In the quiet of his room at the inn, the muffled hum of Aurethrin’s night streets lay faint beyond the shutters. The capital of the Kingdom of Aurelia breathed in its own restless rhythm — torchlight flickering down alleyways, the occasional rumble of a cartwheel, murmurs of merchants and watchmen just out of sight.

  John sat cross?legged on the bed, the weight of the ascension crystal cool and heavy in his palm. Its milky surface caught the glow of the single candle, veins of faint light pulsing within as though listening to his heartbeat.

  For a long breath, he simply looked at it. One touch would pull him from this room, from the warmth of the lamplight and the familiar presence of the capital’s bustle, into the strange space where the system chose its champions. He had been here before — but only on his unnatural track. Even knowing what awaited, a current of anticipation coursed through him.

  He whispered the activation command.

  The crystal flared.

  Light swallowed the room in a single heartbeat — not blinding, but deep and enveloping. The bed, walls, and wooden beams dissolved into a slow swirl of gold and blue mist. The ground shifted under his feet; the scent of city streets gave way to the fresh, resin?sharp air of a place he knew far too well.

  Cloudroot.

  Or rather, the spiritual echo of it. The timbers of the houses gleamed as if freshly hewn, their shapes a little too perfect, the colors richer than nature allowed. Every shadow was thin and long, every ray of light touched with a radiance that made the whole village shimmer between memory and dream.

  Beneath his boots, the dirt path felt solid enough, yet the air around him held the faintly unreal stillness of a painting held in suspension. Somewhere in that stillness, he felt the pulse of the system, as if the entire village was watching… waiting.

  On the green before the well — exactly where they had stood in his first Tier?I ascension — three figures awaited. Spectral light arced above them, condensing into glowing windows just as before.

  To his left, the towering Warrior, clad in broad, practical armor and carrying a gleaming sword and heavy shield. The system’s crisp, floating text named the class with the ease of an old memory.

  Beside him, the Rogue — slight, quick?eyed, clothed in gray?green leathers, twin daggers dancing idly between dexterous fingers. Her sly smile felt exactly as it had the first time, unshaken by the years and power he had gained since.

  And to their right, the Archer — longbow slung over one shoulder, calm gaze steady as though measuring the range to some invisible horizon.

  The sight was almost uncanny. It was as though the past had been plucked whole from his memory and set here before him, unchanged, daring him to believe that nothing had moved since his last visit.

  But John knew better.

  This was once again the threshold — the place where paths opened, and choices shaped the next chapter of power.

  John noticed something different this time. In the heart of the spiritual Cloudroot village, a staircase made entirely of shimmering light stretched heavenward, its translucent steps fading into mist and stars. It reminded him vividly of the radiant stairway he had climbed at the trial of the weretigresses in the totem world—a symbol of ascent, passage, and mystery.

  A flicker of unease stirred in his mind. He recalled ancient writings he had once read about second ascensions leading to Tier II—a realm far beyond his current level and experience. Yet this trial was not marked as Tier II. This was, in the system’s eyes and his own journey, only his second Tier I ascension.

  What was going on?

  The question hung heavy as he stood before the familiar figures of the warrior, rogue, and archer, the ethereal village around him alive with quiet power and expectation. The distant stairway of light beckoned, a silent challenge whispered from the depths of his memory and the unfathomable structure of the system itself.

  John paused in the middle of the dreamlike square, the spectral images of the warrior, rogue, and archer flickering subtly at the edges of his sight.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  A slow frown pulled at his brow as the old, methodical part of his mind—the one honed by study, calculation, and too many strange system messages—began to turn over the facts.

  Could the system be… confused?

  By all logic, what was happening right now should have been impossible. No one—at least no one in all the scrolls, books, or whispered tavern tales—had ever spoken of a second Tier I ascension. One ascension should lock that part of a soul’s journey forever; the next step would always be toward Tier?II, if you were strong and lucky enough to get there. No, this was not true. Some level 50 humans opted to try for a stronger Tier I class not managing to get a Tier II class but still, it was a second ascension downgraded to a Tier I. This was different.

  Here he stood. Two level tracks pulsing in parallel on his status screen—an unnatural one at level?11, and a natural one, capped at level?10—like twin rivers feeding into the same impossible sea. It was a quirk no one else had, a paradox written into his very being.

