Day 723[1] in Jerrica's Labyrinth
The flaming drops fell like slow-burning tears from the heavens, giving the sky an ethereal orange-yellow hue that swirled with the chaos below. Wildfires danced across the battlefield in frenzied celebration, their flickers swaying to the rhythm of distant screams and clashing steel. Once lush, the plains were now a tapestry of soot and flame. Smoke-painted curtains of magick hung high, parted just enough for the pale twin moons to peer down; silent witnesses to the madness. Their silver light poured over the world like a noble chandelier, casting gentle grace over a savage scene.
Artamis stood unmoved amid the devastation, his grip tight on his long rifle. His stance was firm, breathing slow, posture low. The faint sizzle of burning grass whispered beneath his boots as he stared down the fire-born juggernaut across from him. Dylon—the Ignivoran Cardinal King of the South—stood with that predator's stillness, muscles twitching beneath his ember-red skin. Every inch of him looked like he was carved from volcanic stone and bathed in hellfire. His eyes, glowing like twin glaciers, contrasted violently against his furnace-like aura. And with a growl rolling low in his throat, he was done playing.
Bio Mana surged from Dylon in wicked torrents, swirling into a cyclone of power that made the air scream. The ground beneath him cracked, scorched, and blackened in seconds. Steam hissed from his very pores, and the scent of molten rock mixed with scorched air stung the nose.
Then, he spoke with a venomous calm.
"Let di darkness be mi blade… Superior Devil Mana Arts: Ebony Daggers."
With that, mana twisted itself into two hauntingly beautiful weapons in his hands—curved and jagged, the daggers gleamed with a cobalt-black shadow that pulsed like a living thing. The air around them trembled. Artamis didn't need to activate [Sage Wisdom] to know those blades meant death—he could smell the density of mana radiating off them like poison from a snake.
Without hesitation, Artamis opened fire—releasing a mixed barrage of Fire and Water Mana rounds. Each shot zipped through the thick air like spears, their colors dancing with magickal resonance. Fire lit up the field like sparks from a forge; Water shots shimmered, steaming the ground on contact. While Water Mana didn't seem particularly effective anymore, Artamis didn't care. With [The House is Burning] in play, his fire would always bite—no matter what resistance Dylon might boast. Even at a tenth of its usual power, it was a consistent pain.
But fire alone wouldn't win this.
He needed to close the distance.
Pivoting hard, Artamis darted right—feet blurring with Mana-assisted speed. His rifle glowed before shifting its shape, liquid metal spiraling outward and snapping into a broad sword. Dylon was already there, intercepting him with a two-blade flurry. Steel screamed as their weapons collided. Sparks erupted like fireworks. The sound echoed across the entire battlefield, ricocheting through the distant mountain ranges.
They danced at breakneck speeds. Each step, each swing, each parry was calculated chaos—so fast it seemed the falling fire froze midair. Every slash from Dylon came with the heat of a forge hammer. Every counter from Artamis was laced with tactical brilliance. They traded dozens of blows a second, boots digging craters into the hardened soil, shockwaves rippling outward.
It wasn't long before Art's thought flickered to the time. Minutes passed—six of them, though it felt like hours.
Then, Dylon found his moment.
He leapt up, twisting in midair, and brought his heel down in a devastating axe kick. The impact missed Artamis by a breath, but the force shattered the earth, launching a tower of dust and dirt skyward. A smokescreen.
From behind the veil, a chant rang out, guttural and sharp.
"Erase mi enemies… Superior Devil Mana Arts: Gero Bomb Blast!"
Artamis didn't wait. His eyes caught the incoming projectile—a black sphere of violent energy, pulsing with demonic pressure. It moved like it wanted to erase the concept of space between them.
"Transmute!" he shouted, flinging his hand sideways.
The nearby wildfire bent at his command, flames twisting and racing to him like loyal hounds. In a blink, the fire compacted and hardened into Obsidium Remix—a pitch-black mineral that gleamed with rejection. A bubble shield of magickal stone slammed up just as the Gero Bomb detonated.
BOOOOM.
The explosion turned the plains into a war drum. The wall shattered but absorbed the brunt, sending razor wind blasting across the field. Trees snapped. Grass ripped from the soil. Fires buckled but didn't die. Yet Artamis stood untouched, crouched behind the cracked shell of Obsidium, eyes narrowed with resolve.
Without wasting a beat, he exploded forward.
Sword in hand—now coated in a thin edge of Obsidium Remix—he closed the distance mid-air. Dylon's expression flickered in surprise just as Artamis crashed down like a hammer of judgment. The blade carved deep, slicing from collarbone to stomach. But Dylon's body, resilient and terrifying, halted the blade's progress mid-torso.
Artamis grunted. The weapon was stuck.
But Dylon… Dylon smiled.
