Chapter 36: The Crucible of the Damned
The silence of the Fourth Gate was shattered by a deafening roar of trumpets that sounded like dying suns. As Cyan and his goddesses crossed the threshold into the Fifth Gate, the bridge of light deposited them into a colossal arena. The "ground" was made of obsidian stained with the blood of a thousand different species, and the "walls" were infinite tiers of spectators—not humans, but hooded, ethereal shadows that watched in absolute, judgmental silence.
This was Agon, the Gate of Trials.
[System Notification: Entering the Fifth Gate - The Celestial Arena.]
[Rule of the Domain: No Spells, No Trickery. Only 'Will' and 'Martial Prowess'.]
[Warning: The Architects have summoned 'Champions of Fallen Timelines' to eliminate the Host.]
"Master, my mana... it's being suppressed," Isabella gasped, clutching her staff, which was no longer glowing.
"Mine too," Clara said, testing the weight of her spear. "It feels like I'm carrying lead instead of energy."
Cyan stood at the center of the arena, his eyes scanning the massive iron gates at the far end. He felt the suppression too; his "Absolute Corruption" was coiled deep within him, held back by the laws of the domain. But he didn't panic. He looked at his hands—the hands of a man who had fought his way out of the Abyss with nothing but broken fingernails and sheer spite.
"They think that by stripping our magic, they make us weak," Cyan said, his voice echoing through the silent stadium. "They forget that magic is just a tool. The 'Sin' is in the soul, and no arena can suppress that."
The iron gates groaned open. From the darkness emerged three figures, each radiating an aura of ancient, lethal experience.
The Saint of the Lost Age: A woman in shattered golden armor, wielding a blade of pure solar heat.
The Berserker of the Void: A mountain of a man with skin like cracked stone and an axe that seemed to swallow the light.
The Shadow Stalker: A lithe figure shrouded in rags, holding twin daggers that dripped with a green, soul-rotting poison.
"These are the ones who failed," Cyan whispered. "Champions who tried to reach the Architects before us and were turned into eternal guard dogs."
"KILL," the shadows in the stands hissed in unison.
The Berserker moved first. Despite his size, he crossed the arena in a single, earth-shattering leap. His axe descended toward Cyan's head with enough force to split a mountain.
"Clara! He's yours!" Cyan commanded.
Clara didn't use a spell. She used the raw physics of momentum. She slid beneath the Berserker's swing, her spear whistling through the air. With a grunt of effort, she drove the cold steel into the Berserker's unarmored thigh, using his own weight to tear a massive gash.
Meanwhile, the Saint of the Lost Age lunged at Cyan, her solar blade leaving trails of fire in the air. Cyan drew his own blade—a weapon forged from the concentrated essence of the previous gates.
The clash of steel rang out like a thunderclap. Without his magic to shield him, Cyan felt every vibration of the impact. His muscles screamed under the pressure, but his purple eye remained cold and focused.
"You fought for their 'Light' and they threw you away," Cyan said, parrying a flurry of blows. "Why do you still serve them?"
The Saint didn't answer; her eyes were vacant, replaced by glowing blue runes of the Architects. She was a puppet, nothing more.
"Isabella! Elara! The Stalker is behind you!"
Elara didn't need to be told. Even without her shadow-walking, she was a master of the blade. She spun, her twin short-swords clashing with the Stalker's daggers. It was a dance of death—a blur of steel and poison. Isabella, unable to use her destructive spells, used her staff as a quarterstaff, striking with a precision that cracked the Stalker's ribs.
The battle raged for what felt like hours. Without the quick fix of healing magic, every wound was permanent. Cyan's shoulder was scorched by the Saint's fire, and Azrael was grounded, his wings tattered by the Berserker's overhead swings.
"They don't tire..." Azrael wheezed, his obsidian blade notched and dull. "They are fueled by the arena itself."
Cyan realized the trap. The Architects weren't trying to outfight them; they were trying to exhaust them.
"Enough," Cyan growled.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the Saint's blade that was inches from his throat. He reached deep into the one place the arena couldn't suppress: the Paradox of his own existence. He wasn't just a man or a system; he was a 'Glitch'.
[Skill Forced: Law-Breaker - Blood Sovereignty.]
Cyan's own blood, leaking from his scorched shoulder, began to float. It didn't fall to the obsidian floor; it turned into jagged needles of violet crystal.
"If this world only recognizes physical force," Cyan roared, "then I will make my pain physical!"
He lunged forward, not with a sword strike, but with a brutal headbutt that shattered the Saint's runic mask. As she stumbled, he grabbed her solar blade with his bare, bleeding hand. The heat was agonizing, but he didn't let go. He forced his "Corruption" through his own blood into the Saint's weapon.
The solar blade turned from gold to a dark, bruised indigo.
"Isabella! Clara! Give me your blood!"
Understanding his plan, the Goddesses made shallow cuts on their palms, flinging their blood toward him. Cyan caught the droplets in mid-air, weaving them into a massive, jagged lance of 'Sin-Matter'.
With a roar that silenced the spectators, Cyan hurled the lance. It didn't just pierce the Berserker; it exploded into a web of corruption that tethered the three champions together.
"RECYCLE THIS!" Cyan shouted.
He slammed his fist into the ground, detonating the tethered energy. The three champions were torn apart, their bodies dissolving into the very blue code they were made of. But instead of returning to the Architects, the code was intercepted by Cyan's blood.
[System Notification: The Fifth Gate - OVERRUN.]
[Champions Consumed.]
[Core of Agon Acquired.]
[New Skill Unlocked: 'Vessel of the Fallen' - You can now summon the shades of those you have defeated to fight for you.]
The arena began to crumble. The ethereal spectators vanished in a cloud of grey ash. The heavy suppression lifted, and a torrent of mana rushed back into the Goddesses, making them gasp as their powers returned ten-fold.
Cyan stood in the center of the ruins, his hand still charred from the solar blade. He looked like a demon king rising from the wreckage of a lost world.
"Master, your hand..." Isabella ran to him, her emerald light finally able to heal the scorched flesh.
"It's a reminder," Cyan said, watching the skin knit back together. "The Architects are getting desperate. They used our own history against us. But all they did was give me more soldiers for my army."
He looked at the iron gates, which were now dissolving into a new path. Five gates were down. Seven remained.
"We aren't just climbing anymore," Cyan said, his voice cold and absolute. "We are hunting. Let's find the Sixth Gate. I want to see what else they've hidden in their 'perfect' universe."