Ashes Of The First Tyrant
Chapter 41: The trial beneath

Chapter 41: The trial beneath

The door behind Thalen slammed shut, its iron frame echoing like a war drum in the silence. Ahead, only darkness stretched. Not a shadowed hall, not a dim tunnel true, suffocating darkness, thick as fog and colder than ice.

He clenched his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Its edge, usually vibrant with a faint silver glint from his Blade Aura, looked dead here. Even his aura felt suppressed, as if this place didn’t merely drain power, but rejected it outright.

"Another test," Thalen muttered to himself, voice small in the void.

A torch flared in the distance. Not lit by him—no, this was the trial reacting. The flame was violet, unnatural, and it burned without consuming anything. He approached.

As he stepped into its glow, the ground rumbled beneath him. The stone floor gave way. Thalen jumped back instinctively, but a ring of violet fire encircled him, locking him in place as the stone dropped below his feet.

A platform, circular and ancient, descended with him into the deep. Walls slid upward like forgotten towers of the underworld. No sound accompanied the descent just an eerie hum vibrating through his bones.

Then, silence.

The platform halted. Before him stood three archways carved from obsidian. Each bore a sigil pulsing with Tyrant energy.

Left — a serpent coiled around a sword.

Center — a hand breaking chains.

Right — a crown split in half.

Behind each, a different path. No guide. No hint.

The Trial Beneath had begun.

He took a breath, remembering what his mentor, Hero Varos, had said: "The Trial is not meant to test your strength, but your identity. Choose wrong, and you might survive but you won’t remain yourself."

Thalen stepped toward the center archway.

Chains broken.

Freedom through struggle.

He didn’t need to be told this was the path that led forward for those who had fought for every inch. Like him.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the world twisted.

He was no longer underground.

He stood in a wheat field, golden and endless, under a purple sky.

Wind brushed against his skin.

Peaceful.

But wrong.

He took a step, and the ground rippled. Shapes formed in the field, men, women, children, all faceless, standing in silence.

A voice echoed around him not from above, but from within.

"What would you trade for power?"

Thalen narrowed his eyes. "Nothing."

The faceless shapes stirred.

"Liar."

One figure stepped forward. A woman short, hair braided back, wearing a pendant Thalen knew all too well.

Mother.

He froze.

"Thalen," she said, her voice too real. "You could’ve stayed. You didn’t have to chase strength. You left us."

He stepped back. "You’re not her."

"I was. Before you forgot me."

She faded, and a child appeared in her place. Hair the same shade as his. Eyes that burned with defiance.

His younger self.

"I wanted to fight too," the boy said. "But you cut me off. You made me hard. Cold. You didn’t protect me."

Thalen’s grip on his sword wavered.

This wasn’t a battle of blades. This was memory turned against him.

"You don’t understand," he said quietly. "If I didn’t harden myself, I would’ve broken."

The wind picked up.

The field ignited golden stalks turning to flame, yet not consuming. It swirled around him like judgment.

A tower rose from the ashes at the field’s heart. Black stone. Windows aflame.

Chains wrapped it.

He ran.

His legs moved not from fear, but need.

At the tower’s base, he found a door. Words carved into it: Only the unchained may enter.

He reached for the handle.

Chains lashed out, wrapping around his arms.

The voice returned.

"Will you abandon guilt to gain power?"

"No," Thalen grunted. "I’ll carry it."

The chains tightened.

"Then you will die beneath it."

Pain surged. The metal was burning, freezing, searing through muscle and soul.

But still he held on.

"I don’t want power if I forget who I am," he hissed.

And in that moment, something broke not outside, but within.

Not the chains.

His fear.

The door creaked open.

The chains fell.

Inside the tower was a spiral staircase leading down. Always down.

He descended.

Each step felt heavier.

This wasn’t just a test of emotion it was a forge for the spirit.

At the base, a cavern opened. A stone pedestal stood in the center, and atop it, a blade. Not his.

This one shimmered black and crimson, veins of violet Tyrant energy coiled along the hilt.

An inscription read: Face the mirror. If it shatters, you are not ready.

A mirror stood behind the blade.

Tall.

Cold.

Perfect.

Thalen approached.

He saw himself.

But not as he was.

His reflection wore royal armor. His aura blazed uncontrollably. His eyes burned with madness and pride.

He looked like a Tyrant, not a hero.

And he smiled.

"Is that what I become?" Thalen whispered.

The reflection stepped forward out of the mirror.

He raised a blade like Thalen’s own, but darker, heavier.

"You seek power," the doppelgänger said. "But deny the truth of what it makes you."

"I seek strength to protect others."

"No. You seek it because you hate weakness."

They clashed.

Steel screamed against steel.

The false Thalen was faster, stronger, as if every moment of doubt had turned into raw power.

"You resent them," the doppelgänger spat. "Your friends. Your mentors. The world. You hide it behind duty."

Thalen parried, barely.

"No. I resent myself for not being enough!"

Their blades locked.

Violet sparks flew between them, aura meeting aura.

"But that’s why I fight. Because I have to be better."

The doppelgänger pressed closer.

"You’ll never be free of me."

"I don’t want to be free of you," Thalen said.

He stepped into the strike.

Took the blade through the shoulder.

And drove his sword straight through his double’s heart.

The reflection shattered.

Like glass, the pieces floated upward, then dissolved into dust.

The mirror behind him cracked.

But did not break.

The pedestal flared with light.

The blade atop it pulsed–calling.

Not to replace his own.

But to awaken it.

He drew his own sword.

Held it high.

The light from the pedestal surged into the blade.

It screamed not in pain, but in awakening.

A second layer of energy wrapped around it.

Tyrant Spirit.

And for the first time, his Blade Aura and Tyrant Spirit did not clash—they danced.

His aura had matured.

Not in power, but in identity.

He was not just a wielder of swords or a carrier of burden.

He was a Tyrant by truth, not by bloodline.

The cavern trembled.

From behind the mirror, a stairway rose.

Upward.

Out.

The Trial Beneath was over.

But as he climbed, a final voice spoke.

Soft.

Ancient.

Proud.

"You do not command the Tyrant Spirit. You earn it. One truth at a time."