Chapter 33: Death

Livia and Sylas stood before the swirling vortex of the gate they had just created, its shifting patterns of blue and silver crackling with unstable energy. The air around them was charged with power, their combined efforts stabilizing the rift that would take them to the one man—no, the one being—who could truly elevate their strength.

Uhtem. The Great Old Miracle of Death.

They stepped through.

The world they arrived in was unlike anything they had seen before. Towering trees, ancient and gnarled, loomed overhead, their roots weaving through the ground like veins of a living organism. The sky was neither day nor night, locked in a twilight state where the stars shimmered even against the faint golden glow of the horizon. The very air here felt heavy, infused with something beyond magic—something primordial.

And there he was.

Uhtem sat atop a colossal boulder, his presence more imposing than any fortress. He was clad in worn yet regal robes, his eight-foot form radiating a presence that felt both welcoming and suffocating. Excalibur was sheathed at his side, yet its aura alone seemed to bend reality around it. The Wheel of Fate, unseen yet ever-present, pulsed with an unseen rhythm, tethering itself to the flow of the universe.

His eyes, ancient and knowing, settled on the two travelers. He had been expecting them.

Sylas and Livia bowed slightly out of respect before Livia spoke. "We have come to train under you."

Uhtem tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Why?"

Sylas exhaled sharply. "We need to grow stronger. The world we face is cruel, and we are not yet prepared for what is to come."

Uhtem's gaze remained unwavering. "Power without understanding is a blade without a wielder. Strength means nothing without purpose. What do you seek, truly?"

Livia hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, "We seek the power to survive. To fight for what we believe in."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Then, Uhtem smiled, though it was not one of amusement—it was one of acknowledgment.

"Very well," he said, rising from his seat, his movement fluid and effortless. "I will train you."

Sylas and Livia exchanged a brief look of triumph before Uhtem raised a single finger.

"But on one condition."

They tensed.

"You will not be given power." His voice, though calm, carried weight. "You will earn it."

Uhtem gestured toward the vast wilderness beyond them, where distant roars echoed through the thick forests. The ground trembled as something massive stirred within the depths of the land.

"There are beasts in these lands," Uhtem continued. "Creatures that exist beyond mortal comprehension. You will hunt them. You will fight them. And only when you return victorious will I acknowledge you as students."

Sylas clenched his fists, his mind already calculating the challenge ahead. Livia, however, narrowed her eyes.

"These beasts," she said, "what are they?"

Uhtem's expression remained neutral. "Manifestations of the old world. Born from chaos, remnants of wars before even my time."

A shadow passed over them as something enormous moved beyond the treeline.

Livia's fingers twitched toward her weapon. "And if we fail?"

Uhtem smirked. "Then you were never worthy of training in the first place."

Sylas exhaled through his nose. He had expected nothing less.

Livia crossed her arms, considering the challenge. "How many?"

Uhtem's eyes glowed faintly. "Three. Each more powerful than the last. The first will test your strength. The second, your will. The third, your resolve."

He turned his back to them, stepping away from the boulder. "If you survive, then we will begin."

Without another word, he vanished, leaving Sylas and Livia alone in the quiet wilderness.

Sylas rolled his shoulders, already strategizing. "Three beasts."

Livia nodded. "We've faced worse."

A deafening roar split the air.

Sylas exhaled. "Then let's get started."

The Killing Arc

Time in Avalon was an enigma. In the outside world, a year had passed, but within Uhtem's domain, where the boundaries of time bent and twisted, it felt like a lifetime.

Sylas and Livia had changed.

They were no longer the same people who had once walked through the gate, seeking strength. Their bodies bore the marks of battles beyond mortal comprehension—claw scars, burns, and wounds left by things that should not exist. Their minds had hardened, their resolve sharpened like a blade forged in the blackest of flames.

And yet, Uhtem had one final trial for them.

The Tower of the Forgotten.

A construct of unknown origin, it loomed before them like an abomination that had no right to exist. It was neither stone nor metal but something in between, pulsating like a living entity. The very air around it crackled with instability, bending and twisting as if the tower itself rejected the laws of the world.

At the entrance, Uhtem stood, watching them with his ever-ancient gaze.

"If you reach the top, you will be blessed," he said simply. "But do not mistake this for an ordinary trial. The tower has no mercy. It does not care for your will, your strength, or your resolve. It will break you if you allow it."

Sylas, ever composed, nodded. "And if we die?"

Uhtem smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Then you will remain inside it, forever."

Livia inhaled slowly. "You said the enemies only grow stronger."

"They will," Uhtem confirmed. "But strength is not the only horror you will face. The tower does not just test your body—it tests your mind. Your very existence will be questioned. Do you have the will to continue?"

Neither hesitated.

Uhtem stepped aside, allowing them to pass. The doors of the tower shuddered as they approached, and then, with a sound that resembled the wail of a dying god, they opened.

They stepped inside.

And the first horror awaited them.

The First Horror: The Maw of Endless Grief

The moment they entered, the world shifted.

The entrance behind them was gone, swallowed by an oppressive darkness so absolute that even Livia, with her sharp perception, could not see beyond it. The air grew thick, carrying the scent of decay and something far worse—sorrow.

Then came the sound.

A whisper, soft at first.

Then another.

Then thousands.

The walls of the chamber bled. Not with liquid, but with shifting, writhing faces—twisted in agony, their mouths open in eternal screams, yet no sound came. The walls themselves seemed alive, made from flesh and bone, pulsing with unnatural movement.

At the center of the room, it emerged.

