The Realm Scrapper did not reset this time. It stretched. It breathed. Under Nayan's twisted coding, the chamber no longer mimicked a single battlefield but an entire campaign of destruction — endless waves, shifting biomes, adversaries conjured from the deepest annals of history.

"Endurance mode," Azrail muttered, wiping dried blood from his lips. His voice was hoarse but steady, eyes glittering with feverish anticipation. "Let's see how long I can keep this orchestra playing."

[Affirmative, Master. Symphony Sustained Combat Protocol activated. Duration: until collapse.]

A timer appeared faintly across the void sky. Day 0 – Hour 0 – Minute 0.

The trial began.

....

The First Day, the first wave hit like a hurricane — spectral legions stitched from memories of devoured souls, each soldier carrying fragments of real combat techniques. They came with discipline, with synergy, as if mocking Azrail's own quest for harmony.

He split his mind instantly. Conductor. Offense. Defense. Improviser. The quadrants clicked like clockwork.

Flames roared first. Persefone burned lines through their ranks, shadows wailing as deathfire unstitched their souls. Astrid's regal blaze cloaked him, dispersing incoming arrows of void. At the same time, his Cosmic Sword Domain screamed open — millions of blades carving spirals, each integrated with World Spirit Alter, slicing not just steel but the concept of weaponry itself.

Enemies dropped their swords mid-charge, disarmed by reality's betrayal.

Soul Power flooded next, sculpting Resonance Shields to bounce curses back at their casters, while his mental realm scattered Dream Echoes, filling the field with nightmare doubles of Azrail that split the legion's focus.

Hour after hour, wave after wave, he rotated his orchestra — never letting one section dominate too long.

By the time the timer ticked Day 1 – Hour 12, his body ached, mind frayed, but he still stood amidst corpses that dissolved into Spirit motes.

He laughed through bloodied teeth. "One day's nothing. Keep them coming."

....

The Second Day, the Scrapper twisted. Lava fields hardened into crystal glaciers. The air froze, each breath a shard of glass. From beneath the ice surged Titanic Beasts — mammoths of frozen Qi and Spirit alloy, each step cracking the battlefield into avalanches.

Azrail adapted.

He altered Astrid's flames into a Thermal Equilibrium Cloak, stabilising his body against the deadly cold while simultaneously melting footholds beneath the titans. Persefone, woven with Death Qi, converted their frozen hides into rot, spreading corruption through ice.

But the beasts learned — they adapted, as the Sovereign had. Their cores pulsed with entropy, feeding on death's corrosion.

So Azrail improvised. He layered World Spirit Distort over Persefone's flames, not rotting the ice but convincing it that it had already melted centuries ago. Whole mammoths collapsed into slush, their weight crushing their kin.

By Day 2 – Hour 20, he was staggering, wounds unhealed, his Infernal Form flickering in and out. Raven and Ravenna fought beside him, shadows darting like wolves, but even they trembled from exhaustion.

He forced himself upright. "Two days… Still in tune."

....

The Third Day, the arena shattered into void space, stars wheeling like hungry eyes. Enemies this time were not flesh, not beasts — but Mental Constructs. Ancient seers, nightmare phantoms, trickster illusions. They attacked not his body but his mind.

Azrail nearly buckled. For the first time, he faced an army that lived inside his skull.

But he had prepared.

His Mind Palace stretched wide — fortified chambers of knowledge, corridors lined with memories, vaults of strategies. Within them, he released his arsenal: Dreamscaping snares, Mental Echoes, paradox loops, illusions of entire universes.

The battlefield existed entirely in thought, yet his flames and swords followed him in — given shape by Soul Power's adaptability. Astrid's fire became candles of clarity, illuminating lies. Persefone's deathflame turned into a black sun, burning illusions until only truth remained.

The war lasted an eternity — but the timer read Day 3 – Hour 18 when Azrail's eyes opened in the physical chamber again. Blood streamed from his nose, his temples burned, but his mental enemies lay shattered.

