As I heard the desperate voice, I turned around to see the watery environment crack and shatter. From the fractured wall, Master Luan stepped through, and as he did, the broken barrier behind him sealed itself shut.

  “Master Luan!” I said, relief flooding through me as I lowered the scythe, no longer threatening myself. I began to move toward him, but suddenly, the inner spirit lunged forward and punched me away.

  “You are not escaping,” it growled, “not until I take control of you while you’re weak.”

  From behind me, Master Luan swiftly raised his hands, weaving his white magic. Particles of radiant light materialized around the spirit, swirling and binding it tightly.

  “What is this?” it hissed, struggling to break free. “Why can’t I move?!”

  Repeatedly, it thrashed and fought against the invisible chains, but the more it struggled, the tighter the glowing white mana held it captive.

  Master Luan hoisted me onto his shoulder and called out, “GATE!”

  An ethereal portal opened before us, shimmering with a soft light. The spirit’s desperate screams echoed around us. “No! No! I’ll take control of you, Dliva! Just wait!”

  Master Luan ignored the cries and stepped firmly into the portal, carrying me with steady determination.

  Outside the pond, Alya and Frostbite Yandy waited anxiously. Alya sat cross-legged on the ground, her eyes fixed on the still surface. Suddenly, bubbles began to rise in the center of the pond. She stood up quickly, her gaze sharpening.

  Master Luan emerged first, breaking the water’s surface. I followed, still in his arms. Both of us landed on the ground, dry and unharmed despite just surfacing from the pond.

  I slowly rose to my feet, feeling no trace of pain or injury from the battle inside my inner world. Master Luan stood beside me, his expression calm but caring.

  “Thank you, Master Luan,” I said sincerely. “For saving me.”

  He smiled softly, ruffling my hair with a gentle hand. “You don’t need to thank me, Dliva. I chose to be your guardian. It’s my duty to protect you and Alya whenever you’re in danger.”

  From the side, Alya approached, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay, Dliva? Why did you wander off by yourself?”

  “It was because Frostbite took off,” I explained. “I had to catch him.”

  Alya sighed heavily. “I get it, but you didn’t have to follow Yandy alone. Don’t you know how worried I was?” She pouted and looked away.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t think that far ahead,” I replied, hoping to ease her frustration.

  Master Luan chuckled quietly and stood up. “Alright, Alya, no more being mad at Dliva. What’s done is done. We should be grateful he’s safe.”

  Alya sighed in reluctant agreement. “Fine, if you say so, Master Luan. But we are definitely not giving Yandy lunch today.”

  Hearing that, Frostbite Yandy gulped nervously and quickly hid behind me.

  Master Luan laughed softly, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. “Okay, we’ll see about that. But for now, let’s keep moving. We have to get out of this cursed forest before nightfall.”

  With that, we prepared to continue our journey, the forest around us still heavy with unseen dangers, but our spirits lifted by the bond we shared and the hope of what lay ahead.

  Sylim knelt alone in a vast expanse of blackness—an endless void stretching in every direction, cold and silent but without pain. The emptiness pressed down on it, heavy and suffocating, yet beneath it all lay the faint awareness of an open sky above—a subtle reminder of something beyond this desolation. Trembling, Sylim bowed its head low, feeling the weight of failure like a crushing stone upon its chest.

  From the darkness, a deep, echoing voice erupted—immense and godly, commanding absolute attention. Though its source remained unseen, its presence filled the void with overwhelming power and judgment. “Sylim, why have you failed?” the voice demanded, each word reverberating with disappointment and authority.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Sylim’s entire form shook, but it kept its head bowed, swallowing the lump in its throat. “Please forgive me, God,” it whispered, voice trembling with guilt and fear. “It was Luan who took the boy and saved him… I could not stop it.”

  A heavy pause lingered, thick with tension. Then the voice spoke again, softer this time, almost contemplative. “No, not that, Sylim. I am not angry that the boy was saved.”

  Confusion flickered through Sylim’s mind, and it slowly lifted its head, seeking clarity. “What do you mean, God? Luan interfered with your work once again. I thought you would be furious because of that.”

  The voice was patient, almost gentle, but firm. “Yes, he interfered. But even without Luan’s aid, the boy would have been saved. That is why I am not angry about his interference.”

  Sylim swallowed hard, a question burning inside despite its fear. “How… how would the boy have survived without Luan’s help?”

