The path did not welcome them.
It narrowed as they moved forward, stone pulling inward like ribs closing around a heart. The mist that once drifted calmly now pressed close, heavy and watchful.
Salemadon felt it immediately.
This place was not neutral.
It resisted him.
Pahtem pulsed once in his hand—not a warning, but a reminder. The dull ache from the Arbiter's lesson still lived in his arm, deep and constant.
Brughan noticed his grip tighten.
"You're feeling it too, aren't you?"
Salemadon nodded. "The world is pushing back."
Althara slowed her steps. "That means we're no longer in preparation zones. These paths react to intent."
A low sound rolled through the mist.
Not wind.
Movement.
Salemadon raised his hand.
They stopped.
THE FIRST REAL ENEMIES
Figures emerged from the fog.
Not shadows.
Not echoes.
People.
They wore layered armor made of dark stone and metal threads, their faces hidden behind cracked masks. Each carried weapons shaped like bent spears and hooked blades.
They moved with purpose.
With hunger.
Brughan cursed under his breath. "Those aren't Trials."
"No," Althara said quietly. "They're hunters."
The figures spread out, circling slowly.
One stepped forward.
"You carry balance," it said in a distorted voice. "That makes you valuable."
Salemadon stepped ahead of the others.
"I'm not for sale."
The hunter tilted its head. "Everything is—once broken enough."
They attacked.
COMBAT WITHOUT MERCY
The first hunter lunged.
Salemadon met it head-on.
Pahtem moved—not in rage, not in excess—but clean, controlled. He redirected the spear aside and struck the hunter's chest with a sharp burst of Threads.
The armor cracked.
The hunter flew backward, crashing into the mist.
Another came from the side.
Salemadon twisted, feeling the familiar pain surge as he forced Pahtem to respond quickly. He gritted his teeth and held back—balance, not dominance—and used the enemy's momentum against them.
Stone shattered.
The hunter fell.
Brughan roared and charged, slamming into a third enemy with raw strength, grappling and throwing them off the path entirely.
Althara moved with precision, striking weak points, never wasting motion.
But there were too many.
More stepped from the fog.
Five.
Then seven.
Salemadon's breathing grew heavy.
This wasn't a test.
This was survival.
THE WORLD RESISTS
The ground shook.
The path itself began to fracture beneath Salemadon's feet.
The world rejected force.
A hunter struck him hard across the shoulder. Pain flared as he staggered back, nearly losing Pahtem.
He caught himself—barely.
This is the cost, he realized.
Balance makes everything harder.
Another blow sent him to one knee.
Brughan shouted his name.
Salemadon pushed himself up.
"I'm still standing," he growled.
He lifted Pahtem—not higher, not stronger—but steadier.
The Threads responded.
Not violently.
Precisely.
TURNING THE TIDE
Salemadon stopped attacking.
Instead, he guided.
He redirected strikes into each other. He bent force away from allies and toward open space. He let the hunters' aggression exhaust them.
One by one, their movements slowed.
Confusion spread among them.
"This is wrong," one hissed. "He should be overpowering us."
"He's not fighting to win," another growled. "He's fighting to endure."
Salemadon met their gaze.
"I don't need to break you," he said. "I only need to move forward."
With one final controlled strike, he shattered the ground beneath the hunters.
The path split.
The enemies fell into the mist below, their shouts swallowed by silence.
AFTER THE STORM
The world stilled.
The path repaired itself slowly, stone knitting back together as if satisfied.
Salemadon leaned on Pahtem, breathing hard.
Brughan stared at him. "You could've ended that faster."
"Yes," Salemadon replied. "And paid more than I can afford."
Althara studied him carefully.
"You're changing," she said. "Not growing stronger. Growing… steadier."
Salemadon nodded.
"That's the only way I survive what's coming."
Ahead, the path opened into a wide expanse of dark terrain.
Lights flickered in the distance.
Civilization.
And danger far greater than hunters.
Salemadon straightened.
"Let's move," he said. "The world has noticed us now."
And somewhere beyond the mist—
Something noticed him back.
Trials prepare you. The world tries to break you.