the bronze trial: rise of the forgotten

Sylas pushed forward, the jungle seemingly reshaping itself around him. The trees became taller, their branches arching high overhead to form a cathedral-like canopy. The underbrush thinned, replaced by soft moss that muffled his footsteps.

Despite the beauty of his surroundings, Sylas remained on edge. The Trial was unrelenting, its challenges becoming increasingly dangerous. The whispers in his mind had quieted once more, leaving him alone with the faint hum of the mark on his hand.

The path guided him to a clearing where ancient ruins lay hidden beneath layers of ivy and moss. Broken columns and shattered statues littered the area, their designs alien and intricate.

Sylas approached cautiously, his eyes scanning for any signs of danger. The ruins exuded a strange energy, one that made his skin crawl.

As he stepped into the clearing, the mark on his hand flared to life, its light illuminating the area around him. The ground trembled faintly, and Sylas stopped in his tracks, his sword already drawn.

The air grew colder, and a faint whisper reached his ears—not from the mark, but from the ruins themselves.

"You do not belong here."

The voice was ancient and hollow, like the echo of something long forgotten. Sylas turned, searching for its source, but the ruins remained still.

A moment later, the ground split open, and from the earth emerged shadowy figures, their forms flickering like flames. They were humanoid but twisted, their bodies composed of black smoke and glowing red embers.

The largest of them stepped forward, its form more defined than the others. It carried a jagged, obsidian blade and spoke again, its voice resonating with authority.

"Leave this place, or be consumed."

Sylas gripped his sword tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no intention of backing down, not when the mark was urging him forward.

"I'm not leaving," Sylas said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "If you're here to stop me, you'd better be ready to fight."

The shadowy leader tilted its head, as if considering Sylas's words. Then, with a deafening roar, it charged.

The other figures followed, their forms shifting and twisting as they closed in on Sylas.

The battle was chaotic, the shadowy figures moving with unnatural speed. Sylas swung his sword, the blade slicing through the nearest attacker. The figure dissipated into smoke, but two more took its place, their jagged claws slashing at him.

Sylas dodged and countered, his movements sharp and precise. The power from the previous orbs coursed through him, enhancing his reflexes and strength.

But the shadowy leader was different. Its attacks were calculated, each swing of its blade forcing Sylas to stay on the defensive.

As their blades clashed, Sylas felt the weight of the creature's power. It wasn't just strong—it was ancient, a remnant of something far older than the Trial itself.

The whispers in Sylas's mind returned, their tone urgent:

"Strike the heart… reveal the truth."

Sylas glanced at the leader's chest, where a faint red glow pulsed within its smoky form.

"That's your weakness," Sylas muttered, a determined grin forming on his face.

He feinted to the side, drawing the creature's attention, then lunged forward with all his strength. His blade pierced the glowing core, and the shadowy leader let out a guttural roar.

The other figures froze, their forms flickering violently before vanishing into the air.

The leader staggered back, its body unraveling as it fell to its knees. Before it dissolved completely, it looked at Sylas, its voice softer now:

"You awaken what should remain buried. Beware the Forgotten Ones."

With that, the creature faded into smoke, leaving behind a small, glowing shard.

Sylas approached the shard cautiously, his sword still drawn. The mark on his hand burned brighter as he reached out and touched the shard.

A surge of energy flowed into him, the mark glowing intensely as new knowledge flooded his mind. Fragmented visions of a great battle, ancient beings, and a sealed power flashed before his eyes.

When the visions faded, Sylas staggered back, his breathing heavy.

"What was that?" he muttered, clutching his head.

The jungle around him seemed to shift, the ruins growing darker and more oppressive. The whispers in his mind spoke again, faint but resolute:

"You are not ready for the truth. Continue forward."

Sylas steadied himself, his resolve hardening. The Trial was more than just a test of strength—it was a journey