"
"Stop."
The attacker tried to swing again.
Elijah wasn't there.
His body had shifted—not backward, to the side. His foot swept the attacker's ankle. The man fell, his face hitting the stone floor, his breath leaving him in a rush. The impact sent a shudder through the ground.
--
Three more attackers came at him.
They moved as a unit—not because they had trained together, but because they were all thinking the same thing. Get close. Overwhelm him. Take what they wanted.
The first swung a wild hook. Elijah ducked. His palm struck the man's elbow, redirecting the force, sending the blow wide. The second lunged low, aiming for his knees. Elijah's foot slid back, his body pivoting, his shin meeting the man's shoulder in a sharp, precise block. The third came from behind, his arms wrapping around Elijah's chest.
Elijah's body moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His head snapped back—not hard, just enough to connect with the third attacker's nose. The man's grip loosened. Elijah's elbows drove into his ribs. The air left his lungs in a rush, and he released his hold.
Elijah's foot swept.
One. Two. Three.
They fell.
---
The crowd pressed in.
Dozens of them—their faces twisted with greed, their bodies coiled with desperation. They were not fighters. They were not soldiers. They were just people who had been promised something they wanted and were willing to do anything to get it.
Elijah moved through them like water.
His hands were open. His palms were flat. He didn't strike—he redirected. A push here, a pull there, a sweep of his leg that sent another attacker tumbling to the ground. His body flowed between their strikes, never where their fists were aimed, always where they weren't looking.
Half a unit, he thought.
That's all I'm using.
Just half.
The rest—
The rest is sleeping.
The attackers fell.
One by one, they fell. Their fists missed. Their feet slipped. Their bodies crumpled. Some of them got back up, only to fall again. Others stayed down, clutching ribs or shoulders or heads.
"He's not even trying," someone gasped.
"He's—"
"He's holding back."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"But I want to find out."
---
Naji watched from the edge of the chamber.
His eyes were narrowed. His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped behind his back, his fingers curled into fists. The dark energy around him pulsed in slow, steady waves, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of the light.
What is this? he thought.
I know about his situation at the Jerkins residence. I know about his lack of training. I know about the old man's neglect.
And yet—
The way he fights—
It's not the way a novice fights.
It's the way someone who has been through battles fights. Someone who has learned to read an opponent's intent before they move. Someone who has learned to use their opponent's momentum against them.
Unless—
His eyes narrowed further.
Unless the old man is just a scheming fox. Secretly trying to mold an army. Secretly trying to—
He stopped.
A body flew toward him.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
One of the attackers—a young man with a shaved head and a broken nose—was hurtling through the air, his arms pinwheeling, his mouth open in a silent scream. He had been thrown by Elijah, sent spinning through the chaos like a discus.
Naji's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
His palm struck the man's chest. His fingers curled. The dark energy around him surged—a cold, hungry wave that radiated from his core like the breath of a glacier. The man's body dissolved—not violently, not loudly. Just... gone. His flesh scattered into particles of pale light that drifted through the air like ash after a fire, leaving nothing behind.
The crowd froze.
Their eyes went wide. Their mouths opened. Their bodies trembled. Some of them stumbled backward, their hands rising in surrender.
"Circuit complete," someone whispered.
His voice was shaking.
"Third threshold. Circuit awakening."
"He's—"
"He's a—"
"He's a—"
They couldn't finish the sentence.
---
Naji's eyes found Elijah.
"You're decisive," he said.
His voice was flat, almost admiring.
"Almost an operative super soldier mentality. That makes me wonder—are you really who you claim to be? Or is there a technology that can allow one to disguise themselves as someone else?"
His smile was thin.
"I wonder what Brenda and the higher-ups from the Mysterium clan would think of this. When they get word of it."
Elijah's expression didn't change.
But something behind his eyes did.
"That's right," Naji said.
His voice was soft.
"I hit the mark, didn't I?"
The crowd turned.
Their eyes moved from Naji to Elijah. Their faces were pale. Their hands were shaking. Whispers spread through them like ripples in a pond.
"What's he talking about?"
"Is he really—"
"Is he pretending to be someone else?"
"Is he—"
"Who is he?"
---
Darius watched from the edge of the chamber.
His arms were crossed. His eyes were fixed on Elijah. His face was unreadable.
"So," he muttered.
"That's how it is."
"That's how it is."
---