Impact came fast and without ceremony.
Henry hit something solid and rolled onto his side, breath leaving him in a controlled exhale. The surface beneath him was cold and unnaturally smooth, too uniform to be natural stone. For a moment he stayed there, palm pressed to the ground, confirming texture and temperature before pushing himself upright.
The sky above him was wrong.
There was no sun, no cloud cover, no horizon glow. Just a dim, even gray that erased shadows instead of casting them. The landscape stretched outward in every direction, flat at first glance, but the longer he looked, the more he noticed subtle geometric seams in the distance. Angles too precise. Lines too deliberate.
Constructed.
This was not a memory. It was not a reconstruction of trauma or a replay of something he'd already survived.
This was design.
Text formed across the sky.
WELCOME TO YOUR DEMO.
Henry rose fully to his feet, scanning. The ground beneath him carried faint gridlines—so subtle they disappeared when he tried to focus on them directly, as if the dimension resisted prolonged scrutiny.
The message shifted.
ANTHROBLADE DEFINITION INITIALIZING.
A brief pause followed, just long enough to feel intentional.
Then:
An Anthroblade is a self-sustained living weapon.
Upon activation, the individual becomes both wielder and blade.
External armament is unnecessary.
Henry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
A living weapon…
Not metaphor. Not ceremonial title. Not a symbolic designation.
Just… Definition.
The sky updated again.
Edge Class: Unique.
Aura projection enables blade manifestation.
Emotional output governs structural integrity visible as edge luminosity.
So the brighter it gets, the stronger it gets.
Heat gathered in his right hand—not pain, but pressure, as though space itself were compressing into his palm. Instinct guided him before logic could intervene. He lifted his hand slightly.
The air split.
A thin red seam appeared where his fingers closed around nothing. The seam lengthened downward, light condensing into form. Crimson energy flowed inward, folding over itself until structure stabilized.
A sword.
Semi-translucent. Light pulsing within it like contained current. The core glowed steady, but the edge burned brighter—sharper, more defined.
It's alive.
He studied the blade in silence. It did not feel foreign. It did not feel gifted.
He smiled faintly at the implication. He was holding the very blade that would change everything.
It felt inevitable.
The System continued.
Blade manifestation is voluntary.
Dematerialization occurs at will.
He loosened his grip. The sword dissolved instantly, collapsing into a fading thread of red light before vanishing altogether. He focused again, and the seam returned.
He watched it reform at his whim, testing the weight of that control.
This time he tested the sword itself.
When he tightened his grip, the edge flared brighter. When he directed intent into it, the glow intensified further, humming faintly through the air. When he cleared his thoughts, the luminosity receded.
So this is aura…
The word wasn't expanded upon, but it didn't need to be. He understood enough.
It wasn't magic.
It was projection.
The sky shifted once more.
CRUCIBLE PARAMETERS:
• This dimension exists under full System authority.
• Environmental variables are adaptive.
• Time dilation may occur.
• Termination conditions vary by Trial.
Henry exhaled slowly, the weight of the final line settling in.
So I'm not automatically safe.
His gaze lifted toward the horizon, scanning again—and for a fraction of a second, he saw it.
Hairline fractures in the air.
Subtle stress points in space itself, like cracks in glass that hadn't fully formed. They vanished when he blinked.
PERCEPTUAL BASELINE ESTABLISHED.
He didn't understand what had changed.
But something had.
The sky darkened slightly, as though a dimmable switch had been lowered over the world. Text carved itself across the gray expanse.
OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE
The words lingered.
Several seconds passed before new text appeared beneath them.
USE OF LETHAL FORCE NOT REQUIRED.
A timer materialized to the right.
00:10:00
It began counting down.
The Crucible did not move at first. No wind. No tremor. No obvious threat. Henry stood still, blade in hand, allowing his breathing to settle.
Then the air thickened.
Not with motion.
With presence.
He turned slowly toward the disturbance. The ground ahead of him bulged upward—not violently, but deliberately, as if something beneath the surface were pressing against a flexible membrane.
He adjusted his grip. The blade's edge brightened in response.
09:49.
The bulge separated along a perfect seam.
From it rose something that did not resemble any animal he recognized. Jointed limbs emerged first—too many of them. Angular. Segmented. Each movement precise and economical, devoid of wasted motion.
A torso followed, plated in dark matte surfaces that flexed subtly as it straightened. Finally, its head emerged: smooth, faceless, curved like polished obsidian. It reflected the red glow of his blade across its body in fractured streaks.
The creature locked onto him instantly.
No searching.
No hesitation.
The timer continued.
09:32.
The predator lowered itself—not crouching, but aligning.
Henry's vision flickered.
For half a second, he saw a faint line in the air between them. A projected path.
Then it vanished.
The creature moved.
Faster than it should have been.
It crossed half the distance in a single breath. Henry pivoted instinctively, and the predator adjusted mid-stride—correcting, predicting, recalibrating in real time.
It lunged.
A segmented limb sliced across his forearm. Not deep, but real. Pain flared sharp and immediate, and blood followed, dripping bright against the sterile floor.
The predator did not leave unscathed. Where the edge of Henry's blade had grazed one of its joints during his reflexive turn, dark fluid seeped from the seam—thicker than blood, viscous and undeniably alive.
The creature did not slow.
If anything, its movements sharpened. If he had any doubts about the predator learning and adapting, they were gone now.
Henry steadied his breathing. The blade in his hand burned brighter, not from anger, but from pressure.
The timer ticked down.
09:18.
The predator lunged again—