The cold wind hit Aisho’s face as she stepped off the train. The mountain loomed before them. They are now in Kaizuron at Mt. Azuren.

  Aisho broke the silence between them. "Daryl and Shoji. You guys took the trials, right? What were they like?"

  “Every year they change the trials,” Daryl said gruffly. “No two years are the same, keeps participants from preparing too specifically.”

  Shoji took a drag from his cigarette. “Smart system. Tests adaptability as much as raw power,” he said. “Usually, the Lancer Trials are throughout two to three days, but I’ve heard they change that up too.”

  “So we have no idea what we’re walking into,” Yuta said, more as a statement. “Great.”

  “Exactly,” Shoji replied with a grin. “Welcome to being a Lancer.”

  As they approached the entrance, there was a middle-aged man with a black suit standing at the desk just outside the entrance.

  Shoji motioned for Aisho, Yuta, and Trace to approach and speak with him.

  Aisho was the first to walk forward. “Hi, sir, we’re here for the Lancer Trials.”

  “Alright,” he responded. “Tell me your names.”

  They each told the man their names as he typed into a sleek terminal.

  “This robot will lead you to each of your destinations,” he said as he pointed to a robot humanoid in shape but still mechanical, standing behind him. “You’re free to go.”

  “This is where we part ways for now,” Shoji said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Remember what you’ve learned. Trust your instincts. And don’t let them psych you out.”

  “Stay smart,” Daryl added, his gruff voice carrying unexpected warmth. “All of you.”

  The trio was led down a clean and royal hallway with a red carpet. On each side of the hall were doors, many doors, too many to count. Some doors, they could hear talking or movement.

  The robot stopped upon reaching a certain door. “Participant Aisho. This is your destination.”

  Aisho felt a flutter of nervousness for the first time since arriving. Being separated from her friends, from the people who had become her support system, made the reality of the situation hit home. But she pushed the feeling down, replacing it with her grin.

  Yuta raised a hand in a casual wave.

  Trace simply nodded, “Be careful, Aisho.”

  “Got it!” she exclaimed, trying to act confident.

  As the robot led Trace and Yuta away, Aisho slid the door open to reveal something completely unexpected.

  Aisho found herself looking into what appeared to be a cozy living room. Soft lighting emanated from no visible source, comfortable couches and chairs were arranged around a low coffee table, and the walls were decorated with abstract art. It felt more like visiting a friend’s house than taking a deadly serious examination.

  “What the—” Aisho began, but stopped short when she noticed the other occupants of the room.

  About ten people were scattered throughout the space, some sitting, others standing, all of them studying each other with the wariness of competitors. Some of them held swords and other types of weapons. But four individuals immediately drew her attention.

  On a couch sat a young man who looked like he’d stepped out of a music magazine. His black hair was styled in an elaborate peacock-like arrangement that defied gravity, and multiple piercings glinted in his ears and nose. He wore black tight jeans, a graphic shirt, and a jacket that looked expensive. What made him truly unusual, however, was the puppet on his left hand.

  The puppet looked something like a brown sock with button eyes. As Aisho watched, it turned its head to look at her, and she could have sworn she saw life in its button eyes.

  “Another one,” the puppet said in a voice. “How delightful. As if this room wasn’t cramped enough already, am I right, Reno?”

  The emo boy—Reno—sighed. He covered the puppet's mouth. “Ignore Yoku. He’s having one of his days.” He withdrew his hand.

  “I’m having one of my days?” the puppet named Yoku retorted. “I’m just being honest here.”

  “WOULD YOU SHUT UP!” A bigger man from the corner yelled. He carried a sword in his holster. “You’re saying that the puppet has a mind of its own?”

  “Uh oh. Big man is angry,” Yoku mocked. “Whatever shall I do?”

  “Yes sir. A bit hard to explain but Yoku is sentient.” Reno replied tiredly. “He’s been acting real funny lately.

