Heat.
That was the first thing Aryan felt.
Not warmth.
Not sun.
Heat—the kind that swallowed breath, dried blood, and made the air itself vibrate.
He stumbled as the Trial Realm reformed around him:
a barren, crimson desert suspended between floating volcanic shards.
Gravity twisted in strange pulses—one step light, the next crushing.
Aryan exhaled slowly.
"Great. This is gonna be fun."
The ground beneath him cracked like it agreed.
Aryan took a step forward—
and the sand hissed, glowing faintly red.
Another step.
A boulder overhead drifted lower, dragging itself toward him as if drawn to something he carried.
No…
Not carried.
Emitted.
His irritation.
His impatience.
His simmering, half-swallowed anger at how powerless he had felt against the General.
The realm wasn't just reacting to him.
It was feeding on him.
"Control yourself," Aryan muttered, trying to sound calmer than he felt.
But the desert pulsed with heat again—
almost mocking.
A faint shape flickered ahead.
A figure standing alone in the shimmering heat.
Aryan blinked, squinting as the mirage solidified.
It was…
him.
A younger Aryan.
Barely twelve.
Scrawny, knuckles bruised from punching a wooden post until they bled—
because he had lost a sparring match he should've won.
The younger version glared at him.
"You always think you're strong," the illusion said.
"But you hate it when someone proves you're not."
Aryan's jaw tightened.
"Don't start."
"You lost to the General without landing a single hit," the illusion said, stepping closer.
"You talk big. You fight big. But deep down—
you're scared someone might be right about you."
A low thunder rolled through the desert.
Heat rose.
Floating rocks descended as if to crush him.
Aryan clenched his fists.
"Shut up."
The illusion smiled.
And the entire world trembled.
Aryan launched forward, punching the illusion square in the face.
His fist passed through it—like smoke—
and the shockwave from the punch shattered a floating boulder behind him.
The realm reacted instantly.
Gravity spiked.
He dropped to one knee.
Sand turned molten at the edges.
Aryan gritted his teeth.
"Great. Hitting things makes it worse. Even more fun."
A new figure materialized.
Tall.
Cold.
Unimpressed.
Kairo.
The General of Momentum.
Aryan froze.
Of all illusions—
why him?
Kairo didn't speak.
Didn't taunt.
Just watched him with the same look he had during the attack—
like Aryan wasn't worth the energy it took to kill him.
Aryan felt something snap inside him.
"Come on then," he growled.
"Show up. Act all superior. Do it again!"
The desert roared, flames bursting from cracks.
Aryan lifted his fist—
And stopped.
Something clicked in his mind.
A tiny, sharp realization.
The realm wasn't punishing his anger…
It was revealing.
Showing him what his power became when he lost control.
"Of course," Aryan muttered quietly.
"This place isn't testing whether I can win a fight."
He lowered his fists.
"It's testing whether I can walk away from one."
The desert stilled.
Heat softened.
The illusion of Kairo flickered—
surprised for the first time—
then dissipated like smoke in wind.
Aryan closed his eyes.
Breathed once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The ground cooled.
The air steadied.
The floating rocks gently drifted upward.
He wasn't calmer.
He wasn't peaceful.
But his emotions weren't wild anymore.
They were directed.
Focused.
Mine, he thought.
Not the other way around.
A small pedestal rose from the sand, holding a glowing shard—
a fragment of the Artifact map.
Aryan walked toward it.
No shouting.
No punching.
Just a firm, controlled hand reaching forward.
He picked up the fragment.
It pulsed once—
recognizing him.
Aryan smirked faintly.
"Guess that counts as passing."
Light surged from beneath his feet, forming a spiraling portal.
Aryan looked back at the realm—
the heat, the illusions, the echoes of the anger he once thought he understood.
"Not bad," he muttered.
"Kinda hated you… but thanks."
Then he stepped through.
Toward the place where the others would meet him.
Toward whatever awaited them next.