Time passed, and Solstice Day arrived.
I woke before dawn with a weight in my chest—an eerie stillness that crawled under my skin. Fear lingered there, quiet but present, yet beneath it was something else. Readiness. Not confidence born of arrogance, but the kind forged through repetition and pain.
Three months.
Three months of survival training. Of learning when to hide and when to stand my ground. Of combat drills that left my body bruised and my pride shattered more times than I could count. I lost often—more than I won—but near the end, something shifted. My movements sharpened. My instincts stopped hesitating. I started winning.
The katana became my anchor. The moment I held it, everything else faded. The balance, the flow—it felt natural, like my body had been waiting for it long before my mind caught up. No second-guessing. No resistance. Just rightness.
After finishing my preparations, I stood still and looked down at my shadow.
"It's only us from here on out," I said quietly. "I trust you."
The words settled deep, heavier than a vow.
"You are me. I am you. We aren't separate. We aren't a pair. We are one. Our life is one."
For the first time, my shadow didn't mock me or look away. He met my gaze—steady, unwavering—and nodded with firm confidence.
No doubt.
No hesitation.
We were ready.
I went to the cafeteria to have one last good meal.
Normally, excitement would have driven me to stuff myself without thinking, piling my tray high as if excess could calm my nerves. But today was different. I held back, eating only enough to satisfy my hunger—no more, no less.
Sparing food was one of the first survival rules Professor Scare drilled into me. Waste meant weakness. Excess meant complacency.
The day before, he had pulled me aside.
"Make it back," he'd said, his tone somber, almost weighed down by experience.
I hadn't responded. I hadn't promised anything when I left.
After everything I'd learned in his class, making promises like that felt wrong—almost dishonest. Promises didn't stop blades. They didn't turn aside claws.
Where I was going, danger came in countless forms. Beasts of every rank, demons I hadn't even known existed. Creatures that hunted without mercy.
But none of them were the worst threat.
The worst danger was having to watch your back.
People died out there—not just from monsters, but from each other. And the highest death toll didn't come from beasts or demons at all.
It came from other people.
The ground trembled again.
Whispers spread through the crowd, sharp and frantic, but they barely reached me. My breath stayed slow. Steady.
I'm expecting you of all people to survive.
Charon's voice surfaced in my mind as clearly as if he were standing beside me.
Because you are strong.
I tightened my grip at my side, feeling the familiar weight there—even if the weapon itself wasn't drawn. Strength hadn't come from muscle alone. It never had.
You held back in your first fight.
You didn't even have a weapon.
The memory played itself out in fragments—Trace's stance, the hesitation, the moment I'd chosen restraint instead of force.
That wasn't luck, Charon had said. That was instinct.
Around me, someone cursed under their breath. Another student took a step back, bumping into the person behind them. Fear was spreading, fast and uncontrolled.
Your only weakness was technique. And you learned it.
I had. I knew that now.
The tremor faded, replaced by a thick, unnatural silence.
You're smart. Calculating. Conniving.
A corner of my mouth twitched. I'd always thought thinking ahead made me cautious. Charon had called it what it was.
The way you think will be your most valuable asset.
The air shifted.
I felt it before I saw anything—pressure, like the world drawing in a breath.
Trust your instincts.
Light began to gather, blinding and absolute, swallowing the edges of my vision.
Believe in them.
The voice came.
And this time, we weren't being tested.
This time, we were entering the Hallow.
Without a single command, my shadow surged toward me.
It moved on instinct alone, flowing up my legs and wrapping around my body like a second skin. Power flooded through me—raw and immediate—settling into my muscles, my bones, my breath. It wasn't reckless or overwhelming. It was protective.
As if it understood before I did.
My heartbeat slowed even as my strength increased, every sense sharpening at once. The tremble in my limbs vanished. The fear that should have followed never came.
This wasn't something I'd summoned.
This was something that chose me.
The bond snapped into place fully, seamless and absolute. Shadow and flesh, thought and instinct, no hesitation between them. Where I ended and it began no longer mattered.
It wasn't reacting to danger.
It was preparing for it—before I had time to think.
Before the light finished taking me.
In mere moments, I was alone.
A vast, endless darkness stretched in every direction—no ground, no sky, no sense of distance. It felt as though I was nothing and everything at the same time. My consciousness remained intact. I could think. I could feel. I was alive, suspended in the void.
Then my attention was pulled elsewhere.
A voice.
"Hello, Asher. Rank: Touched."
The words didn't echo. They didn't need to. They existed directly inside me.
"The Solstice has begun. You are now in the entering ceremony."
My thoughts raced, then steadied. I remembered this. Not as a memory, but as recognition—like my soul acknowledging a truth it had always known.
Equipment first.
Without hesitation, I called upon the Hellhide Garb.
Light bloomed within the darkness, gathering and shaping itself in front of me. I reached out instinctively, my fingers sinking into the glow before closing around something solid. The moment I pulled it toward myself, the fabric unfolded and wrapped around my body seamlessly.
I was wearing it.
The material was thin, almost weightless, yet undeniably strong. It adapted to every movement I made, flowing with my muscles and breath as if it anticipated them. It didn't feel like armor.
It felt like skin.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the voice spoke again.
"Ancient detected. Hellhide Garb confirmed. Rank: Inscribed."
Something settled into place at those words—deeper than relief. Recognition. Acceptance.
As the garb fully synchronized with me, my presence shifted. My outline blurred, my weight on the world lessened, as if I were being erased from perception itself. The darkness no longer felt external.
My presence diminished almost completely.
I was no longer just standing in the darkness.
I was the darkness.