  Near the center of the room, something even more unusual commanded attention. A bear—an actual, living bear—sat formally on a couch. He wore a ripped denim jacket that somehow fit his broad shoulders, and a red headband was tied around his forehead.

  Aisho turned to see a girl about her age standing near the wall of the room. She had blonde hair twisted into twin pigtails, bright blue eyes, and wore white combat boots that looked like they’d seen plenty of action. Her black coat had a red trim that matched her energy.

  The girl approached Aisho. “You seem pretty strong, aren’t you? You can be my rival!” the girl announced, stepping right into Aisho’s personal space with a grin.

  “My rival?” Aisho blinked, then felt her competitive spirit flare. “Y-Yeah, sure. Bring it on!”

  Aisho cleared her throat and said. “My name’s Aisho by the way,” as she held out her hand.

  The girl shook her hand. “Name’s Cassidy.”

  Across the room stood a tall figure leaning against the wall, and Aisho immediately felt her guard go up. There was something about his posture, the way he was, that screamed danger.

  He had white hair that contrasted sharply with his deep purple eyes, and those eyes held a shine that reminded her of a predator sizing up prey. On his right cheek was what looked like a green T-like mark. In his right hand, he held a curved wooden staff that looked ancient and weathered. He slowly withdrew from the wall and walked towards Aisho and Cassidy.

  “How touching,” he said, his voice smooth and mocking. “Instant rivalry. Though I do hope you both realize that only the strongest will advance from this room.”

  “And you think that’s you?” Cassidy shot back.

  “I don’t think, little girl. I know,” The white-haired young man smiled thinly, then turned to Aisho. “My name’s Jozen, you’re gonna be seeing me later in these trials, Aisho.”

  Speakers hidden throughout the room crackled to life with an artificial voice. “Attention candidates. The first trial will now commence. You will notice that incense has been introduced to your chamber. I’d like everyone seated for this trial to begin.”

  With that, everyone sat down on one of the couches. Aisho chose to sit next to the bear. She gave a slight wave, and she could’ve sworn he smiled, but it was hard to tell.

  Aisho looked around and saw thin streams of pale smoke beginning to seep from vents near the ceiling.

  “This incense has been specifically formulated to interfere with your Dragon Vein energy flow,” the voice continued. “Prolonged exposure will cause your connection to your Seishinryu to weaken, eventually resulting in unconsciousness. If you lose consciousness, you will be eliminated from the trials.”

  Aisho felt her heart rate spike—not just from nerves, but from the very real threat of failure.

  “You have thirty minutes to remain conscious and seated. The trial begins… now.”

  Almost immediately, Aisho felt the effects. It started as a subtle dizziness, like the feeling of standing up too quickly. Her connection to her Seishinryu started to feel distant and muffled.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, pressing her hands to her temples as the room began to sway slightly. Around her, she could see other candidates struggling as well. Two had already slumped over, fighting to stay conscious.

  Panic began to set in. This was it—her one chance to become a Lancer, and she was going to fail because of some stupid incense? After everything she’d been through, everything she’d sacrificed?

  A large, warm paw settled gently on her shoulder.

  “Breathe,” the bear’s deep voice rumbled beside her. “Slowly… deeply. The incense affects… the mind first. Control your breathing… control your mind.”

  Aisho looked up at the bear, whose kind eyes held steady despite the smoke swirling around them. “But I can barely feel my Seishinryu anymore.”

  “That’s… the point,” Mike said patiently. “This test… is not about power. It’s about… willpower. About who you are… without your abilities.”

  “Alright, got it,” Aisho said. She tried to follow his advice.

  She thought to herself: Slow breaths. In and out. Just focus, Aisho, you can do this.

  Around the room, the struggle continued. One candidate collapsed entirely. Then another. The smoke continued to thicken, and Aisho could feel her body growing weak.

  But Mike’s steady presence beside her helped. His calm confidence. If a bear could handle this with dignity, then she could too.

