Bedrock Of Confusion

It hurt.

It hurt him badly.

Auren couldn't even count how many bones had shattered in his body. The height he had fallen from felt like the distance between heaven and earth. The fall itself had stretched into eternity, his mind buried in a haze—not of emptiness, but of too many thoughts colliding at once, rendering him incapable of processing any.

He had tried, in some desperate way, to salvage his state, to think of ways he could save himself mid-fall. Or at the very least, minimize the damage to his body.

But nothing could be done.

He had been utterly powerless against the pull of gravity. Like a lifeless doll, he had plunged through the darkness, spiraling down into the lightless depth. And when he finally crashed, the impact sent his body bouncing, jolting with a terrifying current of pain.

After that, he had simply lain there, sprawled across the cold, hard ground, unable to move a single muscle. Silently awaiting death.

But then seconds passed. Minutes. Even hours.

And somehow, he was still waiting.

In those agonizing moments of limbo, Auren had been granted the painful luxury of sifting through the tangled chaos of his mind.

At first, the pain had been unbearable. It still was. But he had quickly realized that nothing could be done about it. So, he had forced himself to find another way—to distract himself, to shift his focus from the torment that threatened to consume him.

That was how he began delving into everything that had led him here.

Starting with how his father must have so easily turned a blind eye to him.

Of course, it wouldn't have been simple for the old man—or perhaps it had been far too easy. After all, Auren was merely the son of a concubine. Unlike his elder brother, he didn't directly bear the weight of their lineage, even though he carried the same striking features, the same blood, the same art of combat.

Yet, he was no different from the noble families who were contracted to them—outsiders allowed only a glimpse of the secondary sword arts, never the true inheritance.

The Archon's decree was final. No one beneath him dared defy it.

Or perhaps that explanation was just an easier excuse.

An excuse that made it simpler for his father to abandon him.

Auren had never been able to read the man. Not as a child, not now. He had never once caught him smiling. Relisé had once claimed that he used to—back when Auren's mother was alive. But Auren found that incredibly hard to believe.

And then, there was Relisé herself.

Auren wasn't sure how she would be faring now.

She had been like a mother to him. The only reason she had refused to leave—even after his mother's death. Even after his father had threatened to withhold her wages if she continued to stay.

But she had stayed anyway.

Like a parasite that refused to be shaken off.

Auren could never repay her for her kindness. Her stubborn and persistent support.

Lying there in the darkness, his body broken, his mind drifting between consciousness and oblivion, he found himself wishing—wishing he had been better to her. Wishing he had been less guarded. Wishing he had openly accepted her care instead of pushing it away.

But regret, like pain, was something he could do nothing about now.

His mind drifted to his brother.

Unlike their father, Ezryn had always been kind to him. Auren could still remember the warmth in his voice, the way he had shielded him from scorn, from the cold indifference of their family.

Ezryn had been a Blessed for ten years—and a formidable one at that.

He was a Consecrated, a rank above Devout. Those two sentries? Ezryn could have taken them down without even using a skill.

But that was only the surface of his strength.

Ezryn had comprehended their Ancestry Combat Art to an exalted level—an achievement so rare that even among the Blesseds, few could claim such mastery. It was more than a mark of strength. It was proof of something deeper. A terrifying feat that placed him on a path toward something greater.

More than anything, Ezryn loved Auren. Truly.

And had he been there, this—all of it—never would have happened.

But he wasn't.

Auren wished he would survive. Keep surviving. That perhaps, one day, they might meet again. But he preferred to believe they wouldn't.

Pessimism was safer. More realistic.

Because his reality was that he was dying.

Yet, even with that truth hanging over him, he found himself wanting more. Wanting desperately to claw for survival. Wanting to be consumed by rage, to let vengeance fuel his will to live.

If he could make a deal with the devil—if there was such a being—he would.

He would sell his soul if it meant being granted the power to wake those sleepy-headed divinities from their celestial slumber and drag them down from their lofty thrones.

But that was just a pipe dream.

A foolish fantasy.

And yet...

Somewhere deep within him, he felt something stubborn stir.

A flame that refused to die.

Which led him to search for hope. But not in the Archons that had condemned him. Never.

[Your endurance for pain has increased.]

Auren froze.

That voice.

The same dull, inhuman monotone.

"Hello…?"

…

No answer.

But something else changed.

The pain, while still excruciating, had lessened. It wasn't gone, but it was duller now—like jagged claws had been blunted, their once-sharp edges broken.

'What was that voice?'

His thoughts swirled, fragments of memory clicking together.

It had spoken before. Announcing his death. Saying that certain conditions had been met.

His death—was that the condition?

Did he need to die for something within him to awaken?

Was that why he hadn't died yet, despite his broken, mangled body? Was that why his tolerance for pain had begun to rise?

Auren found himself drowning in questions, but there were no answers.

This was unfamiliar ground.

Every Nascent was briefed before entering the temple to receive their Blessings, warned of what would happen during their first trial. But this—this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Then—

His eyes widened.

The voice.

It mentioned his first trial.

'How am I in a trial without going to a temple? That makes no sense!'

Before a Nascent could undergo their first trial, they had to return to their temple, step into the Chamber of the Holies of Holies—the divine gateway leading into the Mind World of the Archons.

The trials were crafted to mold them, to push them toward growth—tailored to the Nascent or the group of Nascent undergoing them.

Auren should not be in a trial.

Not without entering the Holies of Holies.

Confusion gripped him.

This could be a trial or could not be. But the dark lightless scape did not look like anything Auren was familiar with.

He was left with nothing but disjointed, unraveling thoughts that made no sense, tumbling through his mind in a whirlwind of questions with no answers.

'What is going on?'

But there was no response.

Only silence.

Still — at least he had time. Time to think. Time to piece together something — anything — useful from this mess of madness unfolding around him.

He was wrong.

He did not have all the time in the world.

Something hissed.

At first, it was distant—a faint, insidious whisper slithering through the darkness. He felt it more than he heard it, an eerie presence lurking just beyond his senses.

But as the agonizing seconds crawled by, the hiss grew louder. Closer.

And it carried something with it.

A stifling, oppressive air that pressed against him.

A stench—vile, rotting, suffocating.

It hit him like a wave, coiling into his lungs, thick and putrid, a stench so revolting that his stomach churned violently in protest.

The more he fought it, the more persistent it became.

Auren clenched his teeth, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. But the feeling only intensified, clawing at his insides, twisting his gut like something alive.

Until he couldn't hold it in anymore.

His body convulsed as he turned onto his side, forcing himself to move—just enough to spill the burning sickness clawing its way out of him.

The hissing grew sharper.

And then—

The creature found its prey.