The shattered corridor behind Leohenhart collapsed in flame as the masked figure stepped forward, heat rippling off his body like waves of rage. Sparks danced along the stone walls, and the very air began to shimmer—as if the tower itself feared what stood before him.
"Who are you?" Leohenhart demanded, blade still raised.
The masked man tilted his head, considering him. "A question forged from fear. Yet fear is what keeps you alive." His hand reached out, fingers crackling with embers. "But you, Leohenhart... you've already stepped too far."
The moment he said his name, the ground shifted.
A ring of fire ignited around them—no source, no spark. Just will.
Leohenhart's stance hardened. This wasn't an ordinary guardian. This was a judge.
"A trial?" Leohenhart asked, eyes scanning the circle.
The stranger nodded once. "Every warrior who dares seek the Ember Throne must face judgment. Not of blade, but of purpose."
Then the flames surged upward, forming shapes—images from Leohenhart's past. His father's final breath. The fall of the Obsidian Keep. His brother's scream, swallowed in fire. His failure. His shame.
He staggered.
"Do you think you're worthy?" the masked man's voice echoed through the visions. "You stand here as if your scars prove your right. But scars can be carved by cowardice too."
The visions twisted. Leohenhart saw himself turning away during the siege. Running. Abandoning those he loved.
"No!" he roared. "That's not—!"
"But it could have been," the man said. "In another thread of fate, you did run."
Leohenhart stepped forward, forcing the illusions to flicker. "I chose to stand. I chose to fight."
"Then prove it."
The fire collapsed, and in its place—steel.
A sword dropped from above, striking the floor with a deafening clang. Another dropped in front of the stranger.
This was no battle of words anymore.
The man lifted his blade, a weapon of blackened gold, edges laced with molten light. "If your resolve is real, let it shape your strike."
Leohenhart didn't hesitate.
Their blades met in a roar of heat and metal, sparks hissing as the ground cracked beneath their feet. The masked man was faster than anyone Leohenhart had faced, his strikes guided by rage yet disciplined like a soldier of old.
Each clash sent tremors through the court.
But Leohenhart didn't retreat.
He remembered—his vow, his blood, the ashes he rose from. He channeled it into every blow, every step, until finally—he found an opening.
A feint.
A pivot.
And then—
Steel kissed flesh.
The man staggered back, a thin line of fire leaking from his shoulder.
He didn't cry out.
He laughed.
"Well struck… Chosen Flame."
The flames around them vanished. The court fell silent.
"You've passed."
Leohenhart stood, panting. "That was your test?"
The man nodded, pulling off his mask. Beneath it, a face scarred by centuries, eyes glowing faintly.
"You're not the first to seek the Ember Throne… but you might be the last who deserves it."
From his cloak, he drew a sigil—charred and ancient.
"Take this. It's your right… and your burden."
Leohenhart took the sigil. It pulsed in his hand.
"Go deeper," the man whispered, already fading into the ash. "But beware… what lies below does not judge. It consumes."
The silence returned.
And ahead—a
nother door awaited.
But this one didn't open with force.
It opened… when it wanted.