  Across the room, she could see the others who were still in the competition. Reno sat motionless in his corner, his puppet Yoku silent for once, though both seemed to be concentrating intensely. Cassidy had her eyes closed, but was still fighting. Jozen carefully scanned the room, unaffected.

  “Fifteen minutes remaining,” the voice announced.

  More candidates fell. The room, which had started with ten people, was down to six. Aisho gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain upright, even as her vision blurred at the edges.

  “Five minutes remaining.”

  Aisho’s legs were shaking now, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. The disconnection from her Seishinryu was almost complete—she felt hollow, like a part of her soul had been temporarily removed.

  But she was still persistent. The bear continued his quiet encouragement, and Cassidy shot her a wobbly thumbs-up from across the room.

  “One minute remaining.”

  The final stretch felt like hours. She thought of Trace and Yuta, probably facing their trials in other rooms. She thought of becoming a Lancer, of proving that she was worth something.

  “Time. Trial complete.”

  The incense stopped flowing immediately, and slowly, gradually, Aisho felt her connection to her Seishinryu return. It was like feeling warmth return to frozen limbs.

  She looked around the room. Besides herself, the bear, Cassidy, Reno, Jozen, and that one candidate who told Yoku to shut up remained conscious.

  “Congratulations,” the voice announced. “You six have passed the first trial. Please prepare for—”

  The announcement was cut short by a sudden movement. Jozen stood up and swung his staff, creating a vicious arc toward the bear's head. The attack was fast, precise, and completely without warning.

  It never connected.

  His paw came up in a casual blocking motion that made the strike look like slow motion by comparison. The staff stopped dead in his bear's grip.

  “That was… unwise,” the bear said quietly.

  Jozen tried to wrench his staff free, but the bear’s grip was immovable. “Just testing your reflexes, bear. No harm intended.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “No… harm?” The bear’s voice carried some anger. “You attacked… without provocation. After we survived… together.”

  Before the situation could escalate further, the voice over the speakers spoke. “Warning: Unprovoked combat between candidates is prohibited. Candidate Jozen, this is your first and only warning. Further aggressive actions will result in immediate disqualification.”

  Jozen finally managed to pull his staff free, but his purple eyes held no remorse. “Of course. My apologies. I guess the adrenaline from that trial… affected my judgment,” he said with mock sympathy.

  “Warning acknowledged. Proceed to the next phase.”

  Jozen simply shrugged and turned away, as if the warning meant nothing to him. His dismissive attitude sent a chill down Aisho’s spine.

  Cassidy stepped closer to her, voice low. “That guy’s trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Aisho agreed, watching Jozen carefully. “Big trouble.”

  Aisho looked towards the bear. “Hey, thanks for helping me back there. My name’s Aisho.”

  “Aisho…” the bear responded. “My name is… Mike. Some people… mistake trials for opportunities.”

  The door to the room swung open. A humanoid robot stood on the threshold. “Passing candidates, please come with me.”

  ***

  “Yuta, this is your destination,” the robot had been leading Yuta and Trace. The bot stopped at a certain door.

  Yuta didn’t waste time; she approached the door but stopped upon hearing Trace say: “Be careful, Yuta.”

  Not even turning back.

  “I’ll be fine,” Yuta responded. “Focus on what you need to do.”

  Trace took her comment as somewhat offensive, but at the same time, she was right. The Lancer Trials were always known for being gruesome. You can’t focus so much on others that you get yourself killed.

  “Follow me this way, Trace,” said the robot voice, their voice automatic.

  Yuta stepped inside the room. It was vast, dimly lit by lanterns hung along the ceiling. Rows upon rows of books filled the room.

  Seven people already lingered inside, examining the shelves.

  Yuta let out a faint scoff and walked deeper into the room, her boots muffled by the rug. She kept to herself, aloof but alert, glancing sidelong at the others.

