Corrupted Bonds
Chapter 121: Trial of Severance

Chapter 121: Chapter 121: Trial of Severance

Ren stood alone in the center of the chaos, boots pressed into the humming floor, every breath he took synchronized with the resonance lines running through the tower’s bones. His mirror moved with eerie stillness—no anger, no desperation—only inevitability. A perfect execution of his worst instincts: clinical detachment, overwhelming control, unflinching sacrifice.

The others circled wide, battered and bruised but watching.

"This one’s different," Rowan said quietly, hand resting against his ribs where a guiding echo still flared. "It’s not fighting like the others did."

Lucian, breathless and bleeding from the brow, nodded. "Because it doesn’t have to. It thinks Ren will hesitate."

Ren didn’t.

He surged forward, distortion crackling around his legs as he blurred across time’s edge. His mirror intercepted him mid-motion, warping the air between them like a heat mirage. The two collided in an explosion of temporal backlash—frames of alternate timelines fracturing around them like shards of broken glass.

Blades of pure chrono-energy sparked into being—Ren’s real and reflected selves weaving in and out of phase as they struck, blocked, reversed, and rewound across milliseconds of distortion.

Their fight transcended form. One second they clashed in slow motion, then broke apart with blinding speed. Reality hiccupped each time their attacks met—space bent, colors inverted, echoes of unspoken futures rippling in every direction.

"I’m not afraid of you," Ren snarled, spinning and slamming his palm into the floor. A surge of retrograde current burst upward, but his mirror absorbed it and retaliated with a mirrored strike—identical, but colder.

Behind the mirrored Ren, for just an instant, appeared the faces of timelines lost: Evelyn dead at her console. Rowan frozen mid-scream. Lucian—alone, buried in white light.

"Those aren’t your futures," Ren said, voice shaking. "They’re your failures."

And still, he pressed forward.

Jasper stepped to the edge. "Ren, don’t lose yourself!"

But Rowan held him back. "He knows. Let him finish it."

The two Rens leapt again, locking hands in a mirrored standoff. The tower shimmered, energy rising to a peak.

Then Ren twisted inward—not against his reflection, but through it. Embracing it.

The chamber stilled.

His mirror froze, the glyphs across its body unraveling into mist. For a heartbeat, it looked almost human—almost mournful—before it dissolved into strands of violet light.

Ren staggered to one knee, breath ragged.

Quinn rushed to his side. "Ren!"

"I’m okay," Ren managed. "It’s done."

The tower pulsed in acknowledgment.

[FIRST TRIAL COMPLETEP.]

[REPARING SECOND TRIAL.]

The floor beneath them trembled, and far ahead, a gate of obsidian and gold began to part.

They had passed the trial of mirrors.

But the tower wasn’t finished with them yet.

A sudden hush fell across the chamber, the kind that made the hairs on the back of their necks rise. The golden gate ahead creaked open inch by inch, exhaling a slow, cold breath that did not belong in a place alive with light.

The tower’s glow dimmed slightly. The resonance beneath their feet took on a lower timbre, almost funereal—like something watching them from deep within was beginning to stir.

Lucian reached for his weapon again without thinking.

Rowan turned toward the others, his voice a soft murmur. "This next one won’t be about reflection."

Zora’s jaw tightened. "Then what?"

No one answered.

The path ahead waited. Darker. Narrower.

The pulse of the tower slowed—thickened. Each beat felt heavier now, echoing deep in their chests, threading through old scars and recent wounds alike.

Ren stood upright, but his breath still trembled. He looked at the gate.

"Whatever’s waiting in there," he said quietly, "knows we’ve changed. And it’s going to test whether that change was real."

The golden gate let out a final grinding sigh and opened fully.

Beyond it lay no room, no hallway—only a vast black void, flecked with embers of light like dying stars. Suspended within were hundreds of fractured platforms, drifting like thoughts through memory. Some flickered. Some shimmered. Some whispered things that had never happened.

The first platform lit up directly ahead of them.

Then a second, further out.

Then a third.

Three points of convergence. Three paths.

The tower spoke again, this time directly into their minds—not with command, but with intimate weight:

[SECOND TRIAL: SEVERANCE.]

