Ashura's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temples. His muscles screamed in exhaustion, his bones aching from the relentless clash against the third version of Leios. Yet the arena itself seemed to pulse, alive with anticipation. The ground shifted, shadows stretching, the air itself crackling with a heavy tension—as though the trial itself knew the true challenge had only just begun.
Before him, the final silhouette emerged: the Nameless One, in his fallen form, body swathed in the dark aura of a god tempered by centuries of pain and fury. The black halo behind him glowed faintly, flickering like a storm that refused to die. This was no simulation, no echo. This was the essence of Leios—the incarnation that had once fought to protect The One before his fall, now distilled into a being of absolute judgment.
Ashura straightened, his grip on Transcendent Wrath tightening. The purple-black lightning along its edge flared, arcs dancing like furious serpents. This is it. One life. One chance. No system. No authorities. Just me… and him.
The Nameless One's eyes burned with infinite knowledge. "So… the heir arrives. Let us see if you can survive what I could not endure in my mortal incarnation."
Without warning, the Nameless One struck, a blur of motion faster than Ashura could track. Every strike was a whirlwind of martial perfection: elbows, knees, open palm strikes, and sword swings fused seamlessly with elemental surges that warped the air itself. Ashura's first block barely held; the shockwave jolted him backward, scraping the edge of his consciousness.
This is beyond catastrophic. Ashura's inner voice whispered. Every strike, every movement… one mistake and I die. But I can't afford hesitation.
He pivoted, rolling under a sweeping arc of black lightning infused strikes. Each motion was precise—a blend of defensive counters and offensive strikes, fingers manipulating the sword mid-motion to redirect the energy. 360-degree awareness, he reminded himself. Each muscle, each sinew had to act in perfect harmony.
The Nameless One pressed, each strike layering pressure like a tidal wave. Ashura felt ribs cracking, felt tendon tears along his forearm from deflecting the sheer force. A strike grazed his shoulder, slicing deep and sending fire through his veins. Pain roared in his ears, but he didn't flinch.
No system. No aid. Just me and the blade. That's the way it has to be.
Ashura countered with a spinning strike, unleashing Transcendent Wrath, arcs of black lightning smashing against the Nameless One's defense. Sparks erupted, concussive waves scattering fragments of the arena like shattered crystal. The Nameless One didn't falter—he absorbed, deflected, and struck back, each blow an infernal symphony of destructive martial precision.
Ashura ducked under a spinning backhand strike, landing on one knee. Pain lanced through his left leg, but he pushed forward, delivering a series of rapid slashes, each one angled to break the Nameless One's rhythm. The aura surrounding his enemy shifted, black lightning flaring like a storm unleashed. One strike grazed Ashura's torso, sending him skidding across the ground, leaving a furrowed trench in his wake.
Bloodied and panting, he rose, the halo above him flickering as purple lightning danced across his form. This is why my class is Godslayer. Not brute force, not a sword with divine authority—it's the ability to fight beings of godlike power on equal terms, to read divinity itself and strike where it is vulnerable.
The Nameless One's voice echoed across the arena, low and resonant: "You have endurance. But endurance alone will not be enough. You must break through… or perish."
Ashura's eyes narrowed. Then I'll break. Or I'll die trying. But I won't yield.
The next series of attacks was a blur of death and survival. The Nameless One's strikes were infused with black lightning, each swing carrying not just force, but a crushing aura that threatened to tear Ashura apart on impact. He deflected one strike with the flat of his blade, rolling to the side as arcs of electricity tore through the ground where he had stood. Another strike caught his leg mid-step, sending him flying into the arena wall. Pain flared, vision blurred, but he forced himself up.
Remember Lysera. Remember your mother and sister. Remember your goal.
Ashura's mind sharpened. Focus, precision, timing. Every near-death moment became a lesson. He calculated angles, exploited micro-moments of overextension, and struck with lethal intent. Palm strikes, kicks, sweeping arcs, and swordplay interlocked in perfect choreography. Lightning and elemental power danced with martial form, creating a dazzling spectacle that tore through the arena.
A particularly vicious combination caught him off-guard: a sweeping leg kick followed by a palm strike infused with black lightning. Ashura barely rolled to the side, the strike grazing his shoulder and burning his muscles. The pain was exquisite—a reminder of his mortality. He countered immediately with a spinning slash, arcs of purple-black lightning clashing with the Nameless One's aura.
The ground itself cracked beneath them. The air shimmered with raw power. Every breath Ashura took was a calculation; every strike was a gamble with death.
This is what it means to fight a god. No authority, no system, no safety net.
Ashura's strikes became faster, fluid, precise—each movement a perfect balance of offense and defense. He spun, kicked, slashed, ducked, and parried, the black lightning of Transcendent Wrath dancing like living energy around him. The Nameless One shifted, blocked, countered—yet Ashura sensed the tiniest fraction of hesitation, the slimmest opening.
Summoning every ounce of stamina, every shred of skill, Ashura leapt into the air, delivering a full-body strike—palm and sword in perfect synchrony. Black and purple lightning converged, arcs striking the Nameless One's chest. The arena shook violently as the Nameless One staggered, aura flickering.
Ashura fell to one knee, panting, every bone aching. Blood ran freely down his arms, his chest heaving. He had survived, but barely.
In that moment, he understood: the trial was not merely about strength. It was about endurance, precision, cunning, and the will to fight even when every instinct screamed death.
The Nameless One's eyes met his once more. "You endure… and yet… this is only the beginning."
Ashura's grip tightened on his blade, black halo flaring faintly. He smiled through the pain. "Then bring it. I'll endure. I'll survive. And I'll surpass you."
A timer flickered faintly in the corner of his perception—silent, unseen by him until now. Time Remaining: 5 Hours, 32 Minutes, 47 Seconds. The trial continued.
Ashura rose fully, bracing himself. Every bruise, every scrape, every near-death encounter had sharpened him. He would not falter. He would not yield. This was his path—facing the Nameless One in full force, alone, and emerging as the heir of divinity itself.
The cavern pulsed around him. Shadows deepened. Black and purple lightning crackled across his form. The final stage of the trial awaited. And Ashura Bellet would meet it head-on, as he always did: confident, deadly, and unyielding.