The doors of the Veylan Orders creaked open on thick, ancient hinges — and the moment Lusei stepped inside, the air changed.

  It was warmer than he expected. Not from fire, but from motion. From life. The grand hall stretched far wider than the exterior had hinted — its black stone bones folding outward in wide tiers, with arched ceilings ribbed in steel beams and sigil-marked lanterns casting a steady amber glow.

  The place breathed.

  Warriors moved through the space in crisscrossing paths — some in full gear, others with armor loosened at the shoulders, tunics half-untied. Some were broad and scarred, veterans with hard eyes and easier laughs. Others looked no older than Lusei, their steps still cautious, their weapons too clean.

  On the upper landing, someone barked orders while half a dozen recruits marched in tandem — their boots striking stone like a heartbeat. Along the right wall, a smith pounded at a curved blade on a portable anvil, the rhythm of his hammer lost beneath the buzz of overlapping voices.

  Rodan let out a low whistle. “This is a guild?” he muttered. “Feels more like a forge that swallowed a warcamp.”

  Lusei scanned the scene with quiet awe. “It’s bigger than I thought.”

  “Feels alive,” Rodan said. “Like it doesn’t stop moving. Even at night.”

  As they stepped deeper inside, the main corridor split into multiple wings — stone staircases leading up and down, banners of thorn and flame hanging between archways. Carved murals ran along the upper walls, half-faded but still visible — depictions of warriors fending off monstrous shapes, escorting caravans through storms, and holding scrolls in one hand and bloodied blades in the other.

  Then came a sound from the right: loud cheering.

  A crowd was gathering just beyond a wide entry alcove, the noise spilling out into the hall like steam from a boiling pot.

  Rodan glanced at Lusei. “Something’s going on.”

  They turned down the corridor and followed the sound — not running, just curious. The hallway opened into a lower chamber with an open floor — a circular arena sunken ten feet below ground level. Around it stood dozens of Veylans, leaning over the railing, shouting and clapping, some with coins in hand, others holding slips of parchment.

  At the center of the pit, two figures circled each other.

  A man and a woman. Both young. Both breathing hard.

  The man was lean and wiry, shirtless, his skin marked with green-inked tattoos that pulsed faintly. He moved like a viper — low, angled, coiled. His fingers sparked with flickers of emerald energy, crackling like snapping roots.

  The woman was broader in the shoulder, clad in dark maroon wraps. Her hair was shaved on one side, braided on the other. Twin rings of flame danced around her fists, not consuming, but orbiting — controlled, elegant, tight as shackles made of fire.

  “Let’s go, Sira!” someone yelled from the crowd.

  “Fold him, Dren!” shouted another.

  Lusei leaned forward. “They’re using magic.”

  Rodan grunted. “More than magic. Techniques.”

  Dren lunged first — hand crackling with green light. Vines shot from his palm, aiming to bind her legs. Sira spun, let one wrap around her wrist, and yanked hard — using his own pull to throw him off balance. Her knee came up, caught his chest, sent him sliding back across the sand.

  But he caught himself. Rolled. Came up again.

  He raised a hand — the runes along his arms lighting up in a full circuit — and the ground beneath Sira cracked.

  Roots erupted like whips.

  The crowd whooped.

  But Sira didn’t panic.

  She pivoted, ducked, and swept her hand low — one of her flame rings flickering downward in an arc.

  The roots burned on contact.

  Then, before he could summon more, she dashed forward — both fists cloaked in fire now — and faked a right jab. Dren raised his guard.

  Too late.

  The real strike came from her left foot — a heel-hook, low and fast, sweeping his leg out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

  Sira stepped over him, one fist aimed down — flame flaring like a warning.

  He raised both hands, panting. “Yield.”

  The flames extinguished with a hiss.

  The crowd roared.

  Coins changed hands. A few clapped each other on the back. One recruit muttered, “Told you she’d read his stance. That sweep was baited from the start.”

  Rodan gave a low whistle. “She’s got brains. Not just fire.”

  Lusei nodded. “They both fought like professionals.”

  They watched a moment longer as Dren was helped up and Sira clasped his arm with a grin, no spite in her win. The two walked out of the ring together.

  Lusei turned to Rodan. “This… is interesting.”

  Rodan smirked. “Starting to feel like we’re stepping into something bigger than we guessed.”

