Chapter 111: Trial of the Masked One

  Lira had lost track of time.

  The room around her burned endlessly, flames licking at the cracked wooden walls, smoke thick in the air. It had been nearly a week—at least, that’s what it felt like. But time no longer made sense. The heat didn’t touch her anymore, and the hunger that gnawed at her stomach was a distant ache. Nothing compared to the pain that had already hollowed her out.

  Her mother’s body lay a few feet away, lifeless, her throat pierced by a rusted sword. Blood had long since dried around the wound, forming a dark, cracked stain on the floor. Her father… his head was gone, his body dragged around like a trophy by the bandits who had destroyed their village.

  She had hidden under their house, trembling, clutching her mother's hand one last time before being forced into the shadows. The sounds of her mother’s final screams and the laughter of the bandits still echoed in her mind. She could hear them, even now.

  “Lira, listen to me,” her mother whispered, her hands firm on Lira’s shoulders.

  Tears streamed down the young girl’s face as she clung to her mother’s dress. “No, Mama! Please don’t go—don’t leave me!”

  Her mother wiped the tears from Lira’s cheek, forcing a smile despite the terror in her eyes. “You have to be strong, my little star. No matter what happens… you must survive.”

  The shouts outside grew louder. Footsteps pounded against the wooden floor.

  Lira sobbed, shaking her head. “I don’t want to be alone!”

  Her mother took her face in her hands, eyes shining with sorrow and fierce love. “You won’t be alone. But you mustn’t come out—no matter what you hear, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

  Lira couldn’t answer. She could only watch as her mother pressed a final kiss to her forehead, then turned and stepped out of the hiding space.

  The door burst open.

  Screams followed.

  Now, those screams were gone, leaving only silence.

  Lira had cried for hours. At first, it was grief. Then, grief became loathing. Hatred boiled inside her chest, a fire far hotter than the one consuming the room. Her fingers curled into fists. Her breathing grew heavy.

  A surge of raw, untamed magic exploded from within her, crackling through the air like a storm. The sheer force of it sent a shockwave outward, shattering the wooden beams, engulfing the entire space in her fury.

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  The bandits never stood a chance.

  One by one, they were reduced to nothing but screams and torn flesh. Limbs twisted, bodies burned, and heads burst like overripe fruit. Lira relished every second of their agony. Their terror.

  But the magic did not stop.

  It grew, uncontrollable, unstoppable. The village—her home—was caught in its wake. Buildings collapsed. Innocent villagers cried out as the raging storm of her power struck them down. She could not stop. Could not control it.

  By the time the night ended, the village lay in ruin.

  And Lira was alone again.

  But something was wrong.

  She felt it the moment she collapsed to her knees, panting. A flicker of recognition. A feeling of déjà vu.

  Then, darkness.

  And it all started again.

  Lira relived it over and over. The horror, the rage, the destruction. Each time, the memories blurred, but the emotions remained the same. The moment of loss. The unleashing of power. The village’s ruin.

  But after countless cycles, something changed.

  She resisted.

  This time, when the rage came, she forced herself to hold onto it, to shape it. She guided the surging magic, focusing it only on the intruders, sparing the village from her wrath. She made them suffer—just as they deserved—but she did not let the magic consume everything else.

  She controlled it.

  When the last bandit fell, her breath was ragged. Her body trembled, sweat dripping down her brow. She looked up at the sky, closing her eyes.

  And the world blurred once more.

  When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the burning village.

  A vast, dimly lit room surrounded her. Around her, other children—twelve in total—stood in various states of exhaustion, some panting, some crying, some staring blankly ahead.

  She knew now. It had been a trial. A test forced upon them by the masked being.

  But something within her had changed. She could feel it. Her magic was still the same—wild, unpredictable—but now, she understood it. Now, she knew how to guide it through her emotions, not be controlled by them.

  She overheard the others speaking, recounting their own experiences.

  Joren clenched his fists. “I had to kill my own father over and over again. Every time, he begged me not to. But if I didn’t, I died instead.”

  Silas, his voice eerily empty, murmured, “Mine was nothing but a void. Over and over, I fell. There was no end.”

  Mira wiped her tear-streaked face. “I saw all of us dying, again and again. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop it.”

  Lira exhaled, watching them. They were different now. Just as she was.

  Then, silence.

  A sound echoed through the chamber.

  Footsteps.

  Every head turned at once.

  A man entered the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. His eyes—completely black, devoid of any white—made the air grow heavy with dread.

  Tension filled the room. Some of the children instinctively gathered magic into their hands, despite having no grimoires.

  The man stopped, scanning each of them with an unreadable expression before speaking in a voice as deep as a whisper and as sharp as a blade.

  “I am Antru. Come with me.”

  Silence followed.

  Then, Joren stepped forward, defiance burning in his amber eyes. “Why should we? You took us against our will, put us through hell—and now you expect us to follow you like obedient dogs?”

  Without hesitation, he summoned a blade of hardened blood, pointing it directly at Antru’s throat.

  The man did not move.

  Instead, his black eyes pulsed.

  Joren’s breath hitched. His body locked up. Then, he dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat.

  A shadow wrapped around him, tightening like an invisible vice. His face turned red, his eyes wide with panic.

  “Follow,” Antru said coldly, “or die.”

  He turned and walked toward the door. The shadow dissipated, and Joren collapsed, gasping for air, his hands trembling.

  For a long moment, no one moved.

  Then, shakily, Joren stood. He was the first to follow.

  The others, one by one, hesitated—but fear outweighed defiance.

  And so, they followed.

  All of them.