The Ignivoran's body inhaled fire from the very air, threads of flame weaving into his wounds like a spider's silk. Flesh began to reform around the blade.
Then that damn grin widened.
"Yuh too close, mon!" Dylon barked, lunging with outstretched arms to choke Artamis with his bare hands.
Artamis met his eyes, completely unfazed.
"You're too predictable."
He released the sword and thrust his palm against Dylon's molten chest.
"Transmute."
The aura around Dylon—the very fire that had been healing him—hardened instantly. The flames turned brittle. Black. And then Dylon's entire body locked up as Obsidium erupted across his skin like armor grown in reverse. In seconds, the Ignivoran was sealed, frozen mid-roar with rage still etched into his face.
Statue.
Battlefield silent.
Artamis stood before his enemy, still breathing heavily, palm hovering over the stone-locked heart of a devil. And the sky above continued to weep fire.
A hush fell over the battlefield, like the realm of Infernia was holding her breath. Artamis took a few steps back from the statue-like Cardinal King, still encased in obsidium. The air buzzed with residual tension, the kind that lingers after death dances too close. Wildfires raged in the distance, snapping and crackling like applause from unseen hands, roaring louder every few seconds. Crimson embers rained from the sky in slow, lazy drops of flame, painting the moment with a violent serenity. For a heartbeat, it looked like Artamis might get a break.
But peace don't last long in hell.
A sudden, piercing breeze whipped around him, cold, yet carrying something wrong in its core. His muscles seized, locked by phantom pain that lanced his spine like a jagged spear of glass. He gritted his teeth, but his knees buckled. Something was pulling on his very spirit.
And then, a voice—not mine, not Dylon's, and not one he recognized—whispered through the storm.
"Push further."
The pain vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving him gasping and wide-eyed. The breeze stilled. Silence. Confusion washed over him like cold water. He stood there, chest rising and falling fast, scanning the skies for something—anything—to explain what just happened.
That's when his ID Status flickered up in front of his eyes. A blinking prompt burned against his retinas:
«Release contained Nihility?»
He blinked. "Nihility?" His voice rasped with disbelief.
His gaze narrowed on the status. The term jogged a memory—something I told him a while back, probably in one of those long-ass breakdowns he only half-listened to.
"That's one of those... what did Xi call it? Fundamental Particle of Reality," he muttered aloud. "I also remember it being potent but very unstable. Why is it within me?"
He didn't realize that when I transferred part of my Soul Essence into him, [Moon Sage: Tsukuyomi] had slipped something else in too. A safety measure. Tsukuyomi later told me he had to seal off the excess primordial energy to keep Art's Soul Core from shattering. That extra energy—the Nihility—was now waking up.
Behind him, something sizzled.
The Cardinal King hadn't been idle.
The statue of obsidium remix—once so solid, so still—was now leaking orange-red light through spiderweb cracks. Heat rippled from it in heavy waves. The wildfires' flames were pulling inward, funneling toward the stone prison like offerings to a god. Escaping wasn't enough—Dylon was evolving.
He was cooking himself alive from the inside out.
And it was working.
A new smell hit Art's nose—molten rock and scorched ozone. That's when the obsidium exploded from within, molten shards erupting as Dylon burst forth, steam rising off him in thick, ghostly coils.
Dylon grinned, teeth flashing like daggers beneath horns still glowing from the heat.
"You shoulda asked around about de five greatest demons of all time," he said, his accent thick, melodic—cocky. "Dey woulda told yuh: Dylon, Dylon, Dylon, Dylon... and Dylon. 'Cause I spit hot fire, mon."
Artamis squinted, brushing soot from his face. "Shit. Not even Kimmi or Alex uses fire like he does."
The sky above trembled.
Dylon raised one arm to the heavens, and every single drop of falling flame was sucked into him, like he was drinking from the clouds. His body glowed—first red, then gold, and finally a cobalt blue so bright it stung the eyes. Magitons in the atmosphere dissolved into nothing, and his aura flared, wide and violent. It was deeper than heat. It was wrath.
The very planet reacted to him.
"I'm over de games!" Dylon bellowed. "Time to meet yuh death!"
His raging aura erupted into the sky, stretching like a pillar of flame meant to reach the gods themselves. His body combusted into blue fire—cobalt flames that cracked the battlefield with every step. The dirt beneath his feet turned to glowing glass. His temperature now rivaled the sun's very core.
Artamis swallowed hard.
"What do I do now? This nigga is a hard counter."
But then, from somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind—soft but clear—the voice returned:
"Release it."
He looked around wildly. "Who is that? Release what?"
No time for answers. Dylon moved, a blur in the inferno.
Artamis barely dodged, using [Kinetic Manipulation] to flick his body out of the way just in time. And yet, the wind behind Dylon's punch hit like a missile, slamming Artamis through hills, boulders, and broken land for nearly a kilometer.
