Step eight hundred.
The gravity didn't just push down anymore; it crushed inward. Yang Yi's lungs struggled to expand against the invisible vice. His ribs creaked with every shallow breath.
Sweat didn't drip. The heat radiating from the stone evaporated it instantly, leaving a crust of salt on his skin.
He focused on his boots. Lift. Plant. Push.
The crowd had thinned. The weak lay scattered on the lower steps, broken by the pressure or the guardians. The path ahead belonged to the monsters.
A figure moved in the haze above him.
Yang Yi narrowed his eyes. The air shimmered, distorted by the gravity field, but the silhouette remained sharp.
A girl. She wore the pale azure robes of the Northern Glades. Frost clung to her shoulders, defying the sweltering heat of the obsidian. She didn't climb with brute force. She glided, her feet barely touching the stone.
A movement technique.
Yang Yi grit his teeth. He didn't have the qi to waste on fancy footwork. He had grit and muscle.
He closed the distance.
At step eight hundred and fifty, the stairs widened into a small plateau. A trap.
The girl stopped. She turned, her face pale and expressionless, eyes like chipped ice. She held a slender rapier, the tip resting on the stone.
"Pass or die," she whispered. The air around her temperature dropped, frost spiderwebbing across the black rock.
Yang Yi didn't stop. "Move."
She flicked her wrist. Three icicles materialized from the moisture in the air, jagged and lethal. They shot toward his chest.
Yang Yi dropped his shoulder. He spun, the movement heavy and sluggish under the gravity.
The first icicle grazed his cheek. The second shattered against the stone. The third buried itself in his left shoulder.
Pain flared—cold and numbing.
Yang Yi didn't scream. He used the momentum of the spin to launch himself forward. He ignored the ice in his flesh.
The girl's eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected him to tank the hit. She raised her rapier for a killing thrust.
Yang Yi swept his leg low.
She jumped, floating over the sweep like a leaf on the wind. Graceful. Perfect technique.
But she forgot the gravity.
While she was in the air, she couldn't ground herself. The array seized her, yanking her down faster than she anticipated.
She landed hard, stumbling.
Yang Yi stepped in. He didn't use his sword. He slammed his forehead into the bridge of her nose.
Crack.
The impact stunned her. The frost aura flickered and died.
Yang Yi shoved her aside. He didn't kill her. Killing took time and energy he didn't have.
"Wasted movement," he muttered, stepping past her prone form.
He grabbed the icicle sticking out of his shoulder. He grunted and ripped it out. Blood welled up, warm and dark. He tossed the bloody shard over the edge.
Step nine hundred.
The world went gray. The sound of the wind vanished. The heat vanished.
Yang Yi stood in a courtyard. Rain lashed against the slate roof.
He froze.
The Li Estate.
Elder Li stood in front of him, wiping blood from his lip. The old man smiled that same jagged, mocking smile from the day Yang Yi died.
"Back so soon, worm? Did you think you could escape your fate?"
Yang Yi stared at the ghost. He felt the phantom pain in his chest, the stutter of his heart failing from the Reverse Kill technique.
"An illusion array."
"Is it?" Elder Li stepped forward. The pressure he emitted wasn't gravity; it was pure Killing Intent. "You are trash in that world, and you are trash here. Kneel."
Yang Yi's knees trembled. The mental compulsion to submit was stronger than the physical weight of the mountain. It hooked into his insecurities, his memories of failure.
He looked at his hands. They were the hands of the previous Yang Yi—calloused from farming, weak and trembling.
No.
He clenched his fists. The nails dug into his palms until blood flowed. Real pain. Real blood.
"My fate isn't written by ghosts."
Yang Yi drew his sword. The metal sang in the silent courtyard.
Elder Li laughed. "You can't cut a memory."
"Watch me."
Yang Yi didn't attack the figure. He attacked the world. He drove the sword down, stabbing the ground at his feet. He poured every ounce of his will, every drop of the beast's rage lingering in his blood, into the blade.
"Break!"
The sword struck the stone.
The world shattered like a dropped mirror.
The rain stopped. The courtyard dissolved into shards of gray light. Elder Li's face twisted, melting away into smoke.
Yang Yi gasped, falling to one knee.
He was back on the stairs. Step nine hundred and ninety.
Sweat poured off him. His nose bled, dripping onto the obsidian. The mental strain was worse than the physical climb.
He wiped his face. He looked up.
Ten more steps to the first major platform. Step one thousand.
A massive stone gate stood at the landing, flanked by two statues of coil dragons. Beyond the gate lay the second section of the trial.
He forced himself up. His legs felt like lead pillars.
He took the steps one by one.
Nine hundred ninety-nine.
One thousand.
He collapsed onto the flat stone of the landing. The gravity vanished instantly.
The sudden release made him vomit. He retched, emptying his stomach of bile and water. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the blinding sun.
He wasn't the first one there. A handful of cultivators sat around the perimeter, meditating, nursing wounds. They looked at him—a bloody, battered mess with a cheap sword.
Yang Yi sat up. He checked his shoulder. The wound had stopped bleeding, sealed by the residual beast energy.
He reached into his pocket and touched the Dragon Transformation Token. It was warm, pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm. It had fed on the illusion energy.
He looked at the gate ahead.
"First thousand down," he whispered. "Two thousand to go."
He closed his eyes to cultivate. The respite wouldn't last long.