  He gestured toward the main corridor again. “Come on. Let’s get registered before someone decides to pit us against her.”

  Lusei gave a short chuckle. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

  They made their way through the winding corridor and up a short flight of stairs, where the noise dulled again — the air quieter, more orderly. A polished wood counter stretched across the upper lobby. Behind it stood a young woman thumbing through a stack of parchment slips.

  She looked up as they approached and offered a quick smile — lively, practiced.

  “Welcome to the Elaren branch,” she said cheerfully. “You two looking to apply?”

  She wore rectangular glasses with bronze rims, her eyes a bright hazel-green behind them. Her coat was less worn than most, freshly pressed, with the Veylan sigil pinned neatly at the breast. She wasn’t tall, but stood straight, composed. Her braid was tucked back in a neat loop.

  Rodan gave a short nod. “That obvious?”

  “Only because you don’t have gear tags or a crest,” she replied easily, then offered her hand. “I’m Ketta. Records assistant and initiates liaison.”

  Lusei shook her hand. “Lusei. This is Rodan.”

  “Well, Lusei and Rodan,” she said, pulling out a ledger. “I can get you both started. Just need your names in the book and we’ll get you prepped.”

  Rodan asked, “What’s the process?”

  “One trial,” Ketta said, flipping to a fresh page. “Pass, and you’re in.”

  Lusei raised an eyebrow. “What kind of trial?”

  She glanced up at him with a sly grin. “I’ll explain on the way. But first—” she tapped the ledger, “—names go here. Then you follow me to the Trial Wing.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Rodan looked at Lusei.

  Lusei didn’t hesitate. “Let’s do it.”

  Together, they leaned forward and signed

  Ketta slid the ledger shut with a soft thump and gave them both a quick, practiced nod.

  “Well then,” she said, stepping from behind the desk, “follow me.”

  She led them down a side corridor lit by colder, steadier light than the main hall — wall lanterns glowing with soft white runes. The deeper they went, the more the noise of the lively guildhall faded behind them. Here, the stone grew smoother, newer, but colder. The floor beneath their boots vibrated faintly with energy neither of them could name.

  After a stretch of silence, Rodan spoke.

  “So this trial. Is it some kind of training arena?”

  Ketta didn’t look back. “It’s not training. It’s judgment. You’ll be tested alone — one on one.”

  “Tested how?” Lusei asked.

  “Against a monster,” she said flatly. “The Gauntlet draws from a rotation of dangerous creatures — some captured, some summoned, some… bound.”

  Lusei and Rodan exchanged a glance. Then:

  “What exactly is the Gauntlet?” Lusei asked.

  Ketta glanced back at them now, expression serious. “The Gauntlet is older than the Orders. It was discovered, not built. A chamber buried beneath the first Veylan stronghold — filled with arcane machinery and ancient bonds. The founders believed it was a proving ground left behind by those who came before.”

  “Before?” Rodan echoed.

  “Before kings. Before empires. The Gauntlet doesn’t just test your strength. It reads your intention. Your fear. It reacts to your nature. That’s why no two trials are the same.”

  Rodan gave a low grunt. “Sounds dramatic.”

  “It is,” Ketta said, “but it’s not sentimental. The Gauntlet doesn’t care what you’ve survived. It cares what you are when you’re cornered.”

  Lusei felt a ripple of nerves stir under his skin — not fear exactly, but something alert. Focused. As if the air itself had shifted when she spoke.

  “Can we watch each other’s trial?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ketta said. “The observation ring is above the pit. Veylans always watch. No better way to know who’s worth betting on.”

  Rodan gave Lusei a sideways smirk. “So you’ll get to see me crack a monster’s skull open before you go in.”

  Lusei arched a brow. “Assuming the monster doesn’t crack yours.”

  They followed Ketta around a final bend and emerged into a wide circular chamber. The stonework here was darker — veined with faint blue lines that pulsed like veins under skin. Pillars ringed the space. At the center stood the Gate.

  It looked almost organic — iron rods braided together like roots, wrapped in binding sigils that glowed with quiet menace. The air here felt denser. Charged.

  Ketta gestured toward a staircase. “Observation deck’s there. We’ll begin shortly. But first—who’s going first?”

  Lusei inhaled, mouth opening—

  “I will,” Rodan said, stepping forward.

