Ashes Of The First Tyrant
Chapter 42: Rise through Flame

Chapter 42: Rise through Flame

The staircase wound ever upward, each step lit by faint veins of violet light snaking through the stone. Thalen’s breath echoed in the narrow space, steady and deliberate. His wounds from the trial beneath had closed—healed not by magic, but by his aura itself, now fused with Tyrant Spirit. The blade at his side hummed with silent presence, no longer dormant.

He did not feel stronger.

He felt clearer.

He emerged into a chamber of marble and onyx. Wide and circular, the walls bore ancient murals of warriors clad in aura-fire, raising weapons against titans, dragons, and each other. In the center stood a man—no, a sentinel broad-shouldered and still as a mountain. His armor was simple, but ancient. His aura... unreadable. It didn’t blaze or roar it simply existed, as if the world bent around it.

Thalen stepped forward.

The man turned.

His face was weathered stone stern, but not unkind.

"You have endured the Trial Beneath," he said. "And emerged with your spirit intact."

Thalen nodded. "What comes next?"

"A forge."

The sentinel raised his hand. The murals around them shimmered then split open like petals, revealing a glowing corridor beyond. Heat spilled through it, not oppressive, but purposeful. Like fire with memory.

"Few pass the Trial," the man said, stepping aside. "Even fewer continue onward. The next chamber is not required. But it is offered."

Thalen eyed the path. "What does it forge?"

"Not your sword," the sentinel replied. "Your will."

Without another word, Thalen entered.

The corridor narrowed, lit with shifting fire along the walls. They flickered with moving scenes not illusions, but memories not his own. Echoes of other Tyrants.

He saw a girl standing alone in a storm, her aura shielding villagers from lightning as she bled from every pore.

A young man facing ten opponents, refusing to yield as his aura consumed his flesh.

An old general kneeling beside a fallen friend, blade planted in the ground as a thousand enemies surged over the hill.

These were not victories.

These were costs.

Thalen kept walking.

At the corridor’s end, the heat sharpened. He emerged into a great chamber carved from volcanic stone. A massive crucible glowed in its center, suspended above a molten pool. Flames arced through the air like spirits red, orange, and violet.

Above the crucible stood a woman cloaked in fire.

Her eyes gleamed like rubies, and her skin bore flame-like markings trailing down her arms.

"Tyrant initiate," she said, voice like steel sliding through silk. "Do you know where you stand?"

"In a forge," Thalen answered.

"In the Foundry of Vows," she corrected. "Here, we do not mold weapons. We burn lies. If you step into the crucible, your aura will reveal every unspoken vow you’ve ever made to others, to yourself. If any are false, the fire will consume you."

Thalen stared at the crucible.

Vows?

He had made many.

To protect Kareth. To surpass weakness. To never forget who he was.

Some were spoken.

Others, only felt.

"Are you willing," the woman asked, "to burn?"

Thalen stepped forward. "Yes."

He leapt.

The air vanished.

Not from heat.

From weight.

Inside the crucible, fire did not burn him. It searched him.

Every inch of his soul pulled into light.

Then came the whispers.

They rang with his own voice.

"I vow to never let my friends die for me again."

Images of Cerys appeared, her blood on the sand during their first true battle. Of Eron shielding him during the Tyrant Spirit Exam.

"I vow to never become like the Warden who broke cities for peace."

The face of the First Tyrant—eyes proud, hands bloodstained.

"I vow to reach the peak."

The violet fire flared at that.

Challenge.

Mockery.

As if to ask—what will you give?

And then, the whispers turned darker.

"You lied."

Images shifted moments he had chosen survival over bravery. Times he had doubted himself and still pretended strength.

The fire closed in.

Pain lanced through his mind. His aura flared instinctively, trying to shield him.

But it only fed the flames.

He dropped to a knee.

The voice of the crucible spoke:

"You have made false vows. You hide ambition behind duty. You chase strength but fear your reflection. Why should you rise?"

Thalen gritted his teeth.

"Because I’m still standing."

The fire surged.

He stood.

"Because even if I’ve lied to myself... I still want to be better."

The flames hissed.

Then laughed.

"Want is not enough."

"No," Thalen said. "But action is."

He raised his blade. Not to fight.

But to offer.

He placed it into the flames.

It drank them like water.

His sword screamed.

Its silver edge turned darker, streaked with veins of living violet. Symbols appeared across the fuller—his name, and three etched vows, burning bright.

One glowed gold.

One glowed red.

One glowed dimly, still forming.

"You are not pure," the fire said. "But you are real. That is enough."

The crucible exploded in light.

And Thalen emerged.

His clothes were singed, his eyes bloodshot but he was breathing.

The fire-woman bowed.

"You are the tenth to pass the Foundry."

Thalen sheathed his blade. "Then there are nine ahead of me."

"Yes," she said. "But you are not the tenth in strength. Only in order."

The sentinel was waiting in the next hall.

"The Tyrant Spirit is not just about domination," he said. "It is the ability to impose one’s will upon reality but that will must first be understood. You now have the right to learn from the Nine."

Thalen’s heart skipped.

"The SSS Heroes?"

The sentinel nodded. "They have each sent for you. One will become your mentor. But they will not choose. You must."

A glyph opened in the wall. Nine sigils burned like stars each a symbol of a Hero.

Thalen approached them slowly.

Each pulse held a story.

One glowed with twin axes brute power.

One with a feather and flame magic and swiftness.

One was a closed eye mystery and silence.

But one burned like a sword through heaven—a single line, vertical, unwavering.

The same symbol that had haunted his dreams since the exam.

Hero Varos.

The one who had taught him the weight of aura, not just the shape.

He placed his palm against that glyph.

It flared.

And then the wall fell away.

Revealing sky.

The chamber had risen to a summit. Wind roared across a shattered plateau, surrounded by broken swords and old banners.

And in the center, waiting, stood Varos.

Older.

Stronger.

Unchanged.

"You’re late," he said with a half-smile.

Thalen stepped onto the plateau, armor scorched, sword reborn, eyes hardened.

"Wasn’t sure I’d survive," he replied.

"You did. But now, you begin again."

Thalen blinked. "Again?"

Varos drew his blade not to attack, but to offer.

"You have been reforged. But only through fire. Now we shape you through war."