  She reached for a book on the shelf. It had no title, just a plain blue book. She opened it to reveal that it had no words. Pretty strange

  Yuta caught sight of a girl tucked into the corner.

  A young girl, younger than Yuta. Clad in a pink bear hoodie that looked a size too big, her dark green hair poked out from under the hood. She clutched a small paper bear doll tightly, as if it were a charm. A pink purse rested on her lap.

  She noticed Yuta looking and gave a gentle nod.

  Yuta looked away and said nothing.

  For a while, silence reigned, broken only by the quiet shuffling of candidates. Then the door opened again.

  A man walked in. A red shawl masked the lower half of his face and upper torso. His spiky black hair moved slightly with his motion. He carried a red revolver at his hip. His right hand armored in a thin golden metal claw.

  The room went still.

  “Yo, is that…?” someone said,

  “It’s Driske,” another person whispered.

  “What’s he doing here?” someone else said.

  This mercenary said nothing, only walked past them with slow, steady purpose, eyes scanning each shelf. He didn’t acknowledge the whispers. Just stood by the books and began to browse.

  The doors slammed open. In burst a wild splash of energy: a young man with an orange afro, bouncing with each step like it had a life of its own.

  He had a lopsided grin on his face and carried a curved sword. His single earring glinted as he strutted in like he owned the place.

  “Tangerine has entered the chat, baby!” He slowly studied the room and all the candidates. “A library? They seriously chose a library for my room?”

  He noticed Yuta glaring at him from a distance.

  “You tryna freeze me with those eyes or are you just naturally that cold?”

  Yuta rolled her eyes and turned away. “Get lost.”

  “Oooh, so she speaks.”

  “Keep talking and I’ll make sure you don’t.”

  Tangerine snorted a laugh, clearly enjoying himself. A speaker above crackled to life before he could dig deeper.

  “Attention. The Trial has now begun. You have thirty minutes. Each book in this room now contains a title and content unique to you. Find the one that aligns with your Seishinryu. When the time is up, you must be holding a book. Choose wrong, and you will be judged accordingly.”

  A moment of breathless silence. Then the shelves began to glow faintly, shimmering like heat waves.

  And the race began.

  Candidates snatched books from the shelves, flipping through the pages with frantic hands. Some titles read:

  The Shadow in the Mirror

  The Wind and the Grave

  Paper Fox in the Storm

  Burning Chains of the Fool

  Yuta sifted through books one after another. Most didn’t feel right. She read a few lines, hoping for a tug—an instinct. But nothing.

  Nearby, the little girl from earlier opened a book titled The Folding Girl. She read it quietly, then closed it and held it to her chest.

  Yuta kept her distance.

  Halfway through the timer, people were becoming anxious. Some started to toss books in frustration.

  Yuta, brows furrowed, tossed another book aside.

  “You look like you’re struggling,” said a soft voice behind her.

  She turned. It was the girl.

  “I’m fine,” Yuta said flatly.

  The girl hesitated. Then, offered Yuta her book. “My name is Megumi. You can read mine if it helps you compare.”

  Yuta blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

  Megumi held out her paper doll. “Bearnabe said you were a good person. You looked like you needed help.”

  Yuta didn’t say thanks, but she read a few lines. Then gave it back.

  “That one’s yours,” Yuta said.

  “But you still haven’t found yours, right?” Megumi asked, clutching her doll again. “Here.”

  Megumi reached into a stack and gently pulled a slim book with a jagged frost-pattern along its cover.

  The title read: Tyrant of the Frostbitten Heart.

  Yuta’s eyes locked on it.

  “Bearnabe said it thought of you when it saw its cover,” Megumi whispered.

  Yuta narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Well… I don’t know, that’s what Bearnabe believes.”

  Yuta stared at the book, silent.

  The pages inside described a battle-hardened warrior with ice in his veins and a dark aura that grew stronger the more control he let go of.

  The words sent a chill down her spine.