  Lusei blinked. “You sure?”

  Rodan shrugged. “Might as well let you see how it works. Gives you an edge.”

  Lusei snorted. “What, you think I need training wheels?”

  Rodan smirked. “Didn’t say that. Just making sure you don’t go in blind.”

  Lusei crossed his arms. “Fine. First time I’m seeing you in a fight. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Rodan cracked his neck. “Understood.”

  As Rodan stepped into position, Ketta nodded to Lusei and motioned him toward the stairwell.

  “The others are already up there,” she said.

  Lusei followed the stone steps, ascending into the curved balcony that overlooked the pit. A dozen Veylans stood there already, leaning on the rails — some idly sipping from metal flasks, others passing coin pouches back and forth.

  “That one?” someone whispered, pointing to Rodan. “Looks like a walking battering ram.”

  “Durnathi, probably,” another said. “See the stance? That’s hill-born footwork.”

  “Hope the monster’s big. I want to see him throw something.”

  Lusei smiled to himself, settling into position near the front rail. The anticipation in the air was real. Not bloodthirsty, but respectful — they wanted to see what Rodan could do.

  Ketta’s voice called out across the pit.

  “Commencing Initiate Trial. Candidate Rodan Vharn. Gate open. Combat engaged.”

  The iron gate twisted open with a deep grinding groan. Magic flared across the sigils. A gust of musky air rolled out — thick and damp, like wet stone and rawhide.

  Then it came forward.

  The creature lumbered into view, each step thudding like a war drum. It was massive — eight feet tall, thick-limbed and hulking, its body a hybrid of ogre-bulk and orcish bone structure. Its muscles knotted beneath stone-gray skin. Cracked tusks jutted from its lower jaw, and one arm ended in a jagged bone-blade, while the other flexed into a crushing claw.

  Its back carried ridged, armored plates, like natural shoulder pauldrons fused with scar tissue. A spiked chain hung from its belt, dragging behind like a serpent.

  The crowd went still.

  Lusei whispered, “That’s not just a monster…”

  Beside him, someone murmured, “Garrusk. They only use those when they’re serious.”

  Rodan grinned in the pit. “Strength test it is.”

  The Garrusk roared — a sound like splintering mountains.

  And the fight began.

  The Garrusk charged with shocking speed.

  Its massive frame should’ve made it sluggish, but it moved like something starved and furious — all weight and hatred. The claw-hand came first in a brutal diagonal arc, meant to cleave.

  Rodan ducked under it by inches.

  He twisted on one foot, letting the beast overextend, then drove an elbow into its side. The hit landed — solid — but the Garrusk barely flinched.

  Rodan pivoted again, dropped low, and slammed a hammerfist into the creature’s thigh — trying to stagger the massive leg.

  The Garrusk turned with a bellow, and its spiked arm came down in a wild, jagged arc.

  Rodan caught the blow on his bracer — metal shrieking against bone-blade — and was thrown backward into the arena wall. He hit hard, rolled, and came up spitting blood.

  Up on the balcony, Lusei tensed, gripping the railing.

  The monster came fast again, the chain around its waist now whipping free — dragging across the stone floor with a clatter and flash.

  Rodan parried a chain swing, ducked a claw swipe, and jabbed three times in tight succession — left rib, right knee, solar plexus.

  The Garrusk reeled slightly.

  Rodan stepped back, breathing hard. Blood dripped from his nose.

  The runes across his arms — Ragebrand marks — lit up faintly bronze. They weren’t magic in the flashy sense. They were enhancement — grit and pressure focused into muscle memory. Internal combustion.

  The Garrusk lunged again — bone-blade forward.

  Rodan sidestepped and caught the creature’s wrist with one hand, sliding under the blow — his other hand came up in a rising elbow beneath the chin.

  The beast reeled.

  Rodan pressed the opening — shoulder-smashing into the Garrusk’s chest, knocking it backward. Then he slammed a fist into the monster’s kneecap with a low grunt.

  Crunch.

  The creature howled, buckling on one side — but not done.

  With a roar, it whipped its claw-hand across Rodan’s face.

  Blood sprayed. He staggered, half-blind in one eye now.

  Lusei stepped forward at the rail. “Rodan…”

  Rodan stumbled back.

  He was breathing harder. Staring at the monster as it circled. Watching its rhythm. Its weight.

