Aetheron stood frozen.
The figure on the throne—it wasn't human.
Its form flickered between shapes—sometimes a man, sometimes a beast, sometimes something beyond comprehension.
But its eyes never changed.
Cold. Ancient. Unwavering.
"You seek the Sovereign's blade."
The voice was layered—as if a thousand voices spoke at once.
Aetheron gripped his sword, but his fingers twitched.
The air here was thick. Heavy.
Like every breath carried centuries of history.
"The blade is not merely a weapon," the figure said. "It is a throne. A crown. A weight."
Aetheron exhaled. "Then test me."
The figure tilted its head.
Then—it smiled.
"Very well."
The Trial Begins
The space around them shattered.
Aetheron found himself standing on a bridge of light.
Beneath it—endless darkness.
Above it—an unreachable sky.
And in front of him—stood himself.
A perfect copy. No differences.
No twisted, corrupted doppelgänger.
Just him.
The other Aetheron gripped a sword. The same sword.
"You will not fight an enemy," the voice whispered. "You will fight your own path."
Then—his copy moved.
The Clash of One
Aetheron barely raised his blade before the first strike came.
Fast. Precise.
Exactly how he fought.
Their blades met—and the force sent a shockwave through the bridge.
Aetheron lunged. His copy did the same.
Steel met steel.
No wasted movements. No hesitation.
Every attack—matched perfectly.
Aetheron gritted his teeth. This wasn't a normal fight.
It wasn't about winning.
It was about understanding.
The Path Splits
His copy stepped back.
Then—it changed.
Aetheron's breath hitched.
His reflection's stance shifted. Different. Unfamiliar.
It was still him—but not the him of now.
It was a version of him that had taken another path.
One where he had chosen differently.
One where he had walked another road.
Then—it attacked.
Aetheron barely dodged.
The moves—they weren't his.
But at the same time—they were.
It was every possibility.
Every path he never walked.
Every version of himself he never became.
And he had to face them all.
The Breaking Point
The second Aetheron struck.
Then a third appeared. Then a fourth.
More and more—all different.
All him.
Aetheron exhaled, heart pounding. It was impossible.
How could he fight every version of himself?
Then—he stopped.
His grip on his sword loosened.
His breath steadied.
He looked at his copies—and lowered his blade.
"I don't need to fight you," he said.
The copies paused.
"Because you are all me."
The Throne's Answer
The bridge shook.
Then—it shattered.
Aetheron fell—but he wasn't afraid.
Because he wasn't falling alone.
Every version of himself—they fell with him.
And as they merged into one—he understood.
The blade wasn't about power.
It was about accepting every choice.
Every regret. Every path.
And moving forward as one.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Then—he opened his eyes.
The Throne Room
Aetheron was back.
The figure on the throne was watching him—but now, it looked pleased.
"You understand now."
The weight in Aetheron's hands had changed.
The sword—it felt whole.
Not something to wield.
But something to carry.
The throne's voice whispered one last time.
"Then go. The path awaits."
The world blurred.
And Aetheron stepped forward.