  “My name is Yuta, by the way,” she said, looking at Megumi. For once, a trace of warmth in her voice. “Thanks.”

  But the moment was shattered—“Hey! You're trying to steal that book from me, punk?” yelled Tangerine from across the room.

  “I touched it first, got lost!” Another candidate argued.

  They continued to pull and tug at the book until there was a bang.

  A bullet shot clean through the book.

  Everyone froze.

  Driske holstered his revolver, still not even looking their way. “Now no one has the book.”

  The silence was absolute. Then Tangerine chuckled nervously and stepped back. “Aight, man, aight. You win. Bullet diplomacy. Love it.”

  The clock continued to tick by, ticking to its final minute.

  Yuta held her book tight, Tyrant of the Frostbitten Heart, and sat beside Megumi, who offered a soft smile.

  When the timer hit zero, the speaker crackled once more.

  “Time’s up. Judgment will now begin.”

  Yuta’s Tyrant of the Frostbitten heart. Pass. Megumi’s The Folding Girl. Pass. Driske’s Bandit to Kill. Pass. Tangerine’s Luck Conquest. Pass.

  Everyone else… their chosen books withered into dust.

  A humanoid robot swung the door to the library open. “Passing participants, leave your books and come with me.”

  “Pfft, that was too easy,” Tangerine said. “Hope these trials challenge me.”

  ***

  “Here is your room, candidate Trace,” the robot said, stopping after leading Trace down the long hallway.

  The door creaked open with a low groan.

  Trace stepped through, eyes narrowing.

  Old, cracked mirrors lined the space, propped against overturned furniture, embedded in walls, some lying shattered across the wooden floor. There were seven other candidates in total.

  A speaker above crackled: "Candidates, this is the first stage of the Lancer Trials. Each of you will stand before a mirror and confront the true form of your spirit—its appearance, nature, and deepest intent. You will not be judged for what you see, only how you respond. Acceptance is strength. Rejection is failure. You have thirty minutes to figure this out. The timer starts… Now."

  Trace exhaled slowly. “A test of the mind…” he muttered.

  One by one, the candidates spread out, moving toward the mirrors that seemed to call to them.

  Across the room, an imposing figure stood. He wore a purple button-up shirt patterned with flowers, brown pants, and black boots. His wavy black hair hung just over calm, brown eyes.

  He was the last to choose a mirror. He, by himself, carried a quiet gravity. Trace noticed this.

  Trace turned to face a mirror—a tall, cracked thing leaning against a splintered dresser. For a moment, he saw only his reflection.

  Then a low hum filled the air, and his pulse spiked.

  Shitsugen.

  The mirror began to ripple like disturbed water. His reflection twisted, its eyes darkening. From behind the image of his own body, shadowy tendrils coiled into view. The inky black appendages slithered over his reflection’s shoulders, down his arms, and curled toward his chest.

  In the depths of his reflection, Shitsugen’s eyes gleamed with cold hunger.

  Its distorted mouth opened, a voice echoing in Trace’s mind: "Release me… Trace. Stop resisting… You are mine."

  Trace staggered back, sweat breaking across his brow.

  "No." His voice was hoarse. "Not now…”

  "This is your truth," the voice insisted. "You cannot run from what you are."

  Trace’s breathing grew ragged. His hands trembled.

  "I’m… not your puppet."

  But he could feel it—his control slipping. A familiar cold pulse beat at the edges of his thoughts, urging surrender.

  Across the room, candidates gasped. Some stared at monstrous reflections, twisted forms of themselves. Others cried out, refusing what they saw. Two slumped to their knees, overcome by fear or denial.

  The hidden speakers in the room crackled to life, an automated voice saying, "fifteen minutes left.”

  Trace glanced at the man he had noticed earlier from the corner of his eye. He was standing in front of his mirror, unwavering. His reflection had not changed. Behind him, shimmering faintly, stood the faint form of a shield-like dragon, its massive wings wrapped protectively around the man.