He whispered hoarsely, "Symphony… still playing."

....

The Fourth Day, the Scrapper was merciless. This time, it birthed hybrid abominations — fireproof serpents wrapped in antimagic scales, shadow-lurkers immune to illusion, constructs resistant to Soul Power. Azrail was drowning. His meridians screamed, his soul flickered, his mind cracked. Persefone faltered, Astrid dimmed, Ravenna whimpered, Raven stumbled.

The Sovereign's echo would have crushed him here.

But he refused.

He used the one thing the Scrapper could not predict: his insanity. The improviser quadrant took full control. He twisted powers against themselves — deathfire burning flames, shadows feeding on swords, world spirit altering his own weaknesses into strengths.

He fought like chaos incarnate, laughing through the agony. "Four days, and I'm still here! Come on!"

By Day 4 – Hour 22, he collapsed to one knee — but the enemies fell with him.

....

The Fifth Day, the chamber dimmed. The Scrapper, perhaps recognising its master's will, unleashed its final gauntlet: a composite Sovereign, built from fragments of all prior foes. Azrail stood barely upright, eyes swollen, chest heaving. His body was wrecked. His soul bled.

But his mind — oh, his mind burned brighter than ever.

This time, there was no quadrant split. He let go of compartments, of juggling. He let his Symphony truly merge. Soul, flame, shadow, sword, spirit, mind — all threads woven into one seamless fabric.

The composite monster lunged.

Azrail moved.

He was fire and shadow. Sword and soul. Dream and distortion. Death and rebirth. Each strike wasn't one power layered on another. It was all powers as one — a single orchestra no longer needing a conductor, because the music lived in him.

The battle lasted twelve hours.

When it ended, the composite dissolved into dust. The timer blinked.

Day 5 – Hour 12 – Minute 43.

Aftermath

Azrail collapsed flat on the obsidian floor. His Infernal Form guttered out, leaving a boy's battered frame. Every flame inside him flickered weakly. His Soul Core throbbed. His Spirit Ocean was a shallow tide.

But his eyes glowed with feral triumph.

"Five days…" he rasped. "Five days without breaking… Symphony… sustained."

The Scrapper hummed, recording data. All-Seer's voice echoed:

[Master, evaluation complete. Endurance potential: limitless. With further refinement, Symphony Connected may sustain indefinitely.]

Azrail chuckled weakly, coughing blood. "Indefinitely? Heh… then I'll fight forever if I have to."

He closed his eyes, drifting into exhausted unconsciousness. But the music did not stop. It played on in his soul, in his flames, in his shadows.

The universe itself seemed to come to understand that the monster was finally fully forming, its stages not yet complete but soon. There will be none who can match Azrail in combat, at least not at the same level, and he has barely begun to fully understand all his powers. There is still more for Azrail to grasp and conquer.

'The main part is that I have hardened all my fundamentals on the gift I have.'

Azrail mused at that thought, his eyes more alive than before, letting go and fighting like this without limits being one of the ways just to burn away all of his inner frsutrations or pressures within him, not to mention that now Azail has rock-solid foundation of his basic powers, powers that has truly now started to feel like his own, which is absolutely the best way to go at this.

'But Death is still an eluding power.'

As its prince, its his duty to be someone that is fully in control of death, that is a power that Azrail still has to yet put his hands into, which will take some time from him, as even understanding towards the basic of death is not a simple fact at all, the power they gave are more extremely dangerous to use than from simple actions.

Not to mention that Azrail has a long list of activities left for him to do, soon things will start to change on a huge scale. Right now, the others will soon be done with their work, and powers will start bleeding into what Azrail wants, which would mean it's just a matter of time before Azrail has all that he wants.

'Guess it's time to shake the bottom of this realm.'

Azrail thought with a wide smile on his face, he had now finished building the basics of his battle style. From here, there would only be growth.