Hope nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of Kelvin's words. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed sent a strange feeling crawling down his spine.
He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "So… if we survive the first trial of the Veil in the Ashlands, we gain power?"
His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—an edge of anticipation, of something he wasn't sure he wanted to admit.
Kelvin studied him, his gaze unreadable in the dim light of the shelter. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of wind whistling through ruined buildings.
Hope held his breath.
Finally, Kelvin exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured sigh. "Sort of," he said. "If you survive the first trial, the Veil will bless you. But 'blessing' isn't the word I would use."
Hope frowned. "Then what would you call it?"
Kelvin looked away for a second, as if searching for the right words. His gauntleted fingers tapped against his knee again, a slow, rhythmic motion.
"The Veil doesn't just hand out power," he finally said. "It marks you. Changes you. No one walks away from it the same."
Hope didn't reply. He had already figured that much. But there was something about the way Kelvin said it that made his stomach twist.
"Each ability is unique. No two people have the same one. It's like the Veil reaches inside you, finds what makes you you, and twists it into something… other." Kelvin's voice was calm, but there was something beneath it—something restrained.
Hope narrowed his eyes. "And the ones who don't survive?"
Kelvin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the sword on his back and ran his fingers along the hilt.
"They die," he said simply. "Or worse."
Hope didn't need to ask what worse meant.
For a moment, the shelter was silent again.
Hope finally looked away, staring at the flickering light from Kelvin's discarded armor as it settled into his soul sea.
"So that's how it is, huh?" he muttered.
He thought back to the corrupted fiend that had nearly torn him apart. He had barely survived. If Kelvin hadn't shown up when he did, Hope would be nothing more than another corpse rotting in the Ashlands.
And now, if he wanted to live, he had to face something even worse.
A trial.
A test of survival.
If he passed, he would gain power. If he failed…
Hope clenched his jaw.
"What kind of trials are we talking about?" he asked.
Kelvin looked at him again. This time, there was a flicker of something in his expression—something hard, something that spoke of experience.
"That depends on the Veil," he said. "No two trials are the same."
Hope's fingers curled slightly.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
Kelvin let out a quiet chuckle. It wasn't an amused sound—it was dry, almost tired.
"If you're expecting a fair fight, forget it," he said. "The Veil doesn't care about fairness. It doesn't care if you're ready or not. It chooses. And once it does, you either adapt… or you die."
Hope took a slow breath.
The rules were simple.
Survive, and gain power.
Fail, and die.
And he had already learned one thing about the Ashlands.
It didn't give second chances.