The door to the Crucible groaned open, its iron frame etched with ancient runes that shimmered with a subdued, ever-pulsing light. Cold mist curled along the floor, and the silence within was complete—so complete that even the wind held its breath.
Altan stepped into the chamber first, the silent avatar by his side. The disciples followed, their footsteps echoing like the first drops of rain before a storm.
"This is the Crucible," Altan said. "Just like the library, time moves differently here. One month outside. Three years inside."
He turned to the avatar, who raised a hand. Glyphs along the far wall ignited in sequence, casting a pale silver light across the stone floor. A low hum followed, rising like a heartbeat.
"This chamber was not built for training," Altan continued. "It was carved from the bedrock of this chasm to do what no battlefield can: test not just your skill, but your endurance, clarity, and will. This is where the first Stormguards were forged. You will either rise through fire or you will be broken."
He paused. "You will be attacked. The wraiths will come. One at first. Then more. By the end, you will face hundreds. They do not tire. They do not speak. And they do not stop."
The disciples exchanged glances, but none stepped back.
"There are resting quarters beyond that arch," Altan said, pointing to a shadowed corridor. "A mess hall and meditation cells. An arena. Food and sleep are yours to manage. The avatar will keep time. You may seek its guidance, but it cannot fight for you."
He looked at them each in turn.
"The knowledge you gained was only foundation. Now we shape it. I will return in one month. That will be three years for you. I expect to see Stormguards. Not students."
Then, his voice lowered.
"Do not fail."
He turned and walked back through the door, which sealed shut behind him with a heavy thrum. The light shifted. The Crucible had begun.
The first wraith came on the third day.
A blur of grey wind and shadow, it struck at dawn with a blade of condensed spiritual force. Nyzekh was the first to react, blades drawn and stance grounded. His Void resonance surged as he met the strike head-on, defending the group before any of them could move. The wraith dissolved like ash. But that was only the beginning.
By the end of the first month, each disciple had faced at least a dozen. The attacks came at unpredictable intervals—some in the middle of meals, others during sleep or meditation. The Crucible did not permit comfort. Only readiness.
Wen Tu created layered barrier formations in the dormitories, weaving his Greenwake Resonance through stone and air to form protective auras. His healing pulses became instinct. Whenever Bruga or Ryoku stumbled back bleeding or burned, Wen Tu's presence was already there, hands pressed, breath focused, mantra spoken.
Bruga began to fight with patience, letting Earth root him and Fire drive him only when necessary. The Emberroot Resonance taught him to absorb impact and build strength like a forge under pressure. When a pair of wraiths charged him together, he held both back with arms wide and a roar that cracked the floor beneath.
Ryoku moved with razor discipline. He refined his counterstrokes to the point where his blade no longer met resistance; it anticipated it. When three wraiths struck in unison, his Ironveil Resonance let him redirect their momentum into each other with a single motion.
Kael began marking the walls with shadow maps, each denoting a place the wraiths appeared. He used these to create kill zones, striking with the Ghost Syllable Blade from blind angles. His steps became ghostlier by the week. Sometimes, even the others could not see him until he chose to speak.
Nyzekh trained harder than all of them. He rose before the rest and rested only after they had fallen asleep.
He asked the avatar questions that strained language: about the void, about memory, about suppression fields. He fought not one wraith, but five, then ten. His movements never matched a single style. Each week, he adapted again. It was not mimicry. It was integration.
Once, Nyzekh collapsed from spiritual exhaustion, his breath shallow and blades slipping from his grasp. Wen Tu carried him to a healing chamber and began the intricate process of restoring his qi flow. Unlike the other disciples, Nyzekh's Void elemental resonance disrupted conventional meridian pathways. Many of his qi channels appeared fragmented or collapsed, creating pockets where energy could neither circulate nor be replenished. Wen Tu carefully mapped these irregularities, applying targeted pressure to activate dormant acupuncture points and stimulate secondary collateral vessels. He infused his Greenwake energy not as a river, but as a mist—slow, soft, and searching. He pulsed qi through unfamiliar routes, tracing the edges of Nyzekh's void-warped structure like navigating a fractured mirror.