[TO PROCEED, THE THREADS THAT BIND MUST BE TESTED. CONNECTION. SACRIFICE. WILL.]

A cold stillness settled into the marrow of their bones. The warmth from before was gone.

Each team member felt the pull—not physical, but emotional—toward one of the floating islands.

Rowan reached instinctively for Lucian’s hand.

Ren steadied himself with a breath that almost broke.

Kira was already stepping forward.

They didn’t need to speak. The test had already begun.

Rowan

Rowan found himself standing on a platform shaped like a quiet hill under a sky that bled shadows—gray turning to black at the edges, clouds seething like smoke. In the distance, Lucian knelt, his body cracked open with veins of searing light, arms outstretched in agony. His mouth moved, but no sound came.

Behind Rowan, the team writhed—limbs twitching, faces contorted, as they were pulled into the earth by invisible hands. Their screams were wet, gurgled distortions, like drowning souls.

The air pulsed with dread. The choice laid before him was brutal: save Lucian, or save the team. And time—like the breath in his lungs—was thinning.

But then the image stuttered. Lucian’s face shifted, distorted, then reset. The team’s bodies jerked as if rewound and replayed. The illusion trembled at the seams.

Rowan’s fingers curled into fists.

"I’ve seen what real choices cost," he hissed. "This isn’t sacrifice. This is cruelty." He stepped forward, voice steady despite the terror. "And I won’t play by your rules."

The illusion screamed as it shattered, breaking like glass into a thousand pieces of grief.

Lucian

Lucian’s trial bled red and violet. He stood in a battlefield built from fractured timelines—Rowan frozen in front of him, caught in a prison of light and static, eyes wide with terror. Behind Lucian, the rest of the team writhed and crumbled under collapsing skies, reaching for him, screaming names he could barely hear.

But Lucian didn’t hesitate.

He lunged forward.

His boots dragged through ash and broken memory as he sprinted toward Rowan, even as the battlefield twisted violently around him. Voices wailed in his ears—Elias, Kira, Ren—all fading into the dark.

He didn’t look back.

"Whatever this is," he growled, pushing through warped air, "Rowan is my constant. He’s the reason I survived every version of this madness."

He burst through the final wall of red light with a roar, collapsing beside the frozen figure.

"I would trade the whole damn world for him. Don’t test me."

The battlefield ruptured—blinding white, then nothing.

Only Rowan’s name remained on his lips as the illusion shattered.

Ren

Ren faced silence. Vaughn_00 stood at the center of a grand clockwork chamber, arms open, serene. Gears turned behind him in impossible synchrony, each one etched with constellations and timelines long collapsed. The air smelled of old metal and forgotten stars.

"Come with me," the echo said. "You’ve earned your peace."

But Ren didn’t answer immediately. Instead, a memory unfurled.

He saw himself—truly himself—standing beside Vaughn_00 in another life. They were on a high platform overlooking a vast spiraling tower, its surface inscribed with runes of impossible languages. Vaughn_00, draped in a long mantle of burning white and violet, spoke like the gods had given him dominion—but looked at Ren as an equal.

"Should I fall," Vaughn_00 had said, "remember this: the thread won’t hold without you."

Ren had nodded once, placing a hand on the core interface. "Then I won’t let go."

Back in the trial, Ren exhaled, gaze steady.

"You don’t understand," he said to the echo. "They’re my peace now. I’ve already made my choice."

The gears groaned and slowed. The echo bowed its head, fading.

The chamber turned to mist.

Kira

Kira stood on a beach at dusk. Her younger self waited at the tide line, crying, whispering things Kira hadn’t said aloud in years. "You can let go of me," the illusion begged. "Forget the guilt."

But behind her, another figure emerged from the water—Nolan. His hair soaked, uniform torn, blood matting his temple.

"You couldn’t save me," he said, voice calm, too calm.

Kira’s breath hitched, her knees locking. The illusion was too perfect—down to the wound she still saw in dreams.

"I didn’t run," she whispered

Nolan reached out, hand trembling. "Then why do you carry it like a chain?"

Her younger self turned to her. "You don’t have to carry us both."

Kira dropped to her knees between them.

"I don’t carry you," she said, eyes shimmering. "I carry what you gave me. The courage to stand again."

She placed her hand over her heart.