A mass of limbs and mouths, its form indescribable. It had no true shape, shifting endlessly, like a grotesque sculpture sculpted by a mad god. Countless arms stretched from its ever-changing body, some long and thin, others thick and muscular, each ending in clawed fingers, trembling as if in eternal agony. Eyes blinked across its shifting form, appearing and vanishing as though it was trying to decide what shape to take.

But it was the mouths that were truly horrifying.

Thousands of them. Some human, some monstrous, others things that could not be comprehended. They whispered, screamed, begged, laughed. Voices overlapped, forming a dreadful cacophony of suffering.

Livia and Sylas could feel it.

This thing was not alive in the way a creature should be. It was grief incarnate, a being that fed on despair, twisting the emotions of those who looked upon it. Already, the weight of its presence bore down on them, and memories—their own—began to surface against their will.

Sylas saw visions of his past, the demons he had slain, the lives he had taken. His hands dripped with blood, and though he knew it was an illusion, the weight of guilt settled in his bones.

Livia saw something else—something she had buried deep. A memory long forgotten, but now resurfacing like a corpse dragged from the depths of the sea.

The horror sensed it.

It moved.

With an unnatural lurch, it rushed toward them, all of its mouths opening at once, releasing a deafening, unholy wail that made the walls tremble.

Sylas reacted first.

He drew his blade and slashed, but the attack did nothing. His sword passed through its shifting form as if slicing through smoke.

Livia gritted her teeth, drawing her own weapon, but hesitated. The whispers… they were growing louder. They were speaking directly to her.

"You cannot fight what you are."

"You cannot run from your own past."

"You will fail."

Her grip tightened.

Sylas growled, forcing himself forward, his instincts refusing to be clouded. "Livia!" he snapped. "Focus!"

The horror shifted again, its limbs elongating into razor-sharp appendages, striking with inhuman speed.

They barely dodged.

Sylas countered with a precise thrust, aiming for what he assumed was its core. Livia followed with a slash aimed at its twisting mass. Their strikes landed—but again, no damage.

The creature shuddered, its eyes locking onto them, and something shifted.

Reality broke.

The world around them shattered into fragments, and suddenly, they were not in the tower anymore.

They were alone.

Sylas found himself standing in a familiar place—a battlefield, the one from his past. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. The bodies of demons lay around him, the massacre he had caused flashing before him in vivid detail.

Livia stood in her own nightmare, though she did not say what she saw. But her hands trembled.

The horror was not just a creature.

It was a test.

A beast of sorrow.

And unless they could break free from its illusion…

They would never leave this floor alive.

The First Horror: The Maw of Endless Grief

Sylas clenched his fists.

He knew.

He knew this wasn't real. The battlefield before him—the corpses of demons, the blood on his hands, the weight of death pressing down on him like a mountain—it was not real.

But it felt real.

The heat of the flames licking at the remains of the fallen. The iron scent of blood soaking the ground beneath his boots. The hollow silence of a battlefield where only he remained standing.

Alone.

This was his past. A past he had accepted. And yet…

"Why does it still haunt me?"

A shadow stirred among the dead. A figure—his own reflection.

It stepped forward, its face mirroring his own, yet its eyes were empty, void of life.

"Did you really think you were different?" his own voice asked, calm yet cruel. "You call them demons, but in the end, aren't you just the same?"

Sylas exhaled sharply.

"This is an illusion."

"Is it?" His reflection tilted its head, smiling. "Then why do you hesitate? Why does your heart waver?"

Sylas said nothing.

The corpses twitched. Hands—familiar hands—reached toward him, their fingers clawing at his boots.

The fallen demons spoke.

"Was it worth it?"

"You are a murderer."

"Did you really believe you were different from us?"

The battlefield writhed with movement. The bodies, once still, now dragged themselves closer, their empty eyes locked onto him. The weight of their voices threatened to drown him.

But Sylas did not move.

He had walked through hell.

And hell would not break him.

His grip on reality was slipping, but he fought against it, gritting his teeth.

"This is not real."

He steadied his breathing, focusing on the weight of his sword, the feeling of the hilt in his hands. He had faced despair before. He had battled against nightmares and survived.

This was nothing.

His reflection narrowed its eyes, sensing the shift.

"Tch. You're still so damn stubborn."

Sylas swung his blade.

The world cracked.

Everything shattered like broken glass, the battlefield dissolving into a void of screaming voices, and—

—he was back.

The darkness of the tower pressed around him once more.

The horror still loomed, its shifting mass writhing, its mouths whispering endlessly.

But Sylas was no longer trapped.

And neither was Livia.

She stood beside him, her chest rising and falling in deep breaths, her eyes distant yet clear. Whatever illusion had been cast on her, she had escaped it.

The horror trembled.

It had failed to break them.

Sylas tightened his grip on his sword. "It's vulnerable now," he muttered. "It relied on illusions to weaken us. That means—"

Livia's eyes flickered with understanding. "It's real now. It has nowhere to hide."

The creature screeched.

It lunged.

They moved as one.

Sylas met its charge head-on, his sword piercing through its mass, striking at its ever-shifting form. Livia followed, her blade carving through its limbs, severing its grasping hands before they could reach them.

The horror shrieked, its voices overlapping in a deafening cry of agony.

It was breaking.

It was dying.

Sylas drove his sword deeper, and with a final, shuddering wail, the Maw of Endless Grief collapsed.

Its form dissolved into mist, its whispers fading into silence. The chamber grew still.

And then—

A door at the far end of the chamber creaked open.

The first trial was over.

But they both knew—

The horrors would only grow stronger from here.