CHAPTER 136: THE BATTLE FOR THE SPIRE

They ascended the spiraling bone staircase, the silence heavy between them. Mela was the first to speak, her voice a sharp hiss in the quiet.

"So, human, what is the plan for the next room? Are you going to swing from the ceiling again, or do you have an even more idiotic trick this time?"

Nox did not look back at her. ’She’s still annoying. At least she’s consistent.’

"My plans work," was all he said.

Serian moved a little closer to him, her voice quiet. "Nox, that power you used... the way you changed. It was not just an upgrade, was it? Something fundamental is different about you."

He just shrugged. "The System rebooted. It’s more efficient now."

They reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the third chamber. It was a perfect, circular room, completely empty. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all made of the same polished black stone, featureless and smooth. The only object was another iron door on the far side.

As soon as they were all inside, the door behind them slammed shut, and the Lich King’s voice filled the space. It was no longer mocking, but held a cold, analytical tone.

"Strength of body and mind are trivial things. The true measure of a being is the weight of their soul. The final trial is a test of the spirit. Face the ghosts of your own making. Survive, and you may face me. Fail, and you will be their eternal playthings."

The room remained empty, but the air grew heavy. A faint, shimmering haze filled the space.

Mela suddenly gasped, stumbling backward. Her eyes were wide with a terror that was not directed at anything in the room. "No... Liesa... Valeria..."

She drew her blowgun, but her hands were shaking. "Stay back! It was not my fault! I was not strong enough!"

Serian cried out, her hand flying to her mouth. She was staring at a point in the empty room, tears streaming down her face. "Father? Mother? No... the fire... I tried... I am sorry, I am so sorry..."

’Illusions,’ Nox thought, his mind clear and cold. [Analysis: Psych-mana constructs. They are feeding on the targets’ emotional resonance. They have no physical substance.]

He looked around, but he saw nothing. The room was still just an empty, black space. ’So where’s mine? Don’t I get a ghost?’

Then, the familiar, hated sound of jeering laughter filled his ears. The polished black floor beneath him shifted, the stone replaced by the grimy, cracked linoleum of a school hallway. The cold, magical torchlight was gone, replaced by the flickering, institutional hum of fluorescent lights.

Mark stood in front of him, his face twisted in that same arrogant sneer. His two lackeys were beside him, cracking their knuckles. Behind them, Ms. Joy leaned against a locker, a bored, amused look on her face.

"Well, well, look what we have here," the illusion of Mark said, his voice dripping with condescending slime. "It’s the pathetic loser. Gonna cry to your mommy? Oh, wait. You don’t have one."

Nox felt a ghost of the old, familiar coldness in his gut. The feeling of being small, weak, and utterly helpless.

The illusion of Mark took a step forward. "What’s the matter, freak? Cat got your tongue?"

Nox didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

’This is inefficient,’ he thought, the voice of Liona a calm, clear counterpoint to the phantom memory. ’Emotional responses are a waste of energy. The construct is designed to provoke a reaction. Optimal response is emotional disengagement.’

He just stared at the illusion, his face a complete blank.

The illusion of Mark seemed to get angrier at his lack of response. "Are you deaf, you pathetic piece of shit?! I’m talking to you!"

He swung a phantom fist.

The punch passed right through Nox’s head without any effect. Nox didn’t even blink.

’It’s just data,’ he thought. ’And data can be rewritten.’

He reached out his own hand, not to strike, but with his palm open. A quiet, deep hum of void energy, invisible to the naked eye, emanated from his hand. He wasn’t shaping it into a weapon. He was shaping it into a concept. The concept of... nothing.

He touched the illusion of Mark on the forehead.

The illusion froze. The sneer on its face was replaced by a look of sudden, dawning terror. It felt its own programmed aggression, its manufactured confidence, being drained away, consumed by the absolute emptiness of the void.

"What... what are you doing?" the illusion stammered, its form starting to flicker.

"I’m deleting you," Nox said, his voice quiet.

He closed his hand, and the illusion of Mark didn’t scream. It just... vanished. It was not destroyed; it was erased from the psychic landscape of the trial, its energy consumed and assimilated by Nox’s core.

The illusions of the other bullies and the teacher looked at the empty space where their leader had been, then at Nox, their programmed arrogance dissolving into pure, primal fear. They turned and fled, fading back into the haze of the room.

The school hallway dissolved, and he was back in the black, stone chamber.

He turned to look at his companions. Serian was on her knees, sobbing, swinging her sword at enemies that weren’t there. Mela was backed into a corner, throwing her needles wildly at invisible phantoms, her face a mask of panicked grief.

’They are compromised,’ Liona’s voice stated in his mind. ’Their emotional distress is feeding the constructs. They cannot break free on their own.’

He let out a sigh. ’This is so inefficient.’