His lungs burned. His ribs ached.
"This is bad. Real bad. I might actually die here." He groaned, forcing himself upright.
Dylon was faster. Stronger. Even with his boosts, Artamis was on the ropes.
"Punches too heavy to block. I can't slug it out with him any longer."
And then—there it was again.
The voice.
"Release the nihility if you want to win."
"You again?" Artamis thought. "Fine. I've got nothing to lose. This better be worth these interruptions."
He called up his ID Status again and accepted the prompt. A surge of anxiety hit his gut just as Dylon began stalking toward him like a force of nature. Artamis braced himself.
Then—
The seal on his Soul Core shattered. Nihility poured in like a cosmic waterfall.
Agony, unlike anything he'd ever known, tore through him. His body convulsed, eyes wide and glowing. His scream cracked the air. The very sound made Dylon pause.
"Huh?" the demon growled. "What's this feeling emanatin' from yuh mana signature?"
He wouldn't get an answer.
Artamis wasn't even there anymore, not mentally. He was trapped inside the eruption of raw, alien power. Nihility mutated his Vessel Skill, infecting it like a virus—but a divine one. [Fire Sage: Kagatsuchi] writhed, shattered, and reformed.
His body arched as the torture peaked...
And then, bliss.
Green mana bled from his pores as his eyes ignited with brilliance.
His signature exploded outward—darker, deeper, colder in some spiritual way, but also heavier. The horizon quaked.
[Transmutation King: Zagan] was born.
«Installing vessel sub-skill [Matter Manipulation].»
"Zaganallows for the user to transmute any object or person. The user can transmute and alter a target's fundamental properties without limit."
Dylon's eyes narrowed. Sweat gathered beneath his horns. Something in his gut twisted, and for the first time since this began, he stepped back.
That look in his eyes?
Fear.
But he wouldn't allow it to take hold.
He clenched his fists, fire erupting from his veins once more.
"I will not have a pawn piece to Volo's lil' game place any terror in mi heart," he spat, his tone filled with pure disdain. "Dis ends here, mortal!"
The battlefield had shifted. Both sides had fully awakened.
Now it was war.
The world twisted. It was as if the laws of reality got drunk and stumbled out of the bar. The very landscape itself bent to the will of the heat pouring off of Dylon's body—mountains liquefied in seconds, rivers evaporated before they could scream, and even the air took on a shimmer that blurred the horizon like a fever dream. The skies wept steam. The soil peeled back into magma sheets. It was the kind of heat that could make Hell seem like springtime in the countryside.
But in the middle of this absolute cataclysm stood Artamis—untouched, unmoved, unbothered. He looked like a prince of paradox, the only calm in a storm of destruction. Standing bold, with his black and orange hoodie fluttering under the waves of rising heat, he raised his hand with a grin I ain't never seen on him before. It was cocky. It was confident. Almost… playful.
"YangFire Mana Arts: White Ember."
The spell was spoken smoothly, like the last note of a song. From his palm, fire erupted—but it wasn't wild. Nah, it wasn't a wave or a blast. It ignited and stretched only a few feet out before folding into itself, transforming into a sword.
But this was no ordinary sword. The blade danced like water but burned like betrayal. It shifted between form and formlessness, yet remained solid enough to wield. It flickered in and out of understanding—plasma that shouldn't exist, fire that burned at absolute zero. It mocked physics with every inch, humming with the quiet malice of a living contradiction.
"Not needing to chant for transmutation is cool," Artamis thought to himself, lifting the weapon casually. "And it's so relaxed on my MP now."
Dylon's eyes narrowed as he watched. Rage baked into his face like the sun had found a new religion. Artamis's sudden second wind was feeding a fear Dylon was trying real hard to swallow. And then the demon charged.
He didn't run—he appeared. Dylon closed the distance in a blink, his right fist coated in thick Yin energy, pulsing like a heartbeat from the void. The sheer weight of his punch could crush a country. He brought it down like he meant to split Artamis in half.
But Artamis simply lifted his blade.
A clean, upward parry met the crashing fist.
BOOM.
The clash shattered sound itself. Artamis was launched like a comet through the ground, crashing, smashing, and burning his way through the molten crust of the demon planet. The heat pressed in around him—it clawed at him, whispering threats in tongues of ash and sulfur.
Then—space. The world opened.
Beneath it all, thousands of kilometers down, the pressure gave way to an impossibly vast, hollow expanse. A subterranean cathedral of destruction. And at its core, floating like a heart of hell, was a colossal sphere of black flame and molten brimstone. It pulsed in place, wrapped in thick obsidian tendrils like cursed chains. This wasn't fire, it was willful destruction. A sun made of wrath and liquid annihilation. Rivers of molten iron circled it like a dying planet caught in eternal orbit.
