Stephen did not know how much time had passed.
Only that the fourth floor was far behind him.
By the time his vision steadied, he was already moving toward the seventh.
Dried blood stiffened his sleeves and armor. Cuts and bruises layered his body, some shallow, others deep enough to flare with pain every time he breathed. Yet his eyes were sharper than when he had first entered the tower. Colder. Tempered, as though something inside him had been ground down and reforged.
When he stepped through the gate, the world shifted.
He emerged at the edge of a vast arena formed from strange gray stone. The ceiling disappeared into darkness, and the light filling the space was dim and muted, as if strained through layers of ash and smoke.
A silhouette stood at the arena's center.
A thin sword rested in its hand.
It gave off no aura. No killing intent. No presence at all. In the half-light and shadow, it blended so completely into the surroundings that it seemed unreal. Had Stephen not remained on constant guard throughout the trial, had, his awareness slipped for even a heartbeat, he would have missed it entirely.
He inhaled slowly.
Resolve settled into his gaze.
The instant his foot crossed the arena's boundary, the silhouette vanished.
Stephen's pupils shrank.
He twisted to his right, sword rising just in time.
CLANG!
The collision was violent.
A searing jolt shot up his arm, numbing his fingers and nearly tearing the sword from his grip. His body was hurled backward, skidding across the stone for nearly two hundred meters and carving a deep trench into the arena floor as dust and shattered stone erupted into the air.
He dug his heels in and barely managed to halt his momentum.
Before he could even draw breath, the silhouette appeared again.
This time, directly in front of him.
The sword descended.
Stephen tried to dodge, but his instincts screamed in warning. No matter how he moved, the blade felt unavoidable. A suffocating pressure crushed his chest, and he knew with chilling certainty that a single mistake would leave him cleaved in two.
The examiners had said death in the tower was not true death.
That did not mean it would be merciful.
Grinding his teeth, Stephen swung his sword and activated the first move of The Twelve Supreme Swords.
The Phoenix Shakes Its Plume.
His blade traced a wild, erratic arc, carrying explosive force as it clashed with the silhouette's sword. The impact still sent him flying backward, but this time the figure itself staggered, retreating two steps.
Stephen's heart jolted.
Then the silhouette charged again.
They clashed.
Again.
And again.
Dozens of exchanges followed in rapid succession. Stephen's arms trembled under the unrelenting pressure. The figure never slowed. Never hesitated. It fought like something untouched by fatigue or pain.
As the battle stretched on, a strange sensation crept into his awareness.
Familiarity.
At first, he ignored it. Survival demanded everything he had. But with each clash, the feeling sharpened, gnawing insistently at the edge of his thoughts.
Then realization struck.
His eyes widened.
The silhouette was using The Phoenix Shakes Its Plume.
Not mimicking it, but executing it with terrifying precision.
What unsettled him most was the gap between them. Stephen felt as though he had only brushed the surface of the stance's mysteries, while the figure before him had grasped its essence completely. As he focused, he noticed a faint blue radiance shimmering along the opponent's blade.
According to the manual his mother had left him, that glow marked complete mastery.
Stephen let go of the idea of victory.
Instead, he watched.
He recalled everything he had memorized. Every line, every diagram of the first three stances, even those he could not yet comprehend. Rather than copying blindly, he began reading the flow of his opponent's movements, searching for meaning within each strike.
He continued using the same stance, circulating his qi at full force, clashing again and again. He observed. He learned. He failed. He rose.
Time lost all meaning.
He forgot the tower.
Forgot the trial.
Forgot even himself.
He was sent flying, crashed into stone, dragged himself upright, and attacked again. His movements, once rough and uneven, began to change. Subtly at first. Then unmistakably.
They grew sharper.
Cleaner.
Alive.
After an unknown span of time—
CLANG!
Clarity surged through his mind.
Stephen ducked aside, stepped in, and struck.
The Phoenix Shakes Its Plume.
This time, the motion was whole.
His sword plunged into the silhouette's chest, sinking in to the hilt.
The figure froze.
Its form blurred, edges dissolving into smoke before dispersing completely. Where it had stood, a small white bottle dropped to the floor with a dull clatter.
Stephen stared at his sword.
A faint blue light now enveloped the blade.
Joy surged through him, fierce and unrestrained.
He had mastered the first stance of The Twelve Supreme Swords.
Then the world tilted.
His vision swam, and his legs gave out beneath him. He barely remained upright by leaning on his sword. After steadying himself, he bent down, picked up the bottle, and tucked it into his pocket before lowering himself to the ground.
Battered and bloodied, he closed his eyes.
Again and again, he replayed the battle in his mind, refining his understanding and engraving the stance into his very bones.
Outside the tower, time continued its steady march.
Two full days had passed.
The trial was nearing its end.
Nearly everyone had already emerged, leaving only a few dozen figures still within. The examiners watched in silence, disappointment clear on their faces. Out of thousands, only a few hundred had made it beyond the fifth floor. A mere three had reached the ninth—and none had cleared it.
It was not the outcome they had hoped for.