He walked over to Serian first. She flinched as he approached, her eyes not seeing him, but the burning ruins of her home.

He didn’t say her name. He didn’t try to comfort her. He just placed his hand on her shoulder.

A pulse of pure, silent void energy flowed from his hand into her. It did not harm her. It just... erased. It scrubbed the psychic residue of the illusion from her mind, a clean wipe of corrupted data.

Serian gasped, her body going rigid. The tears stopped. Her eyes cleared, and she was looking at him, her own face reflected in his cold, gray eyes. The phantoms of her past were gone.

"Nox...?"

He didn’t answer. He was already walking toward Mela. He did the same thing, a simple touch, another pulse of the void. Her frantic struggles ceased, and she slumped against the wall, her needles clattering to the floor, her breathing ragged but her eyes clear.

The chamber was silent. The trial was over.

"Impossible..." the Lich King’s voice whispered from the walls. It was not a taunt. It was a statement of pure, unadulterated disbelief. "You... you consumed them. You did not conquer your fears. You ate them. What kind of monster are you?"

The final iron door at the end of the room swung open with a slow, heavy groan. The path to the final confrontation was clear.

Nox just looked up at the ceiling. "The kind that’s coming for you."

---

They stood before the final door. Mela was leaning against the wall, still trying to catch her breath, her face pale. Serian was looking at Nox, her expression a complex mixture of awe, gratitude, and a deep, unsettling fear.

"Thank you, Nox," she said, her voice quiet. "You saved us. From... from ourselves."

"They were just illusions," he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A waste of time."

"They felt real," Mela muttered, pushing herself off the wall. She looked at him, and for the first time, there was no anger or sarcasm in her eyes, just a raw, unnerving respect. "How did you do that? How did you just... turn them off?"

"I deleted the corrupted files," he said, not even trying to make sense.

He walked to the open doorway. Beyond it was not another staircase, but a short, wide bridge made of the same polished black stone. It spanned a chasm of pure, swirling darkness. On the other side of the bridge was a large, circular platform, and on that platform, seated on a throne of jagged, black crystal, was the Lich King.

He was not a projection this time. He was real.

The air around him was so cold it felt like it could freeze their breath. The blue fire in his eye sockets burned with an intense, hateful light.

"So, the mice have navigated the maze," the Lich King said, his voice smooth and cold. He rose from his throne, a tall, elegant figure of death. In his hand, he held a staff of twisted, black metal, topped with a screaming, soul-trapped crystal. "I must confess, I am impressed. Your companion’s control over the void is... unique. I very much look forward to dissecting it."

He pointed his staff at them. "But your journey ends here. The prize for completing my trials is a swift, clean death."

Nox just cracked his knuckles. "You talk too much."

"Come, then," the Lich King said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let us finish this."

Nox started to walk onto the bridge, but Serian put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "Wait. Let me go first."

He looked at her. "Why?"

"Because his weakness is pure mana," she said, her expression determined. "My power is the antithesis of his. I am the best equipped to face him."

"And he’s a Level 90 Archlich," Mela added, her voice grim. "This is not a fight you can win with brute force, human. Your void power might be strong, but he is a master of necromancy. He will have counters for it."

He looked from one to the other. They were right, of course. Liona’s analysis confirmed it. [Primary threat is a high-tier magic caster. Optimal engagement strategy involves neutralizing its spellcasting capabilities. The entity ’Serian Feselian’ possesses the highest probability of success in this regard.]

’So I’m supposed to just stand here and watch?’ The thought was intensely annoying.

"You will not be watching," Serian said, as if reading his mind. "You will be my shield, and my sword. He will focus on me. That will be your opening." She looked at Mela. "Keep your distance. Harass him with your needles. Do not let him focus on casting."

It was a solid plan. It was efficient. He hated it.

"Fine," he grunted. "But if you start losing, I’m jumping in."

"I will not lose," she said, and for the first time, he saw the true steel of a princess of Lifewoods in her eyes. It was not arrogance; it was absolute, unwavering resolve.

She walked onto the bridge.

The Lich King laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "The little princess comes to offer herself as a sacrifice? How noble. And how foolish."

He raised his staff, and a dozen spectral skulls, wreathed in blue fire, materialized in the air around him. "Die."

The skulls shot across the bridge.

Serian did not flinch. She raised her own sword, and a brilliant, golden light erupted from her body. It was not the gentle warmth of her healing magic. This was the fierce, burning light of the sun, a power meant to scourge and purify.

"By the light of Lifewoods," she declared, her voice ringing with power, "you will be unmade!"

She swung her sword, and a wave of pure, golden energy shot out, meeting the spectral skulls head-on. The skulls screamed as the holy light touched them, dissolving into harmless smoke.

The battle for the spire had begun.