Chapter 14 - The Final Trial

The sun stands high over the training grounds, its harsh light offering no warmth—only clarity. Each grain of dust floating in the air catches the tension, amplifying the weight pressing down on the contenders.

The overseer draws the line in the dirt with the toe of his boot, his presence a looming force over the gathered fighters. No words are needed to remind them of what this trial represents. Unlike the previous tests, this isn't about strategy, speed, or even strength. This is about endurance. About standing when every instinct screams to fall.

Joran moves first.

Shoulders squared; his stance is rigid, defiant. Bruises mar his body from the last trial, but pride is the stronger force, driving him forward. The first strike lands with deceptive simplicity—a palm thrust, controlled yet devastating. The force rattles through his bones like a war drum. His feet scrape against the dirt, but he holds.

The second comes faster, sharper. His stance adjusts—wider, lower—absorbing as much of the impact as his trembling muscles allow. His breath is ragged now, each inhale laced with fire. Knees threaten to buckle. He forces them to stay locked.

The third strike crashes into him like a collapsing mountain.

Before he registers the hit, his body is airborne. The world tilts, the sky swallowing his vision, and then the ground slams into his back. A dull ringing fills his ears. His ribs scream, his limbs feel like dead weight.

But he rolls to one knee.

Spits onto the dirt.

And he rises.

Barely.

The overseer nods once.

Kalia is next.

She moves with the grace of water, flowing rather than bracing. The first strike connects, but she twists with it, redirecting just enough force to lessen the impact. Still, the shock reverberates through her frame.

The second blow comes sharper, faster. She shifts again, but this time, it's not enough. The strike slams into her ribs, sending her staggering back, vision flashing white for a heartbeat. Air leaves her lungs in a sharp gasp, but her feet remain planted.

The third comes, and this time, no technique can save her. The moment of weightlessness grips her as she's lifted from the ground, her body twisting midair before crashing into the dirt. Dust coats her skin, her vision hazy.

One knee presses into the ground.

Fingers curl into the dust.

She rises.

The overseer watches, expression unreadable, but something flickers in his gaze.

Ren steps forward without hesitation. Unlike Joran, he does not meet the blows with force. Unlike Kalia, he does not attempt to redirect. He absorbs.

The first sends him skidding, but he remains upright.

The second makes his entire frame tremble, muscles seizing beneath the pressure.

The third buckles his knees. His arms barely catch him before his chest meets the dirt. His lungs burn, limbs scream.

But he stands.

The fourth competitor is not so lucky. Two strikes, and the third sends him unconscious before his body even hits the ground.

Silence stretches over the grounds.

Only four remain.

Joran, barely standing. Kalia, breath heavy but measured. Ren, shaking but upright. One boy from a neighbouring village, his expression distant, lost somewhere beyond his own limits.

And then, De steps forward.

No hesitation. No rush. Every step is measured. Controlled.

From the sidelines, Elder Faen watches, expression unreadable, his gaze sharp, searching.

Belar stands stiff, fingers twitching in the folds of his robes. The alchemist's mind whirls, calculating every movement, every flicker of qi in De's stance. If he is hiding something, this will reveal it.

Solar waits at the edge of the training ground. Her new form—sleek, black, traced with violet ki—remains still, but her eyes stay locked onto him, glowing with quiet intensity.

The overseer meets De's gaze, lingering just a moment longer than with the others.

Then, he raises his hand.

De exhales slowly. The past has taught him many things—how to fight, how to win, how to survive. But never has he been one to simply endure. That is not who he is. Not on Earth. Not here.

The moment the overseer moves, so does he.

The crowd barely has time to register what's happening before De's fist lashes out, the ground fracturing beneath his feet as his qi surges. No Shadow Phantom Steps. No elemental infusions. Just raw, unrelenting force honed through battles where second chances never came.

The overseer's brows lift—not in shock, but in something colder.

Recognition.

The counter is instant. Palm meets fist, qi colliding in a thunderous burst that sends a shockwave through the air. De's feet dig into the dirt, unmoving.

The murmurs in the crowd die into stunned silence.

The overseer's gaze sharpens, his hand still pressed against De's fist. For the first time in the trials, his impassive demeanour wavers.

"This is not a test of strength," the overseer states, voice even. "It is a test of endurance."

But De does not falter.

The next strike comes without warning, faster, heavier.

His instincts take over. His left fist snaps forward, aimed at the overseer's ribs—a counterstrike, a challenge. He is not a wall meant to withstand blows. He is a weapon, one that refuses to remain still.

And this time, the overseer reacts differently.

Something flickers in his eyes. Not irritation. Not disappointment.

Excitement.

Qi uncoils from him, no longer restrained, no longer a mere test.

This is an attack.

De barely has time to brace.

The palm slams into his chest.

A boom echoes across the training grounds, the force distorting the very air. His ribs ignite with pain, the impact tearing through muscle and bone. His body slides backward—but he does not fall.

He does not fall.

Pain throbs, a wildfire spreading through his core. His breath shudders, but his stance remains firm.

The second-strike lands.

His arms cross his chest, absorbing the hit, but the shock still rattles his bones. His qi flares in protest, a raw surge answering the force pressing against him.

Still, he does not fall.

Eyes in the crowd widen.

Joran's fists clench.

Kalia's fingers twitch on the hilt of her sword.

Even Elder Faen's carefully neutral mask betrays a flicker of something new.

The third strike comes.

De steps into it.

The collision is a storm of raw power, the very air warping with the impact. The shockwave kicks up dust, sending a ripple of force through the watching contenders.

Pain lances through every inch of his body. His muscles scream. His bones threaten to shatter.

But he remains standing.

A sharp breath leaves the overseer. He finally steps back, studying De, his gaze deeper now assessing, understanding.

This is no longer a trial.

This is something else entirely.