"Not guilt. Grief. That means I still remember. That means you still matter."

The ocean stilled. Nolan nodded once, solemn, and faded into light.

Her younger self smiled—peaceful, at last—and stepped into the tide.

The beach dissolved into mist.

Zora

Zora walked a path of stone suspended between two impossible skies—one of blazing auroras that flickered like torn nerves, the other a chasm of shadow crawling with inked memories. His twin blades dragged behind him, ringing softly with each step. Ahead was a door of obsidian solitude, humming with the promise of power without attachment. Behind was Jasper, barely visible through the distortion, shouting his name with desperation. "Don’t lose your way!"

Zora’s steps slowed. The wind twisted around him, carrying whispers of futures where he stood alone—stronger, colder, untouched by loss. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from the ache of knowing how tempting it was.

The ground trembled beneath him, offering the path forward if he chose to sever the bond.

He stopped.

Closed his eyes.

Breathed in the impossible horizon.

Then turned around.

"I’ve walked through hell to get here," he said, voice steady. "And I’m not walking out of it without him."

The path behind him solidified in light. Jasper appeared, breathless, eyes wide with relief.

The false sky collapsed in silence.

The path rewrote itself.

Jasper

Jasper stood in a windstorm that carried every mistake he’d made—every outburst he regretted, every moment he’d walked away instead of stepping up. His childhood home flickered in the gusts—empty, cold, filled with echoes of voices that never said goodbye. The pressure built in his chest, raw and ragged.

Lightning cracked across the sky like judgment.

"You ran from responsibility," the wind whispered. "You never believed you deserved to stay."

His magic buckled under the weight of it—memories of failed commands, broken promises, nights spent trying to prove he wasn’t as selfish as his past painted him.

But this time, Jasper didn’t flinch.

"No," he whispered, planting his feet. "I’m not running anymore."

The wind screamed around him, wrapping him in shame and doubt.

He lifted his hand, magic responding not in panic—but in clarity. A vortex surged outward, not to destroy, but to transform. The storm bent to his will, his power rippling outward with control earned through scars and years.

"I’m still here," he shouted, voice echoing. "And I’m not who I was."

The storm shattered, and the silence that followed felt like truth finally spoken.

Quinn and Mira

Quinn and Mira stood together in a mirrored corridor bathed in dim, crimson light. The air was thick with the scent of blood and ozone. Before Quinn, a vision unfolded—Ari, his partner, lay dying, barely able to lift his head. The rest of the team appeared on the other side, caught beneath falling rubble and flame, screaming for help.

A choice formed in the air like fire: Save Ari—or save the team.

Quinn’s breath stuttered.

"I can’t," he whispered, tears welling. "Why would you make me choose this?"

Ari reached out, blood slipping through his fingers. His lips moved, soundless, but Quinn knew. Don’t choose me.

And yet, he took a step forward—toward Ari.

"No," he said, firm now. "You don’t get to erase what he meant to me. I’ll carry both."

The illusion buckled at the seams.

Meanwhile, Mira faced a different torment. Haru stood before her, his back turned. Another Esper—someone new, radiant, powerful—stood beside him, hand in his. Haru never turned around. He was already walking away.

"Haru, wait—" she choked, her voice cracking. "Don’t you remember?"

But he didn’t look back. The silence said everything.

The corridor whispered lies in her ears: You were never enough. He was always going to leave.

Mira’s knees hit the floor.

But then she stood.

"If you had to leave, then I’ll let you go," she said, voice trembling but fierce. "But I won’t let your absence erase who I am."

The corridor cracked. The mirrored doors blinked once—then opened together, slowly.

Mira reached for Quinn’s hand. "We go through together."

Quinn nodded, tears on his cheeks. "Every time."

Each illusion cracked—some with a whimper, some with a scream—as if the tower itself mourned the truths laid bare. Each trial bent, not from resistance, but from understanding that had been earned, not given.

The light trembled. The air vibrated with something raw and reverent, a sensation like standing on the edge of grief and grace at once.

Above them, the ceiling of the trial chamber unfurled like an aperture. The pulsing glow turned violet, then gold, casting elongated shadows across their stunned expressions.

The tower pulsed once more.

[SECOND TRIAL COMPLETE.]