His hands moved with meticulous precision, fingers adjusting in micro-measurements while his mind held a mantra of restoration and anchoring. At several points, the energy he sent out simply vanished into emptiness, devoured by Nyzekh's resonance. Wen Tu had to pause, recalibrate, and channel from indirect pathways, looping energy through his own system first before reintroducing it.
It was unlike any healing Wen Tu had studied—challenging the very fundamentals of energy restoration.
"Your channels shift like shadowfire," Wen Tu muttered. "No anchor. No root."
When Nyzekh's eyes finally opened, Wen Tu gave a weary smile. "Please be careful. Of all of us, you're the hardest to heal." He paused, then added with a wry grin, "Seriously—your meridians are a nightmare."
Nyzekh gave a weak chuckle. "I'll try not to explode again."
Even Wen Tu, despite his occasional jokes and wandering attention, studied long into the false nights. He memorized every page on battlefield shielding and practiced mantras for breath-linking wounded allies. His spells grew stronger. More luminous.
Bruga teased him once during a rare moment of peace. "You wear a monk's robe, but you speak more like a gambler."
Wen Tu smirked. "The robe hides a thousand intentions. As the book said, 'The leaf that floats may still hold the strength to dam the river.'"
Laughter broke tension like sunlight through clouds.
By the second year, the wraiths came in squadrons. Teams formed naturally—Kael and Nyzekh pairing off for flanking strikes, Ryoku and Bruga taking center, Wen Tu buffering their injuries and reinforcing barriers between waves.
There were moments of doubt. Nyzekh, a dark-elf born to a lineage scorned by humans, struggled with distance—not from his skill, but from fear. Not his own, but what he believed the others must feel.
One night, as the wraiths faded and silence returned, Bruga sat beside him.
"We've bled beside you. Trained beside you. I don't care if your skin's obsidian or if your spirit hums like a storm. You're my brother in arms. That's all that matters."
Kael nodded from the shadows. "You fight. You bleed. You stand. That's all I see."
Wen Tu added softly, "You doubt more than we ever did. And that's why you're worthy."
By the third year, something changed. The disciples began to anticipate the attacks, not with fear, but with resolve. They no longer just defended.
They hunted.
They traced the sources, triangulated emergence points, identified the Crucible's inner anchor. And when they moved, it was not with hesitation. It was with intention.
They stormed the source chamber at the Crucible's core.
There, they faced a being beyond the wraiths—a shadow-forged entity, a convergence of spirit residue and combative will: a Remnant Echo.
It fought like all they had faced, combined.
The Remnant Echo moved with the speed of a wraith, the force of a brute, and the precision of a master. It wielded weapons formed from condensed anguish—swords of regret, claws of vengeance. Each blow echoed with the memory of battles past, threatening not just their bodies, but their resolve.
Kael's illusions failed before it. Ryoku's counters were anticipated. Bruga's force was matched strike for strike. Wen Tu's barriers shattered under the pressure of its howling strikes.
But they endured.
Kael blurred through shadows to distract it. Ryoku drew its attention with rapid feints. Bruga took blow after blow to give Wen Tu time to mend their wounds.
And Nyzekh—Nyzekh faced it head-on, his Void resonance flickering like a star collapsing inward. He struck with all the styles he had absorbed, channeling chaos into clarity. His final blow pierced the heart of the Echo.
The entity let out a soundless cry and dispersed like black flame in the wind.
In that darkest hour, when even Wen Tu's barriers began to splinter and Bruga's legs buckled, the avatar stirred. It raised one hand, not to fight, but to acknowledge.
"You have passed," it said in a voice of stone and wind.
They all froze.
Kael's eyes widened. "You... speak?"
Wen Tu nearly dropped his staff. "You could TALK this whole time? After all those years guarding the library and standing silent here?"
The avatar's head inclined. "I speak only to those who endure."
It vanished.
Wen Tu blinked and muttered under his breath, "Wow. He left like a legend."
The chamber fell still.
Their bodies bore scars. Their minds were harder. Their spirit signatures blazed brighter.
They were no longer the same.
They were the first elemental Stormguards.
And the Crucible still waited for those who dared its fire.