  The voice seemed to expand, drawing on an ancient wisdom spanning eons. “Since the beginning of time, every creation that faces the ‘Inner Spirits’ has always come prepared. Have you ever witnessed one enter unarmed?”

  Sylim shook its head slowly, the weight of the answer settling around it.

  The voice continued, “Those who fail to conquer their inner power are consumed by it, overwhelmed and taken over. You know this well.”

  Sylim nodded, its core tightening with the gravity of truth.

  After a long silence, the voice pressed further, tone probing. “But have you ever seen anyone choose to kill themselves during the trial? Or even intend to?”

  Sylim’s breath caught in its throat. “No,” it whispered, fearful even to acknowledge the thought.

  “Why is that?” The voice’s question held immeasurable gravity.

  “It is because mortal creatures cherish their survival above all else,” the voice explained. “They would rather be consumed by their inner darkness than embrace death. Because none have dared to die, not even Luan knows that when someone kills themselves in the trial, they do not truly perish. Instead, they return to the world, bound to the cycle of existence.”

  Understanding, mingled with sorrow, crept over Sylim’s form. The enormity of the divine design weighed heavily on it, making it feel smaller than ever before.

  Yet, summoning every ounce of courage, it dared to ask, “God, why are you so angry with me? What is the true cause of your wrath?”

  A heavy silence followed, the void seeming to hold its breath. Then the voice spoke, quieter but no less powerful. “My anger lies in your revealing Dliva’s true identity to Luan. That knowledge was not meant to be shared.”

  Sylim’s essence sank under the weight of the revelation, but the voice softened slightly. “However, because you erased Luan’s memory of that truth, I have chosen to forgive you… for now. Consider yourself spared.”

  Relief washed through Sylim’s being, and it released a long, shuddering sigh—a mixture of gratitude, exhaustion, and the lingering weight of its responsibilities. Though forgiven, the path ahead remained uncertain, and the burden of divine will pressed on it like never before.

  After a pause, Sylim hesitated, then quietly asked, “God, may I ask another question?”

  The echoing voice responded, “You may.”

  Taking a deep breath, gathering what courage it had left, Sylim asked, “How is Dliva’s inner spirit? I have studied his biology—he is human, with no sign of being an elf.”

  Silence stretched longer than Sylim expected, but it remained patient, waiting.

  Finally, the voice answered, “You will see, when the time comes.”

  Four thousand years in the past, the grave of Alvan rested quietly in the heart of a vast graveyard, surrounded by countless other weathered tombstones. The night was darker than usual—the moon seemed reluctant to cast even a sliver of light upon the grounds, as if terrified to disturb the solemn stillness. This absence of moonlight deepened the graveyard's ominous atmosphere, making it feel heavier, more foreboding than it ever should have been.

  No human dared approach the graveyard at this hour. Life itself seemed to avoid the place—birds veered far from its borders, unwilling to risk flight through the heavy shadows that seemed to clutch the open sky. The graveyard was cold, but the wind was gentle, drifting in soft, intermittent breezes that made the leaves of tall, towering trees sway softly, whispering secrets to the night.

  An eerie silence hung over the graveyard—a silence pregnant with anticipation, like the stillness before a storm.

  Then, breaking the quiet, something moved through the entrance. It had a humanoid shape, but its very form was made of swirling shadow and smoke. It lacked eyes—only an endless void of darkness stared out from where a face should be. Shadows seemed to cling and follow its every step as it glided forward with unnerving calm.

  The figure made its way directly to Alvan’s grave, which lay settled in the center of the yard like a solemn heart. As it approached, the wind began to rise, growing stronger and fiercer. The towering trees bent and swayed wildly, their leaves rustling in a frantic dance. The shadows trailing the figure flowed like liquid, yet the entity itself remained motionless, fixated on the grave with an intensity that sent chills through the air.

  Suddenly, without hesitation, it began to dig—precisely and relentlessly—tearing through the earth with unnatural ease. As the grave opened, the silence shattered.

  Menacing laughter echoed through the graveyard, a sound both chilling and unnatural. From the depths of the darkness, a voice emerged—cold, cruel, and filled with dark purpose.

  “The perfect usage for God,” it whispered, its tone dripping with sinister intent.

  The graveyard seemed to hold its breath, as if the very earth itself feared what was to come. The night had shifted from quiet mourning to something far more dangerous—a storm of shadow and power, ready to be unleashed.