the bronze trial: rise of the forgotten

Sylas emerged from the glowing field of flowers, the sleek sword resting in his hand. The blade felt unnaturally light yet solid, almost as if it were an extension of himself. The intricate symbols etched into the metal seemed to pulse in rhythm with the mark on his hand.

He swung it experimentally, and the blade sliced through the air with an eerie hum. Energy coursed through his veins, and for the first time since he was thrust into this nightmare, he felt a sliver of control.

The open plain around him shimmered, its calm beauty hiding the danger he instinctively knew lurked beneath the surface. Sylas turned back toward the glowing archway, but the barrier that had allowed him entry was now gone.

"There's no going back," he muttered, his grip tightening on the sword.

The mark on his hand flared, faint whispers filling his mind again. These whispers were different, fragmented and fleeting, but one word came through clearly:

"Hunt."

Sylas froze. "Hunt? What am I supposed to hunt?"

The whispers didn't respond, but his instincts told him he was being watched. He scanned the area carefully, his senses sharper than before.

The flowers swayed in the still air, their glow flickering slightly. The unease in his chest grew as the sound of rustling reached his ears.

Something was coming.

The first sign of danger was subtle—a shift in the shadows, a faint growl carried on the wind. Sylas turned toward the noise, raising his sword defensively.

A shape emerged from the darkness, its form barely discernible at first. It was a beast unlike anything he had seen before, its body sleek and feline, with fur that shimmered like liquid shadow. Its eyes glowed a deep crimson, locking onto Sylas with predatory intent.

The whispers surged in his mind, urgent and commanding: "Hunt or be hunted."

Sylas didn't have time to think. The creature lunged, its speed blinding. He barely managed to sidestep, the beast's claws raking through the air just inches from his face.

Instinct took over. Sylas swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade humming as it cut through the air. The beast twisted mid-leap, avoiding the strike with an unnatural grace.

"Damn it!" Sylas cursed, adjusting his stance.

The creature circled him, its movements fluid and calculated. It was testing him, looking for an opening.

Sylas's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. He focused on the creature's movements, watching for any sign of weakness.

The mark on his hand flared again, and a sudden clarity washed over him. Time seemed to slow, and the beast's next move became clear—a feint to the left, followed by a leap to the right.

Sylas reacted on instinct, shifting his weight and swinging his sword just as the beast lunged.

The blade connected.

A howl of pain echoed across the plain as the beast staggered back, a deep gash across its side. Its crimson eyes burned brighter, and its growl deepened into a roar.

"Not so invincible now, are you?" Sylas said through gritted teeth.

The beast lunged again, this time with even more ferocity. Sylas dodged and countered, his movements faster and more precise than he thought possible.

Each strike of his sword sent a surge of energy through his body, the blade humming with power. The whispers in his mind guided him, their chaotic voices blending into a single, steady rhythm.

The fight was brutal and unrelenting. The beast was powerful, but it was clear that it hadn't expected its prey to fight back so fiercely.

Finally, Sylas saw his opening. As the creature lunged for him once more, he sidestepped and drove his sword upward, the blade piercing through the beast's chest.

The creature let out a final, ear-piercing roar before collapsing to the ground, its body dissolving into wisps of shadowy smoke.

Sylas stood over the remains, his chest heaving. The whispers in his mind quieted, and the mark on his hand dimmed slightly.

It was over.

As the last remnants of the beast faded, a faint glow appeared in the air where it had fallen. Sylas stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his exhaustion.

Floating before him was a small, translucent orb, its surface swirling with dark and golden hues.

The mark on his hand pulsed, and the whispers returned, softer this time: "Consume it. Take its strength."

Sylas hesitated. "Consume it? How?"

The mark flared again, and instinctively, he reached out and touched the orb.

The moment his fingers made contact, the orb dissolved into a stream of energy that flowed into his hand. A surge of power coursed through his body, and for a brief moment, he felt unstoppable.

Then, just as quickly, the sensation faded, leaving behind a strange warmth in his chest.

The whispers spoke again, their tone almost approving: "You grow stronger. But this is only the beginning."

Sylas clenched his fists, feeling a faint trace of the beast's energy lingering within him. His senses felt sharper, his body lighter.

He looked down at his sword, its symbols glowing faintly in response to his newfound power.

"If this is the beginning," he said quietly, "what's next?"

The mark on his hand flared, and a new glowing point appeared in his mind—a destination farther away, deep within the jungle.

Sylas sheathed the sword on his back, adjusted the makeshift sling he had fashioned for it, and started walking.

Whatever lay ahead, he would be ready.

The Trial was a test not just of survival, but of growth. Each victory brought Sylas closer to uncovering the truth of this world and his place within it. But with every step forward, the challenges only grew more dangerous.