In the real world, a figure emerged—a silhouette shaped like an elderly woman. Her posture was graceful, yet slightly stooped with age, and she wore intricate, flowing robes that whispered of wisdom and authority earned over a lifetime. A deep hood concealed her head, and beneath it, her entire face was veiled behind a skin-tight black mask—so seamless and smooth that not even her eyes were visible. It was as if her identity had been erased, her features hidden in eternal reverence or secrecy.
Her black robe shimmered with elaborate silver embroidery, streaked with patterns resembling bolts of thunder—markings that signaled her status. She was no ordinary servant, but a high-ranking priestess or sorceress, bound deeply to a force far greater.
She stood before an enormous, ancient gate. With a silent wave, the massive doors creaked open, and she bowed low.
"My lordship… the young master has been found," she announced, her voice soft yet filled with ancient weight.
Inside the vast hall beyond, seated upon a throne of storm-blackened metal streaked with glowing purple veins, was a figure wrapped in heavy, enchanted armor. His presence crackled with restrained fury and command. A crown floated just above his head, orbiting with dark energy like a halo forged from thunder and shadows.
He was the Thunder King—Stormborn, the current head of the House of Gale.
With a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes opened—electric and piercing.
"Where is he?" he asked, his voice like a rumble from the heart of a storm.
The masked woman stood with poise, her entire face covered by a tight veil-like mask—no eyes, no lips, not even the faintest glimpse of skin. Her voice broke the silence with practiced reverence.
"Outer Region of Sector 7… Awakening Centre."
A deep, resonating voice answered her from the throne above. The figure sat draped in blackened armor laced with veins of violet lightning. A crown floated just above his helm, casting a flickering glow like a storm trapped in time.
"Take the Cloudpiercer, and the Silent Gale… Bring him back to his house. The six-month agreement has ended."
Cloudpiercer—an elite order of knights, known for their honor, unshakable loyalty, and swift justice.
Silent Gale—shadow-born assassins, precise and silent, their blades never echo.
The woman bowed deeply. "As you ordered, my lordship."
She turned, robes sweeping soundlessly over the floor as she departed the grand chamber. Behind her, the immense throne room gates began to close. The sound of steel grinding against stone echoed one final time before silence reclaimed the stormlit throne.
The eyes of the Thunder King—Stormborn, head of the House of Gale—closed once more. The storm waits, but not for long.
Meanwhile… in the Trial World.
A blur streaked through the sky like a falling star—no, a predator from above.
A boy, cloaked in black with wings of shadow trailing behind him, dove straight downward toward the beast below. His right arm missing, yet his grip unwavering on the Gorefiend Hand Sword, the crude blade gleamed with bloodthirst.
With a savage cry, he drove the short sword straight into the monster's skull, the impact echoing like thunder. The creature roared—but too late. He twisted the blade and began ripping it free, tearing through sinew and bone as blood sprayed into the air like crimson rain.
The hunt had begun.
It had been two weeks since the Great Massacre Misfortune—the night he very nearly died.
That memory still clawed at the back of his mind as he knelt beside the fallen beast, wiping the blood from his blade. The air was thick with the stench of fresh kill and burnt flesh. His movements were methodical, silent. Each cut he made was precise—stripping the creature's hide, salvaging anything useful.
"I should've died that night," he thought, the scene replaying again—broken limbs, shattered earth, screams swallowed by smoke.
But he didn't die.
He survived.
He thought about it quietly while cleaning the freshly hunted beast.
By the time he finished butchering the creature, the sky had already dipped into evening's cold embrace.
He strapped the cleaned carcass over his shoulder and took to the air, gliding back toward his shelter—the Hollow Tree Den. Once empty and forgotten, the tree was now far from hollow. Its interior was lined with stacked bones and the dried remains of past kills, a grim testament to his survival.
He dropped the new carcass at the entrance, carving out a few tender parts for the evening's meal. As the fire crackled and the scent of roasted meat filled the air, Kaelvren sat quietly, lost in thought.
"It's been nearly five weeks since I arrived in this damned world," he muttered under his breath. "Still no clue how to return to the real world... no sign that this trial is anywhere near complete."
His eyes narrowed, focusing on the distant silhouette of the Mountains of Mourning—a towering, unforgiving place that clawed at the heavens. He believed the truth, or at least the next step, waited for him there.
"If the answers lie within those peaks... I have to begin my journey soon."
He sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair.
"It's either that... or rot here in misery, maybe even end it all. But no," he clenched his fist, eyes hardening, "that's not how this ends. I won't let it."
As he sighed
In the past two weeks, he hadn't come across any new artifacts.
"Still stuck with the same five," he thought, a faint scowl on his face.
One of them was completely useless.
Another gave him just enough clothing to avoid freezing—its real strength was keeping his muscles warm and ready.
One was a miracle: a cloak that, despite the fatigue it caused, made his survival possible in the cold, cruel wilds.
And finally, two weapons—lethal, personal, and bound to him.
"That's enough," he muttered. "I'm set for the journey."
Tonight would be the last night in the Hollow Tree. With that decision made, he turned his attention to the food simmering over the fire.
The scent of roasted meat grounded him. As he sat down and took the first bite, a quiet determination settled in his heart.
"Let the path begin tomorrow."
And so, he ate—silently, steadily—preparing his body and mind for what was to come.
With that, he stepped back into the Hollow Tree—his temporary den, his crude shelter from the world's cruelty.
He cleared a small space among the dried-out carcasses and bones, laid down a rough bedding of furs and cloth, and slowly lowered himself onto it.
The fire crackled softly outside, but the night within was colder than the wind.
Sleep didn't come easy. It never did. But eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.
And in that shallow, restless slumber… he began to murmur—soft, broken words he'd never let slip while awake.
"...How did you two die... mom… dad…"
The tree stood silent. The darkness listened.
His breath grew shallow as the murmurs faded into silence… and then the dream took over.
Not a nightmare this time—no blood, no monsters. Just warmth.
He was ten again.
The air was softer, the room lit by a golden glow of evening sun filtering through old curtains. Books were stacked on the shelves, some half-falling over. A kettle whistled faintly in the background.
And there she was.
His mother.
Her face was a blur, as it always was in dreams—an outline of kindness, framed in long hair that danced with the wind from an open window. But her voice… her voice was perfect.
"Do you know why the stars shine, even when we're sad?" she asked, tucking the blanket tighter around his tiny shoulders.
He shook his head, just like he had back then.
"Because someone up there believes your story isn't over yet."
He didn't speak. He couldn't. The boy just smiled in the dream. But somewhere deep in the sleeping body curled beneath monster hides, a tear rolled down his cheek.
The memory faded. The warmth thinned. And slowly, As he was waking up, it seemed like the sun was waking up too. The soft golden rays slipped through the cracks in the hollow tree, painting the ground in scattered warmth. As his gaze fell upon the rising sun, he muttered to himself,
"Time to march toward the mountain peak."