The Closed Gate

Five months in the Veilroot.

Not that I could really tell anymore—time here had its own peculiar flow.

But according to my internal clock, I'd been under Jirou's relentless tutelage for roughly five months.

The results were undeniable.

Shadow essence now flowed smoothly through my pathways, enhancing every movement, every sense, every thought.

I could manifest shallow shadows—not the dramatic constructs of advanced users, but tendrils and extensions that responded to my will.

Could infuse my strikes with shadow weight, making them hit far harder than physics should allow.

Could even bend light slightly around my form, creating moments of near-invisibility.

"Enough," Jirou announced, ending our latest integration session. "Your control improves."

I lowered my hands, the shadow extensions I'd been maintaining dissipating like smoke.

"I still can't hold the complex forms," I noted, slightly frustrated by my limitations.

"Complex forms require deeper essence pools," Jirou replied. "Your capacity grows, but slowly."

He gestured to the training post I'd been using for target practice.

It was riddled with shadow-enhanced strike marks—deep gouges where my fists had connected, trailing wisps of darkness still clinging to the wood.

"Your progress is significant," he acknowledged. "Few achieve this level of integration in such a short period."

Coming from Jirou, that was practically effusive praise.

I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride.

From the useless F+ ranked nobody who'd stumbled into this training realm, I'd transformed into something formidable.

Still miles from the powerhouses described in "The Infinity Hero," but no longer cannon fodder.

"I'd like to check the outside world," I said, grabbing a cloth to wipe the sweat from my face. "See how much time has passed."

It had been weeks since my last check—at least by internal reckoning.

Jirou nodded once.

"Your training cycle is complete," he said. "A reasonable request."

I headed toward the spatial fold that connected the Veilroot to the library.

The strange doorway had remained in the same location since my arrival, though I rarely used it.

As I approached, something seemed... off.

The fold pulsed irregularly, its edges wavering like a mirage in desert heat.

"That's new," I muttered, slowing my approach.

Instead of the smooth, stable portal I'd used before, this looked unstable.

Damaged, somehow.

I glanced back, looking for Jirou, but he had disappeared—a typical vanishing act I'd grown accustomed to.

The fold continued to fluctuate, ripples of spatial distortion spreading outward like waves.

I followed one particularly strong ripple with my eyes, tracking its movement across the training ground.

It seemed to sink into the stone floor about twenty yards away, near the edge of the central area.

Curious, I changed direction, moving toward where the ripple had disappeared.

As I neared the spot, I noticed a faint glow emanating from between the stone slabs.

I knelt, examining the illumination more closely.

The light pulsed in rhythm with the unstable fold.

Connected, somehow.

I pressed my palm against the stone, enhancing my perception with shadow essence.

Shadow users could sometimes see through solid objects—not like x-ray vision, but more like feeling shapes and energy through barriers.

The sensation was immediate and startling.

Beneath the stone was a complex network of essence patterns—lines of power that reminded me of circuit boards from my original world.

And kneeling at a junction point, carefully inscribing new patterns into the foundation, was Jirou.

His hands moved with practiced precision, adding essence seals to what appeared to be a massive, intricate binding array.

I could feel the power thrumming through the entire structure—old, deep, and somehow... restrictive.

As if the very ground beneath us was designed to contain something.

Or someone.

I must have made some sound or movement that alerted him.

Jirou's head snapped up, those void-black eyes locking directly onto mine through several feet of solid stone.

He rose smoothly, his expression unreadable as always.

Then the stone beneath my hand shifted.

I leapt backward instinctively as a section of the floor slid aside, revealing a narrow stairwell leading down.

Jirou emerged, his movements unhurried but deliberate.

"You weren't supposed to see that," he said simply.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I kept my breathing steady, maintained a neutral stance.

"What exactly am I seeing?" I asked, my tone carefully level.

"Maintenance," Jirou replied. "The Veilroot requires regular reinforcement."

The explanation made sense on its surface.

But the spatial fold's erratic behavior.

The binding array's connection to the exit portal.

The way the patterns pulsed with restraining energy.

None of it aligned with simple maintenance.

