Stone stairways curved downward into the earth, lit by faintly pulsing glyphs embedded along the walls. The descent was slow and silent, save for the steady echo of their steps. Each rune underfoot seemed to hum with recognition—alive, waiting. The deeper they went, the colder it grew, until the air felt carved from memory itself.
Altan led them to a sealed archway of black stone. At its center, a carved sigil shimmered faintly: a storm enclosed by a circle, crossed by five elemental lines. He placed a hand upon it. The glyphs responded—not to force, but to familiarity. A deep vibration rolled through the stone, and the arch split apart like folded wings, revealing a vast circular chamber.
Inside stood an older man wrapped in soot-stained robes, grease on his hands, and a permanent scowl carved into his brow.
"About time," he muttered. "You're late."
Altan inclined his head. "Daalo."
The man grunted. "Chambers are ready. Took long enough for you to send them."
Wen Tu stepped forward, whispering, "Who's that?"
"Chief engineer," Ryoku said quietly. "He built most of Tenger Ul with Altan. Doesn't like people. Likes stone."
"Stone listens," Daalo barked, as if hearing them. "People talk too much."
The circular room held five great stone platforms, each etched with glowing sigils representing the five major elemental paths: Earth, Water, Fire, Air, and Spirit. Between them, countless secondary glyphs—lesser known, rarer types—floated faintly in the air like dust motes of light.
"These are test circles," Daalo said. "Altan carved the glyphs. I built the conduits. Stormguard elemental shamans channel the field. Step in, one by one. It'll show your affinity—what's in your blood, and what hides in your marrow."
He pointed at a ring of shamans seated in meditation around the chamber, their hands extended toward the center, eyes closed, breath flowing as one.
Altan nodded. "Wen Tu. Again."
Wen Tu blinked. "Didn't I do this already?"
"You've grown. And change isn't always visible."
Wen Tu stepped into the center glyph. As he did, the circle lit with deep green and blue. Earth and water. Then—softly—a hue of living brown unfurled like spring.
"Wood," one shaman whispered. "A rare thread."
Wen Tu grinned. "Guess I'm more tree than monk."
Next was Ryoku. As he entered the circle, a sharp silver light pulsed beneath his feet. Iron hues laced through it.
"Steel," murmured Daalo, almost impressed. "That's rare. Tempered earth."
Bruga followed. His glyphs flared orange and red, molten and strong—but also thick with grounding brown.
"Earth and fire," the shamans confirmed. But then, a spark—a flicker of gold.
"Lightning," one whispered. "Faint. Dormant."
Bruga snorted. "Knew I had thunder in my bones."
Kael stepped in next. The circle whirled to life with pale wind—a current sharp and clean—but with it, shadows pulsed along the edge, curling like ink through water.
"Wind... and shadow," said a shaman, brow furrowing. "Not illusion. True affinity."
Then came Nyzekh.
He stepped into the center. Nothing happened.
The shamans stiffened. The glyphs hesitated.
Then the air stilled.
Black light—if it could be called light—pulsed once.
Nothing. Then everything. The circle showed no image. No color.
Only a void. A blank slate.
Daalo stared. "He has no element."
Altan's eyes narrowed. "No. He has all potential—and none."
"Tabula rasa," one shaman whispered. "The void."
Outside the chamber, Chaghan leaned toward Altan. "We didn't even notice him enter. The dark elf."
Altan didn't look away from the glyphs. "I noticed him the moment he stepped into the maze."
"But the guards didn't—"
"The maze did," Altan said.
Chaghan blinked. "It told you?"
Altan nodded once. "The avatar within it speaks to me. It reported an intruder. I told it to test him. But if he passed..."
"Let him through," Chaghan finished.
"Exactly."
Inside the chamber, the shamans lowered their hands.
Altan stepped forward, voice clear.
"You've all seen yourselves reflected. Now, we see what shape your paths will take."
A silent figure emerged from the far side of the chamber—tall, robed in dark azure, face featureless and still. The silent avatar.
It bowed once to Altan, then to the disciples. Without a word, it turned and led them through another rune-sealed passage.
Beyond it lay a grand vaulted chamber—lined with scrolls, tomes, and shelves crafted from living wood. The Library.
Here, for a full year, the avatar labored in silence. From Altan's own sea of memory and mind, the silent guardian transcribed knowledge thought lost to time. No one knew—not even the disciples—that this was Altan's secret. He would never speak of it.
Tomes of forgotten martial paths. Ancient medicine. Formulas for elixirs that healed—or killed. Manuals of cultivation, spirit harmonics, and the blueprints of dead dynasties. Books on the rise and ruin of empires. Records of the First and Second Wars between the Gale Army and the Zhong Empire. Even treatises on strategy and battlefield command.
A complete archive.
Altan turned to them.
"For the next month, you will remain here. Study. Read. Let your minds be sharpened before your blades. Ask the elder"—he gestured to the silent avatar—"and he will guide you. Seek, and you may find what you did not know you were missing."
He paused, his voice deepening.
"This chamber bends time. A month will pass outside, but within these walls, three years await you."
A hush followed.
"When you tire, you'll find resting quarters beyond the far hall. The kitchens are stocked. There is an arena—ask the elder if you wish to spar against the wraiths. He will offer counsel, and guidance."
Altan turned toward the exit.
"I will return in one month of the outside world. When I do, I will test what you have learned."
He stopped at the threshold, gaze sharp.
"This place must remain secret. Never reveal it to anyone—not its purpose, nor its name. This is the guarded heart of the Gale Citadel. Break that trust... and death will follow."