The two men who stood before the massive, black-iron gates of the academy looked more like statues than guards. They were tall, armored in polished steel that gleamed beneath the pale light of the twin suns above. Every inch of their posture screamed authority and disdain — the kind of quiet arrogance that only came with power and years of guarding something sacred.
Avin and Sylas stood several paces away, staring up at the gates that loomed high like a wall against destiny itself. The sheer size of it made Avin feel small again, like a child caught in the storm of a world that had long since stopped caring for him.
He cleared his throat, trying to hide the awkward crack in his voice."Um..." he started, voice wavering with forced courage, "can we come in?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. One guard didn’t even move — his face remained blank, his eyes dull as stone. But the other... stepped forward.
Clang.Each boot met the tiled ground with an echo that rolled through Avin’s stomach like thunder. The man’s eyes locked onto him — sharp, focused, unreadable.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink.
"So it was you," the guard said flatly.
Avin blinked, confusion creasing his brow. "Uh... sorry?"
The guard kept advancing, the weight of his armor rattling faintly. His voice carried a quiet venom that made the air colder. "You’re the reason why he couldn’t join the academy."
"Who?" Avin asked immediately, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "Who are you talking about?"
The words hit Avin like a memory surfacing through dark water. His mind clicked through faces he’d seen, the lives he’d crossed. And then he remembered.
The brown hair. The hollow, deadly eyes. The sharp nose and the face that looked carved by old anger.
He looked at the guard again.
Or rather, it was him — but alive through bloodline. The resemblance was uncanny. The same blood ran through both men, but where one had died under a giant centipede’s shadow, this one burned with vengeance.
Avin’s breath quickened. "Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me..." he muttered under his breath, his nervous smile stretching wider. "Ah, look, that— that wasn’t my fault—"
The man didn’t care. His voice sliced through the air."You took his points," he snarled. "And his place in the academy. You are not worthy. And I will prove that."
He slammed his spear into the ground. The tiles cracked under the force, a ringing thoom echoing through the gateyard. Avin’s heart jumped — and before he could react, before he could even think — a blur of motion filled his vision.
It came down like a comet, too fast, too heavy to dodge. Avin barely saw it, only the distorted air that followed behind it. His body froze.
But the impact never came.
Instead, there was a different sound — a thump, followed by the grinding scrape of shoes against tile. Avin stumbled backward as a shadow moved in front of him.
When he opened his eyes, Sylas stood there — one arm raised, blocking the attack with his bare forearm. The veins in his muscles bulged, his knees bent low, his stance deep like a practiced fighter. The impact had cracked the tile beneath his feet.
Avin’s chest tightened.
The guard pulled his fist back, unbothered, unfazed, his gaze narrowing as he leaned in close to Sylas.
"And you are?" the guard asked.
Sylas opened his mouth. "I’m Syl—"
The second punch came without warning, fast as a whip. Sylas ducked sideways, the fist missing his jaw by inches. The rush of air slapped across his cheek, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet yard.
Sylas twisted, sliding to the side and coiling his body for a counterpunch. His fist shot forward — but just before it landed, something shimmered in the corner of his vision.
It sliced through the air toward his ribs.
Sylas pivoted sharply, the blade grazing his sleeve as he spun away. The second guard — the silent one — had thrown it, and now he was already sprinting forward.
"Great," Sylas hissed under his breath, watching as both guards moved in sync, one attacking him while the other closed in on Avin.
The first guard turned back toward Avin, cracking his knuckles. He unsheathed a sword with a smooth, deliberate motion. The metal gleamed with a faint red aura, the edge humming faintly.
"Take out your weapon," he ordered.
Avin hesitated, his hand instinctively tightening on his sword hilt.
He could feel it — the man’s power radiating like heat from a forge. It was more than strength. It was hate layered in control, discipline masking bloodlust.
Avin’s pulse pounded. He knew this fight wasn’t one he could win. Not with brute force. Not even close.
But he couldn’t just stand there either.
"Listen," he started, trying to calm the situation, "we can talk about this rationally—"
The man sliced his sword through the air, the swing so sharp it ripped the wind apart with a loud whoosh. The sound cut Avin’s voice in half.
"Come at me," the man said simply, his stance firm and centered.
Avin sighed under his breath, sliding his foot back, lowering his posture into a stance of his own. "You really don’t want to do this..." he muttered, though it was as much to himself as to the guard.
He drew his sword. The metal sang as it left the sheath.
A subtle red light bled from Avin’s core, rushing through his veins, concentrating in his right arm. His eyes shifted — the black fading into a vivid crimson glow. Every sense sharpened.
He could hear the faintest rustle of grass, the whispers of wind against armor, the heartbeat of the man in front of him.
The world shrank to the space between them.
He exhaled slowly. "Alright then."
The man smirked faintly — and charged.
Their blades collided with a clang that cracked the ground beneath them. Sparks scattered in arcs of gold and red, their reflections dancing in Avin’s crimson eyes.
The man pressed forward, his strikes clean and precise. Avin parried the first, barely blocked the second — but the third slipped through, grazing his arm.
He stumbled back, blood dripping down his sleeve.
"You’re not even close," the guard said coldly. His aura pulsed again, redder this time. "You think you can take his place? You don’t even deserve his shadow."
Avin gritted his teeth. "You talk too much."
He surged forward, channeling mana into his blade. The sword glowed faintly, vibrating with unstable energy.
He swung — but before the strike connected, everything changed.
The air went dead still.
Darkness swallowed the world whole.
Avin blinked, disoriented. "What the—?"
The tiles vanished beneath his feet. The guards were gone. Even Sylas had disappeared. The only thing left was silence.
A thick, suffocating black fog stretched in every direction.
Avin’s voice echoed into the void. "Is this... an ability of his?"
He turned, his heartbeat quickening. There was nothing. Just endless dark.
From above, a faint glow emerged. It wasn’t sunlight. It was colder, bluish, pulsing like the heartbeat of a dying star.
As it descended, the darkness peeled away, revealing a vast chamber — triangular, pyramid-like, its ceiling suspended impossibly high. Massive statues loomed from the mist, carved in the shapes of beings Avin didn’t recognize.
"Oh, come on," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not again."
He stepped cautiously onto the cracked floor.
"This is the same damn place from that dream," he whispered. "I’m so sick of these kinds of places..."
His mind flashed back — to the scorpion, to the endless deaths, to the looping nightmare that had burned itself into his nerves. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
He glanced around, every muscle tense. "If another one of those things shows up, I swear—"
Something creaked behind him.
He spun instantly, sword raised — but nothing was there. Only the echo of metal against stone.
"Great," he said under his breath. "Now I’m hearing things."
Then, as if mocking his words, a door appeared ahead — massive, ornate, carved into the stone wall where there had been only emptiness moments ago.
He stared at it. "That wasn’t there before."
The banging came again.
CLANG.Metal on metal.
Something beyond that door was alive.
Avin hesitated. Every instinct screamed to stay away — to run, to hide, to wake up. But he remembered the last time he had stayed put. The last time he waited, and died, again and again.
He tightened his grip on his sword.
"I’m not dying the same way twice," he whispered.
The banging grew louder.
He took one step forward. Then another. The air felt thicker with each breath, pressing against his skin like invisible hands.
"Whatever this is," he said through clenched teeth, "I’ll end it before it starts."
His palm pressed against the cold surface of the door.
A gust of wind rushed out — thick, heavy, filled with whispers he couldn’t understand. The smell of rust and ash filled his lungs.
And from beyond that threshold, a dim red glow began to spread — like the heartbeat of something ancient waiting for him.
And the door closed behind him.