"Is that why the fold is unstable?" I asked, gesturing toward the fluctuating doorway.

Jirou glanced at the portal.

"A temporary side effect," he said. "It will stabilize shortly."

As if responding to his words, the fold's erratic pulsing began to slow.

Within moments, it had returned to its normal, placid state.

Too quickly.

Too completely.

Like it was responding to a command rather than natural restoration.

"Your training cycle is complete," Jirou observed. "You have earned your rest."

He gestured toward the fold.

"You wished to check the outside world?"

I studied him for a long moment.

In five months of brutal, sometimes seemingly impossible training, I'd never caught Jirou in an outright lie.

Cryptic half-truths, yes.

Omissions, certainly.

But this felt different.

The binding array. The controlled stabilization. The sudden shift in his demeanor.

My skin prickled with the awareness that something fundamental had changed between us.

"Actually," I said, "I think I'll rest first. It's been an intense day."

Jirou nodded once.

"A wise choice. Conservation of energy accelerates essence recovery."

He turned, heading toward his own quarters—the small wooden structure at the far edge of the training ground.

"Rest well," he added, without looking back.

I watched him go, noting the slight tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

When he was out of sight, I glanced again at the spatial fold.

It looked perfectly normal now.

Stable. Quiet. Inviting.

But the sight of it raised hairs on the back of my neck.

Something had happened to the doorway. It had been altered. Controlled.

Tethered to the binding array beneath our feet.

No longer a simple exit, but something more complex.

More concerning.

I made my way to my own quarters—a small hut similar to Jirou's that had appeared after my successful Crucible trial.

Inside was simple but comfortable—a proper sleeping mat, a small table, a water basin.

I sat cross-legged on the mat, attempting to center myself with the familiar breathing pattern.

Inhale for eight. Hold for—

The rhythm faltered.

I tried again.

Inhale for eight. Hold for four. Ex—

My lung capacity, expanded through months of rigorous training, suddenly felt insufficient.

Images kept flashing behind my eyes.

The binding array beneath the stone.

Jirou's hands inscribing essence seals with practiced efficiency.

The spatial fold responding to his command, stabilizing instantly.

I rose and paced the small confines of the hut, replaying every interaction with Jirou over the past months.

The cryptic comments about past students.

The golden figure calling him "traitor."

The voices in the Crucible whispering about "breaking the binding" when I damaged the pillars.

Individually, each could be dismissed.

Together, they formed a pattern I'd been blind to.

Or perhaps had chosen not to see.

I stopped pacing, my gaze falling on my reflection in the water basin.

The face looking back at me was no longer that of the confused transmigrator who'd stumbled into this realm.

Sharper features. More focused eyes. The physique of someone who had been remade through merciless training.

Someone valuable.

I dunked my hands in the water, splashing my face.

The cold shock momentarily cleared my thoughts.

Think logically. Assess the situation.

The Veilroot contained binding arrays.

The exit portal was connected to those arrays.

Jirou had lied—or at least deliberately obscured—his work on them.

The obvious conclusion turned my stomach.

This wasn't just a training realm.

It was a cage.

One disguised with wisdom and progress, but a cage nonetheless.

And Jirou was not merely its keeper, but its architect.

I dried my face on a cloth, moving to the small window that overlooked the training ground.

In the distance, I could see the spatial fold—still stable, still inviting.

But now it looked like the spider's silk rather than the way home.

The night deepened around the Veilroot, shadows growing longer, darker.

More substantial.

I extended my hand, allowing my shadow essence to flow.

Tendrils of darkness extended from my fingertips, more responsive than ever before.

If my suspicions were correct, I would need every advantage I'd gained here.

Every skill.

Every technique.

Every ounce of the strength that Jirou had helped me develop.

I returned to my sleeping mat, sitting cross-legged once more.

Not for meditation this time, but for planning.

Questions circled endlessly.

Why go to such extreme lengths to train someone only to trap them?

What purpose could the binding array possibly serve?

And most importantly—what happened to all those names I'd heard whispered in the Crucible?

Those who had come before me.

Those who had failed.

I remained seated upright in the darkness, eyes open, mind racing.

Tomorrow, I would find answers.

One way or another.