The dark guardians lunged.
Umbra's blade sliced through the air, a streak of black light that seemed to swallow everything it touched. Shadows twisted and writhed around him, bending to his will as he fought with a speed and precision he never knew he possessed.
Sunny stayed close, his own instincts sharp. Though he wielded no magic, his quick reflexes and fierce determination made him a deadly ally. Together, they moved like shadows themselves, one striking, the other supporting.
The guardians were relentless. Each time one fell, two more took its place — formed from the very essence of the vault.
Umbra's mind raced. This was more than a test of strength — it was a trial of will. To claim the blade, he had to prove he was worthy to command the shadows, to wield the power without becoming its servant.
Sweat mixed with dirt as he parried, dodged, and struck. His body burned, but the hunger in the blade called to him — whispering promises of unimaginable power.
Power to free the slaves.
Power to destroy the oppressors.
Power to reclaim his true name.
With a roar, Umbra unleashed a surge of shadow energy, shattering the last guardian into a cloud of black ash.
Silence fell.
The vault seemed to breathe, shadows retreating like a tide.
A voice echoed softly, "You have passed, Umbra. But this is only the beginning."
Umbra sheathed the blade, feeling its dark pulse in time with his heart.
Sunny stepped forward, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "What now?"
Umbra's eyes gleamed. "Now, we find the others. The rest of the relics. And we rise."