  A thought flickered: What if the system didn’t see it that way?

  What if these glowing halls, this carefully prepared path through the class selection realm, weren’t tailored for a second Tier?I at all?

  What if somewhere, deep in its unfathomable code, the system had decided this was his second ascension—and therefore the cusp of Tier?II?

  That would be absurd, though. He was far from the Tier?II threshold. No Tier?II was granted before level?50, and he stood now at a meager level?11 on one track, level?10 on the other. A child by comparison. And yet… the luminous stairway reaching into the heavens, the subtle tension hanging in the air—these were not details he remembered from his first ascension. They felt heavier somehow, more momentous, as though the system were bracing itself for something greater.

  John’s fingers curled at his sides.

  If the system truly thought this was Tier?II territory, the gap between what it expected and what he was ought to cause… instability. And instability in the system could mean danger—or opportunity.

  He exhaled slowly, his eyes lifting toward the impossible stair.

  So… which is it? I’m an error to be corrected… or a miracle the rules haven’t caught up to yet.

  John’s gaze lingered on the familiar trio in the square — Warrior, Rogue, Archer — but his thoughts were already wandering further.

  An aura-based Tier?I class…

  It was an avenue he’d never had in his first ascension. Back then, none of the options had offered a true aura foundation. Now, with Paradox Convergence removing the old incompatibility between aura and a magic circle, such a class could create a rock-solid base for his strange duality — a way to strengthen both halves of his combat style at once.

  But then his attention drifted — inevitably — to the stair of light. It rose from the far side of the village green, solid-looking yet translucent, each step glimmering faintly as it climbed into a sky that was neither day nor night. The sight tugged at him harder than any class window could. It was the same intangible pull he had felt in the weretigress totem world — a promise without explanation.

  Curiosity won.

  He approached and placed a foot on the first glowing step. As soon as he did, the village fell away into a haze of blurred light, and the air changed. At first, the climb was easy — each step light underfoot, his body buoyed by the strange, buoyant energy of the stairway.

  Then, somewhere higher, the ease began to vanish. A subtle weight pressed down on his shoulders. Another few steps, and the pressure deepened until every movement felt as though he was forcing himself through thick water. Above, the stair seemed endless.

  By the time he was halfway up, the weight had grown into a crushing pull, like unseen hands dragging him back toward the ground. Gravity intensified unnaturally, forcing his knees to strain and his breath to tighten in his chest. John could feel the source of the resistance — not in his muscles, but behind the scene, in the cold, alien logic of the system itself.

  His level was too low. The system was pushing back. He wasn’t supposed to climb here.

  That knowledge only hardened his resolve. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward into the climb, each step a contest of will over weight. His boots scraped against the shimmering surface, hands curling into fists as if he could drive strength into himself by sheer stubbornness. The invisible pressure crushed down… but he persevered.

  Step after aching step, he climbed toward whatever lay waiting beyond the light.

  John blinked, and the stair of light was gone.

  He now stood in the hushed heart of a clearing, shadows closing in beneath the thick, ancient canopy. The air was heavy with the richness of deep earth and the subtle perfume of wild blossoms, undercut by the faint metallic tang of old magic. He knew this place — or at least its shape. It was the white weretigresses’ encampment — but not as it truly was.

  This was its echo, drawn into the spiritual realm of the ascension trial. The tents that in life were pale hides and silken forest fibers shimmered faintly here, as though woven from sunlit mist. The central fire pit was cold, yet a ghostly ripple of blue flame flickered within it, burning without heat or smoke.

  And there, standing in disciplined silence, were the only living forms in this spectral camp.

  Several tall women faced him — human in form, yet carrying the unmistakable presence of the weretigress. Their long silver hair flowed like molten moonlight over armor of gold and deep crimson, the plates catching what little light filtered into this dreamscape, making them gleam like incarnate sun and blood. Their eyes — brilliant, unblinking blue — fixed on him with a predator’s focus, cool and assessing.

  They did not move to speak, nor to threaten, merely watched him, as though weighing something beyond his flesh — measuring his worth in this place that was at once familiar and impossibly distant from the waking world.

  The silence was total, charged enough that he could hear his own heartbeat. Somewhere beyond sight, deeper in this vision of the Black Zone’s heart, the trial waited.