  Then he noticed Trace.

  Without a word, he stepped away from his mirror and crossed the floor in deliberate strides. The boards creaked beneath his heavy steps.

  Trace didn’t see him coming. He was still trying to hold back.

  Shitsugen continued to speak, "The only reason you weren’t killed back there in the pirate raid was because of me. You only earned a ride to Kaizuron because of me. Alone, you are too weak to do anything. We can rule this world."

  Trace’s voice cracked. He couldn’t speak. His head dropped, slowly giving up.

  A faint purple glow flared along his right arm. His cursed claw threatened to emerge.

  A hand rested on his shoulder.

  Trace jolted and looked sideways.

  The same man that Trace saw stood beside him. His expression is unreadable, but calm.

  He said, “Breathe."

  Trace blinked, struggling to obey. "I can’t—"

  "You can."

  The man’s Dragon Vein energy alone pushed back the oppressive weight of Shitsugen’s influence.

  Trace’s hands shook. His mind screamed to fight, to resist harder. He exhaled—slowly.

  The cursed glow along his arm dimmed slightly.

  In the mirror, Shitsugen’s form snarled, but the tendrils stopped advancing. The reflection stabilized.

  The man’s hand remained on his shoulder for a moment longer. Then he stepped back without a word.

  Trace finally drew a deep breath, sweat dripping down his face.

  He turned his head toward the man and told him, "Thanks."

  The man simply nodded.

  The speaker crackled once more. "Trial complete. The two passing candidates may leave the room.”

  Trace and this mysterious man were the only two to pass.

  Trace flexed his right hand slowly, the cursed energy quiet for now.

  The man was already halfway out of the door, leaving for the next destination. Trace followed suit, hoping to learn more about his unknown savior.

  In the hallway, there was a crowd of a hundred or more other candidates walking—they had also passed this first stage. Trace could feel the Dragon Vein pressure some of these candidates held.

  The man Trace was looking for was nowhere to be seen, and he chose to follow the direction the other candidates were heading.

  They approached a large cavern entrance where a powerful man stood at attention, a black t-shirst, tight trousers, and polished boots. His skin was deep ebony. Behind him was a ramp heading downwards.

  “Listen up, you maggots!” he said. “I am Wilder, Platinum-rank Lancer. That first stage was stage 0, just testing how well you knew your Seishinryu!”

  Beside Wilder stood another man, dressed coat undone, with white and black dreadlocks. His smile was warm.

  “This is Jeremiah Ogden,” said Wilder

  To Wilder’s other side stood a woman, quiet and clad in white and blue wear. She offered a gentle bow.

  “This is Mirai Pershick,” Wilder said.

  He turned around to face the steep ramp and held out both his palms. His palms glowed in a light blue light for a moment before disappearing.

  Looking over his shoulder, he said, “If you didn’t already know, killing is allowed. Anyone can die at any time. If you’re too scared, go ahead and run home, I won’t judge.”

  The group of candidates looked at each other without saying a word.

  “No dropouts,” Wilder said. “Good. FOLLOW ME!”

  He slid down the ramp on his butt, being followed by Jeremiah and Mirai. One by one, candidates began to follow suit.

  Upon reaching the end of the ramp, they all stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large labyrinth-like maze.

  “LISTEN UP! THIS IS STAGE ONE!” He slashed a hand toward the maze. “You will have TWO HOURS to reach its center!”

  He gave a grim smile. “Understood?”

  There were some nods, and Trace heard some muffled yeses from the crowd.

  Mirai stepped forward. “We cannot escort five hundred souls through the maze,” she said softly. ”You will be teleported into random entry points. Ready?”

  She snapped her fingers. Every participant was enveloped in a crimson color, and with a collective shimmer, everyone vanished into the labyrinth’s corridors.

  “The spirit of a man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all the inner depths of his heart.”

  — Proverbs 20:27 (NKJV)