Chapter 3: The Blade That Bled Will
The blade was waiting.
It lay nestled in the gnarled embrace of Mayavan's roots, an altar born from nature and time. Draped in a cloth blacker than void, rusted chains coiled around it like sleeping serpents. No light spilled from it. No pulse of magic or allure of power. It did not call.
It watched.
Lucien stepped forward. The forest responded. Leaves held their breath. The wind curled inward, silenced mid-whisper. Even the birdsong died, as if the world itself had turned to face this moment.
When his fingers brushed the edge of the cloth, the world broke.
---
He stood in a void.
No sky. No ground. No direction. Just the raw hum of something ancient.
Pain greeted him like an old friend.
> "To hold me," a voice whispered, soft as breath, "you must break first."
It didn't roar or demand. It simply was—absolute, final.
And then came the trials.
---
Level 1: Fire.
Flames erupted across Lucien's skin. Not the fire of spells or runes. This was elemental—pure, primal. His veins lit with fire. His flesh peeled in phantom layers. It did not kill him.
It branded him.
Memories of battles he'd never fought. Wars he'd never seen. Burnt into his bones.
---
Level 2: Frost.
Ice slithered through his blood. Limbs slowed, nerves frayed. Breath left trails of frost. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer against a frozen chest.
He gasped—and the cold stole even that.
---
Level 3: Weight.
Swords, hundreds, fell from the sky.
They buried him.
One across his back. Another across his arms. One embedded in his thigh. His knees bent under a weight no man could endure. A crushing, suffocating pressure of duty, of promise, of expectation.
> "You are heir. You are villain. You are savior. Bear it."
---
Level 4: Steel.
Chains slithered from the darkness. Spikes jutted from his palms. Screws tightened into his spine.
Every motion screamed.
His steps left trails of blood. But he moved still, dragging iron agony like a second shadow.
---
Level 5: Echo.
Voices—familiar and foreign—surged around him.
> "Why weren't you stronger?" "You let me die!" "He's not worthy of the Arkanveil name!" "Lucien… I loved you…"
Voices of his past. Earth. This world. People he had loved. People he had failed. Their words bit deeper than blades.
He tried to shout back—but the echoes swallowed his voice whole.
---
Level 6: Silence.
And then—nothing.
No pain. No sound. No warmth.
It was worse than death. There was no Lucien here. Just an absence. Forgotten. As if he had never existed. As if every memory of him had been wiped clean from reality.
Even he began to forget who he was.
And still, he stood.
Barely. Hollow.
Until the final level came.
---
Level 7: Mirror.
He saw himself.
First, as he had been on Earth—a wrinkled man in a hospital bed, fingers curled around an old novel, eyes dimmed by age and loss.
Then, as a child in this world—golden-haired, eyes wide with wonder and sorrow, standing in a field where he first felt mana stir.
Then now—confident, cunning, calculating. A boy masked as a chessmaster, hiding centuries of will behind a child's smirk.
And then—future versions.
Lucien, bloodied and mad.
Lucien, kneeling before a throne.
Lucien, alone.
Lucien, victorious.
Each version glared back, eyes filled with contempt.
> "You don't deserve this." "You're a thief of fate." "They will die because of you." "You will fail again."
Every word cracked through his soul like thunder. His knees buckled. Chest heaving. Eyes burning.
He could have fallen.
He could have begged.
Instead, he laughed.
Low. Bitter. Defiant.
A broken laugh from a broken soul that refused to shatter.
He staggered forward—one last step.
The void cracked.
---
Chains burst apart. The cloth wrapped around the blade burned to ash. The weapon hovered before him, humming—not with sound, but with presence. As if it breathed. As if it had waited eons for him.
> "You are chosen," it whispered.
Light surged—not blinding, but clear. Like memory made manifest. It flowed through him. Into him.
His mana responded. His blood answered. His soul stirred.
---
> [Weapon Name Unsealed: IKSHA-ASTRA]
Type: Soul-Bound Adaptive Weapon
Nature: Sentient
Rank: Evolves with Master
Bond: Synchronizable with Traits
Default Form: Armor beneath user's clothing
Function: Can transform into any weapon its master imagines.
Potential: Infinite
---
The blade pulsed once—then vanished.
No clatter.
No sheathing.
Just worn.
A second skin, slipping under his clothes. Wrapping around his soul. Waiting.
Lucien exhaled.
His body trembled—not from pain, but from change. The kind of shift that couldn't be undone. He could feel it now, nestled against his spine. Warm. Aware.
Iksha-Astra was not a tool.
It was a companion.
A partner.
Perhaps even... a judge.
Lucien stepped down from the altar. The roots of Mayavan parted like a curtain before him. The ashes of the trial scattered behind him, forgotten by the forest but not by him.
He didn't look back.
The sun peeked through the ancient canopy, bleeding gold through the leaves. A path stretched ahead—clear, waiting.