The Endless Abyss did not echo.
Sound had no meaning here. Distance was a suggestion. Direction was a courtesy given only to those who belonged.
Rayon sat at its deepest point.
No throne. No monument. No display of authority.
Just darkness—absolute, ancient, endless.
He sat cross-legged in nothingness, eyes closed, black resonance folded inward so perfectly that even the Abyss itself seemed to forget where he ended and it began.
Then—
He smiled.
"So," he said softly, voice rippling through realities like a thought remembered by the universe itself,
"the old man finally accepted them fully."
The darkness stirred—not in response, but in acknowledgment.
Rayon did not open his eyes.
He didn't need to see.
He already knew.
Isola Krein — The Same Morning
Christine and Nyk lay on the stone ground where they had fallen the night before.
Neither complained.
Neither rushed to stand.
For the first time since their training began, there was no doubt clawing at the edges of their thoughts. No lingering question of why or whether.
Only clarity.
Azelar stood a short distance away, arms folded, watching them wake with the calm patience of someone who had waited lifetimes for this moment.
Nyk exhaled slowly and pushed himself up onto his elbows.
"…Guess we're not dead," he muttered.
Christine snorted weakly. "Low bar."
They sat up.
Then—together—they bowed.
Not exaggerated. Not formal.
Sincere.
Azelar's eyes widened just slightly.
"We won't doubt you anymore," Christine said. Her voice was steady. "Not your methods. Not your intent."
Nyk nodded. "You're our master. Fully. Whatever you throw at us—we'll take it."
Silence followed.
Then Azelar smiled.
Not the calm teacher's smile.
The relieved one.
"Good," he said. "Get up."
The terrain shifted again.
This time, there were no monsters.
No civilians.
Only Christine.
Standing across from herself.
The other Christine looked identical—same stance, same presence—but her eyes were colder. Sharper. Heavy with unspoken judgments.
Christine felt her breath catch.
Azelar's voice carried evenly. "This verdict cannot be avoided."
The other Christine spoke.
"Guilty."
The word hit like a gunshot.
Christine staggered back, pain blooming across her chest—not physical, but existential. Her verdict ability responded automatically, resonance surging—
—and turned inward.
Her knees buckled.
"I—" She gasped. "I didn't—"
"You hesitate because you fear judgment," Azelar said calmly. "But judgment does not disappear when avoided. It accumulates."
The other Christine raised her hand.
And fired.
Christine screamed as the verdict struck—not killing her, but stripping layers away. Doubt. Self-hatred. Fear of being wrong.
It hurt more than any wound she had ever taken.
Tears streamed down her face as she collapsed.
But she didn't resist.
She accepted it.
When the illusion faded, Christine lay on the stone, shaking—but alive.
Azelar knelt beside her. "Judgment that cannot be turned inward will eventually rot outward."
Christine laughed weakly through tears. "So… if I can judge others… I have to accept being judged too."
"Yes."
She closed her eyes.
"…That's fair."
Nyk's trial came next.
A city.
Real enough to hurt.
It burned.
People ran. Screamed. Died.
At the center stood a collapsing singularity of ruin—something Nyk could erase with a thought.
His power whispered to him.
End it.
He raised his hand—
—and Azelar's voice stopped him.
"If you erase it," Azelar said, "the backlash will erase the cause as well."
Nyk froze. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Azelar replied, "the people who created this catastrophe—who might learn from it—will never exist."
Nyk's jaw tightened.
"So if I don't—"
"More will die."
Nyk lowered his hand.
Sweat rolled down his temple.
He could erase the disaster.
He could save the city.
But the cost…
He clenched his fists.
"No," he said quietly. "I won't erase it."
The singularity collapsed naturally—violently.
The city suffered.
When it was over, Nyk stood alone in the wreckage, bloodied, breathing hard.
Azelar appeared beside him.
"You chose not to play god," Azelar said. "And you accepted the consequence."
Nyk looked at the destruction.
"…It hurts."
Azelar nodded. "It should."
That night, they sat around a small fire.
No training.
No tests.
Just silence.
Christine broke it first. "So… we passed?"
Azelar stared into the flames.
"You learned the basics," he said. "Acceptance. Responsibility. Restraint."
Nyk frowned. "That's… the basics?"
Azelar smiled faintly. "Power is simple. Wisdom is not."
He stood.
"For the remaining months," he continued, "I will teach you something older than concepts. Older than verdicts. Older than erasure."
Christine tilted her head. "What's that?"
Azelar turned to face them fully.
"Combat."
The next morning—
He didn't explain.
Didn't warn.
Didn't hold back.
Christine and Nyk attacked together the moment Azelar stepped onto the field.
Verdict fire snapped through the air.
Conceptual pressure warped space.
Azelar disappeared.
Reappeared behind them.
Chopped both of them down with a single, fluid motion.
They woke up minutes later.
Attacked again.
Same result.
Again.
Again.
Sometimes he used bare hands.
Sometimes a single finger.
Sometimes he didn't touch them at all—just redirected force until they knocked themselves out.
Hours passed.
Days.
They never landed a hit.
Christine laughed breathlessly after waking up the sixth time. "I think he's doing this on purpose."
Nyk groaned. "You think?"
Azelar stood over them, hands behind his back.
"You are strong," he said evenly. "But strength without self-knowledge is noise."
He turned away.
"Your goal," he added, "is simple."
Christine pushed herself up, eyes burning with determination. "Which is?"
"By next month," Azelar said calmly,
"touch me."
The wind swept across Isola Krein.
Far away, in the deepest dark—
Rayon smiled wider.
Training had truly begun.