CHAPTER 508: CORE

The chamber pulsed once, like a single heartbeat, and the pit erupted.

Shadows poured upward in a spiraling torrent, not like smoke, but like living limbs of fractured memories, reaching with clawed fingers of half-formed light. They screeched in overlapping voices—thousands of whispers colliding into a maddening chorus.

Nysha was already moving. She grabbed Lindarion’s forearm and yanked him back as a tendril of obsidian mist lashed where his chest had been a second earlier.

"Lindarion—focus!" she snapped.

But he could barely hear her.

Because the shadows were speaking to him.

Not in words.

Not in sentences.

In visions.

Flashes hammered his mind—

A forest burning under a violet moon.

A titan kneeling with its throat torn open.

A woman with silver hair lying in a pool of her own blood—

Luneth.

He jerked, breath catching. The gold-shadow aura around him surged out uncontrollably.

Nysha’s eyes widened. "He’s resonating with them—pull him out!"

But before she could reach him, the glyph beneath Lindarion’s feet sealed with a blinding snap of white fire, locking him inside a circle of runes. The ground rumbled as multiple concentric rings spun, forming a barrier that neither Nysha nor Ashwing could cross.

Ashwing slammed into it face-first with a squeak. "OW—HEY!! Excuse—! Let me in! That’s my emotional support demi-human!"

Nysha cursed and tried to carve the barrier with her dagger, but the blade skidded off harmlessly, sparks scattering.

"Lindarion!" she shouted. "You have to control it yourself! We can’t reach you!"

But Lindarion wasn’t listening.

Because the shadows had taken form.

Six silhouettes rose from the pit, each dense enough to be almost corporeal. They were humanoid in shape, barely, but wrong. Their limbs bent at angles no body ever should. Their eyes glowed with fractured runes.

They hovered above the circle, surrounding him like judges at an ancient tribunal.

Ashwing swallowed audibly. "This is fine. This is healthy. I’m sure this won’t cause lifelong trauma."

The central shade stepped forward. Its voice warped between echoes—old, young, male, female, all at once.

"Chosen of dusk and dawn...

Bearer of the fractured crown...

Child of the forbidden lineage...

Prove that you are worthy to claim the Heart."

Lindarion exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

"So this is the inheritance test," he said.

The six entities moved in unison.

"Your power is borrowed.

Your destiny... fragile.

Your bloodline... stained.

We will judge all three."

Lindarion lifted his hand.

Gold and shadow coiled around his fingers like twin serpents.

"Then come judge me."

The shades lunged.

The first strike was instant, a spear of crystallized shadow shot toward his throat. Lindarion parried, twisting his body and letting the attack scrape his shoulder. A second attack came from behind, claws aiming for his spine. Lindarion ducked, spun, and kicked, launching a wave of compressed mana that made the shade crackle and hiss.

Nysha watched from outside, jaw tight.

His movements were cleaner, sharper, than ever before.

But the trial wasn’t about skill.

It was about bearing the inheritance.

And the shadows were learning him. Adapting.

The next attack wasn’t physical.

The third shade opened its mouth, and screamed.

The sound was silent, yet it hammered into Lindarion’s skull. His vision fractured. The arena warped. The runes beneath him dimmed. His legs buckled.

In front of him, Luneth’s face appeared in the flickering haze, beautiful, serene, dying.

Her voice whispered:

"Why didn’t you save me?"

His chest seized.

"No," he growled, gripping his head. "That’s not real."

The shadows dove at him while he staggered, seizing on the moment of weakness.

Ashwing rammed futilely into the barrier again. "Let me IN, you stupid ancient death-circle!! He needs emotional support AND water and probably a nap!"

Nysha’s hand flattened against the barrier, her eyes hard and worried.

"Lindarion," she whispered, "fight it. Don’t let them into your head."

But Lindarion stood—slowly—forcing the illusions to burn away. His aura flared like a star beginning to supernova, gold spiraling with black, intertwining perfectly.

He raised both hands.

"Enough."

A shockwave blasted outward. Three shades evaporated instantly.

Nysha shielded her face. Ashwing shrieked. The entire cavern trembled, runes flickering erratically like they couldn’t decide whether to yield or resist.

The remaining three entities circled him carefully now, wary.

The central one lowered its head.

"Your strength exceeds projection."

Its voice softened.

"But the trial is not yet passed."

Lindarion stared it down.

"What remains?"

The cavern dimmed.

Cold swallowed the air.

And the last three shades merged into a single massive figure—towering, monstrous, dripping with the same energy as the Devourer’s nightmare from his vision.

A colossal, horned silhouette with a hollow chest and a grin carved too wide.

The voice that emerged was deeper, wiser, older.

"Face the echo of Dythrael."

Nysha stiffened.

Ashwing fell silent.

The temperature dropped another ten degrees.

And Lindarion...

Smiled grimly.

"Good," he said.

"I needed practice."

The echo stepped forward.

The trial truly began.

It didn’t run.

It didn’t leap.

It simply appeared in front of Lindarion—one blink and it was there, its enormous claw already swinging down in a vertical strike that could split a titan in half.

Lindarion threw himself sideways.

The claw carved the glyph-circle open in a burst of shadow, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the stone beneath him. The air rippled from the impact, tearing the cavern’s silence apart.

Nysha flinched. "That thing is drawing on—what is that, aetheric shadow? Something deeper?"

Ashwing squeaked, wings plastered to his body. "That’s not an echo. That’s a tax audit from hell."

Lindarion didn’t hear either of them.

Because the thing in front of him wasn’t just powerful—

it felt aware.

The echo turned its faceless head, following his every movement, analyzing him with a predator’s ease. Its hollow chest pulsed with a dark-blue core, throbbing like a heartbeat.

Lindarion steadied his breathing.

Shadow in his left hand.

Gold in his right.

He launched forward.

The two auras tangled behind him, twisting into a helix of light and dark that trailed in his wake as he closed the distance. The echo reacted instantly, one claw rising to block.

Lindarion’s left hand—shadow—met its strike.

His right—light—slammed into its core.

The cavern boomed, the runes flaring violently.