  Then he muttered, quiet, under his breath:

  “Alright. Let’s finish it.”

  The Ragebrand runes flared again.

  They didn’t glow bright — they glowed deep. A molten copper burn that ran down his arms to his fists, pulsing like a war drum in his veins. He set his legs wide. Lowered his shoulders.

  The Garrusk bellowed — and charged with everything it had.

  Rodan stepped in.

  One breath. One strike zone.

  He shouted, voice raw and heavy with purpose:

  “Ragebrand: EARTHSPLITTER!”

  He brought both fists up and then down in one massive, full-bodied arc.

  They slammed into the Garrusk’s collarbone with the impact of a landslide — and the energy carried through it.

  The stone beneath them cracked.

  Not just a fracture — a rupture.

  The floor split from the point of impact in a jagged, thunderous line. The Garrusk’s body seized, then folded — crumpling backward like its spine had been disconnected from will.

  BOOM.

  Dust exploded upward.

  Silence.

  Then: collapse.

  The Garrusk hit the floor in a heap. It didn’t rise.

  Not a twitch.

  Rodan stood over the beast, steam curling from his shoulders, arms lowered. The tattoos dimmed to a dull copper glow.

  Up in the stands, someone whispered, “He broke the floor…”

  Another: “Did you hear that name? Earthsplitter?”

  Ketta stepped forward and raised her voice.

  “Trial complete. Candidate Rodan Vharn — passed.”

  The crowd erupted.

  Cheers. Whistles. A few claps on the railing.

  And Lusei?

  He couldn’t stop smiling.

  He leaned on the rail, watching Rodan breathe heavy in the pit below, and muttered to himself:

  “Well. Damn. Guess that’s one way to introduce yourself.”

  Rodan emerged from the pit with his coat draped over one shoulder, blood still drying along his temple. His breath came heavy, but his eyes were sharp — alert, alive.

  Lusei met him at the bottom of the stairs near the observation deck. Rodan gave a half-smile through split lips.

  “Well?” he rasped.

  Lusei chuckled. “That’s one hell of a warm-up.”

  Rodan rolled his shoulder slowly, wincing. “Warm-up? Felt more like wrestling a house made of knives.”

  “You’re leaking.”

  Rodan looked down at the blood across his ribs. “Trophies. You get used to it.”

  They stood there for a beat in quiet mutual respect — no need for more words than that.

  Then Ketta approached from the side hall, hands behind her back. “Nice work,” she said, offering Rodan a short nod. “You’ll report to the quartermaster after this for a crest fitting and record stamp.”

  Rodan grunted. “Looking forward to it.”

  Ketta turned her gaze to Lusei.

  “Your turn.”

  Lusei inhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders, and stepped toward the gate. The weight of the moment settled around him — not fear, but anticipation.

  Rodan clapped him on the shoulder. “You ready?”

  Lusei looked him dead in the eye. “Absolutely. Been wondering what I’m made of since the day I woke up in this world.”

  Rodan smirked. “Then find out.”

  Ketta walked beside Lusei now as they crossed to the pit.

  “You don’t need to win pretty,” she said. “You just need to end it.”

  Lusei raised a brow. “What if it tries to talk?”

  “Then it’s smarter than most. Doesn’t change the task.”

  They reached the center of the pit. The floor was dry now. Cleaned fast. Efficient. No sign of the Garrusk remained except a faint crack in the stone — a scar from Earthsplitter.

  Lusei looked at it, then at the gate ahead — still sealed.

  Ketta raised a hand and nodded to the control panel embedded in the wall.

  “Opening gate for Candidate Lusei.”

  From the balcony above, a few returning Veylans leaned forward, murmuring.

  “That’s the other one?”

  “Bit leaner. Quiet type.”

  “Still walked in with Earthsplitter over there. Could be interesting.”

  Rodan stood above now, arms crossed, watching in silence.

  Lusei took his place in the center of the pit.

  The gate ahead began to glow — deep blue lines tracing the bindings.

  Then the mechanisms began to shift — slow, metallic groans — as the iron twisted open like jaws peeling wide.

  The light dimmed.

  A sound came from within.

  Not a roar.

  Not footsteps.

  Just… breathing.

  Heavy. Slow. Wrong.

  Lusei narrowed his eyes and lowered into his stance.

  And then—

  darkness moved.