He recoiled, gripping his wrist, eyes wide—not from surprise, but recognition.

The book was from the seal.

That seal.

The one that came before everything.

He stood there for a moment, staring at his burned hand.

The skin wasn't blistered. But his soul felt singed.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

The tower itself seemed to tilt slightly, its stones whispering to one another in ancient hush.

It understood too.

No answer was needed.

The pain was its own explanation.

The book would not be touched again.

Not yet.

Alarich stepped through the mist, steam rising in slow curls around his feet, his expression unreadable. The stone beneath him was cracked and scorched, echoing the weight of battles long forgotten.

The Colosseum loomed ahead—vast, ancient, carved from blackened concrete and riddled with burn marks and bloodstains. The sky above it churned with a dull red haze, as if time itself was bleeding.

He had expected something different.

A test of the mind. Visions. Illusions. Shadows of self.

But this... this was real.

He gripped the Fog Sword, the blade whispering as it passed through the vapor, its edge glowing faintly with every breath he took. The mist clung to him like memory.

He walked forward. No hesitation.

As he passed through the crumbled gate into the arena, he saw the shape standing there—tall, proud, motionless like a statue born of fire and war.

The Demon Lord.

No words.

No greeting.

Just his presence.

A storm of raw energy twisted behind him, dark flame flickering at his shoulders. The wind did not dare move.

Alarich stopped ten paces away.

No need to ask.

This was one of the trials.

This was the Trial of War.

Alarich narrowed his eyes, the mist beginning to part in a wide circle as the arena prepared itself.

He didn’t let his fear surface—he knew better than that. But deep within his chest, something ached. Not just a wound—a fracture. Not of the body, but of something older. Deeper.

His gaze locked onto the figure ahead—this construct, this imitation of the Demon Lord.

Alarich (in thought):

“This isn’t real… this isn’t him. Uki must’ve created it. A trial. A fight to test me. Not a war to win.”

Still… the presence was identical. The pressure. The weight. The way the air bent around it, like the real Demon Lord had stepped out of memory and stood here again.

Alarich (to himself):

“If it’s just a trial… why does it feel like the same crushing force? Why do I feel like I’m about to die?”

He gritted his teeth.

“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this thing’s only purpose is to push me to the edge. Maybe there are stronger people… better people… but I’m the one in here. I’m the one bleeding. I’m the one fighting.”

He rolled his shoulder, the Fog Sword pulsing faintly in his grip. The mist around him lifted slightly, as if the Colosseum itself was holding its breath.

His heart thudded. Once. Then again. A slower rhythm now, in sync with the silence.

A final thought crossed his mind before he stepped forward:

“Whatever this is… whoever made it… I’ll cut through it. One way or another.”

He raised the blade—

And the trial began.

Alarich surged forward, driving his blade hard into the Demon Lord’s stomach with a sharp, resonant clang. The edge bit into the dark armor, but the figure didn’t flinch.

Before Alarich could react, the Demon Lord’s other hand shot out like a shadow, gripping his left arm with crushing force.

With a powerful heave, he swung Alarich through the air and slammed him against the cracked stone floor.

Pain exploded up Alarich’s arm—sharp, searing—but when he flexed his fingers, nothing snapped. No bone shattered. No ligament tore.

Was it a barrier? he wondered, breath ragged.

Or some subtle sorcery, weaving protection beneath the pain?

He clenched his jaw, tasting copper in his mouth. Maybe it was muscle memory, training his body to endure the impossible.

Either way, he was still standing.

And the trial was far from over.

Alarich stretched his fingers upward, the mist swirling and thickening around his hand. From the fog, ethereal birds took shape—ghostly silhouettes shimmering with a faint, silvery light.

He lifted his gaze to the overcast sky, eyes sharp and focused, then snapped his fingers forward, directing the flock toward the Demon Lord.

Without hesitation, he followed with a swift, precise slash across the Demon Lord’s other arm—cutting deep through dark armor and shadow.

The wound burned with a strange intensity—one that wasn’t flesh-deep but soul-deep.

No regeneration bloomed. No dark magic sealed the gash.

Because this was a soul attack.

A strike meant to sever more than muscle—meant to reach the very core of the being standing before him.

Alarich gathered the swirling air around him, focusing the gentle currents into a sharp, razor-edged gust. With a swift motion, he unleashed a slicing wind blade aimed straight at the Demon Lord’s other arm.

The invisible force cut through the heavy shadows, humming with raw elemental power.

But before the attack could land fully, the Demon Lord snapped his fingers with cold precision.

From the swirling smoke and embers before him, a phoenix flame spear erupted—brilliant, blazing with golden fire that danced and crackled like living light.

The spear materialized instantly, its fiery tip glowing fiercely as it shot forward, ready to meet Alarich’s wind blade with overwhelming force.

Alarich’s eyes snapped upward just in time to see the fiery spear descending from the sky, trailing molten embers that hissed through the air. The scorching flames licked across his face, searing flesh and singeing hair—the heat intense enough to draw a sharp gasp from him. The pain was real, raw, and unforgiving.

Far away, in the dim chamber atop the tower, Shirogane knelt beside Alarich’s still form. His gaze sharpened, catching a subtle but unmistakable change—a faint distortion creeping across Alarich’s features, as if the very essence of his face was warping, bending under some unseen force.

His brow furrowed deeply. This wasn’t mere injury. It was something else—something that spoke of corruption, or perhaps transformation.

Shirogane’s voice was barely a whisper, thick with concern:

“Something is unraveling...”

As the flames scorched Alarich’s face, a flicker of recognition sparked deep within him—a distant memory stirring from the pages of the mysterious book he carried.

The flower regeneration.

A forgotten art, where the body blossoms into a skin of hardened petals—fragile in appearance but stronger than steel—capable of channeling raw power and healing wounds beyond mortal means.

Alarich’s eyes narrowed. He reached up, fingertips brushing the burned flesh. A soft glow began to pulse beneath his skin, spreading like petals unfurling in the dawn.

The fiery wounds on his face shimmered and melted away, replaced by a radiant, petal-like texture that gleamed with both grace and strength.

---

Far above, Shirogane’s violet eyes widened in disbelief and shock.

He watched helplessly as the distortion on Alarich’s face reversed, replaced by a luminous bloom of flower-made skin—alive, glowing, and undeniably powerful.

His voice caught in his throat, a rare moment of vulnerability:

“That... that’s impossible.”

The room seemed to hum with renewed energy, the air thick with the promise of a power reborn.

Alarich stood taller, the bloom of regeneration not just healing but transforming him—ready to face whatever the trial would throw next.

From the blossoming petals on Alarich’s face, a deep, unnatural shadow spread—a black rose, its petals shimmering like polished obsidian, absorbing the faint light around it.

The darkness pulsed, alive and hungry. With a whispered breath, Alarich summoned dark flames from the swirling fog—flames that twisted and writhed like living shadows, cold yet burning with an unholy fire.

His blade gleamed with this abyssal energy as he struck.

First, a brutal chop severed the Demon Lord’s legs, the black flames licking eagerly at the wounds, preventing regeneration.