Artamis landed lightly, brushing the ash from his shoulder and thighs. Not a scratch. His eyes scanned the expanse. He felt it—Dylon's mana signature, closing in like a storm. And then—
KRA-KOOM!
Dylon exploded through the ceiling, blazing with a fury that bent light around him. He roared, unleashing a punch faster than sound, flirting with the speed of light. But Artamis didn't flinch. He sidestepped and sliced.
One slash. Clean. Efficient.
Dylon's forearm spun upward like it had dreams of flight.
Then—BAM!—Artamis's foot connected with Dylon's jaw, launching him backward with the force of a cannon blast—straight into the black flame sphere.
"I need to do something about that Flame Absorption skill of his," Artamis thought as he took a stance again.
Before he could finish that thought, Dylon erupted from the black sphere, reborn, arm fully regenerated, and eyes burning brighter than ever. The man came in hot, throwing fists fueled by raw elemental hatred.
Artamis responded in kind.
They bounced across the cavern like pinballs made of fury—each blow carving chunks from the obsidian terrain. Shockwaves cracked the ceiling and sent obsidium boulders spinning into lava rivers. Artamis amplified his [Kinetic Manipulation], boosting muscle output, speed, and responsiveness, countering every attack with movement so fluid it looked choreographed by the gods.
Then—realization.
What if he didn't just add energy? What if he stole it?
He remembered how he used to mess with Kimmi's spells. Fire needs fuel. Every flame starts at a base. If he could slip his mana into that base, control it—he could hijack Dylon's own flames.
He remembered something I once told him: "Imagination is king."
He chuckled internally. "You better be right, Xi."
He waited for the angle.
Dylon swung down with a flaming chop aimed to end the fight.
But Artamis raised a single hand.
The fire froze mid-motion.
Dylon's eyes nearly popped from his head. "Da hells, mon?! How?!"
The system chimed in:
«Evolving personal skill [Perfect Fire Control] to [Divine Fire Control].»
Suddenly, he knew everything. Holyfire. Hellfire. He understood them both like muscle memory.
Artamis grinned.
He gathered a storm of Bio Mana into his chest, then dipped into the pool of nihil energy he'd been saving. Fire—flipped on its head. Fueling itself by reversing the rules. He merged the unstable nihility into his flame control, something never done before.
From the center of Dylon's chest, a spark ignited. Not red. Not orange. Not blue.
Ultraviolet.
It spread like hunger. Every inch it touched, fire evaporated—devoured from existence.
Dylon screamed and jumped back, instinctively releasing his Fire Aura just to survive.
«Installing mana affinity [Nullfire Mana].»
He was pale now, sweat pouring down his face.
"What de fuck, mon?! What is happenin'?!" He stumbled back, eyes wide. "I don't understand. What was dat heat? Did I truly feel heat jus' then? But I'm an Ignivoran... I was born wit [Heat Nullification]... It don't make no sense!"
His body shook. His spirit tried to stand tall, but his left leg was tapping out the truth—fear.
He turned back toward Artamis, ready to demand answers, but what he saw wasn't a person.
It was a statue.
A replica.
"W-What—?"
Too late.
The real Artamis was already behind him, palm pressed gently against the back of Dylon's head.
"Wait, wait, wait, mon!" Dylon stammered. "P-Ple-Please spare me, Great Warrior! I can tell yuh why yuh were really sent here!"
Artamis's voice was calm. Detached.
"Null."
He cast it.
Ultraviolet flames exploded around Dylon, forming a tomb that closed like the jaws of judgment. The fire didn't burn the skin. It burned existence—flame that consumed other fire, snuffed motion out of atoms, and ignored all nullification skills like they were lies whispered to frightened children.
This was Nullfire.
A curse of forgotten True Deities and desperate Nephilims.
Dylon screamed—not in fear, but in pain. Real pain. His Soul Core shattered. His body cracked and peeled. He screamed until the Nullfire silenced even that.
Artamis stood still. Eyes unwavering.
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't flinch.
The fire burned until there was nothing left to feed it.
And then, silence.
The tomb of light winked out. No smoke. No remains. Just the soft afterglow of victory.
He had fought fire with fire.
And won.
Falling to a squat, Artamis finally allowed himself the breath he'd been holding—an exhale full of relief and weariness. His body didn't shake, but the tension that unwound in his shoulders was impossible to ignore. He had done it. He had won. But damn if it hadn't come at a cost.
Dylon wasn't just another flame-throwing maniac with delusions of grandeur. Nah, this one was different. Stronger. Wiser. Wilder. Artamis had fought people with Fire Affinity before, but none that made it feel like every drop of sweat was about to ignite on his skin. This was a survival story.
"I like this new V-Skill," he thought, rolling his neck with a tired grin. "Hell, I didn't know V-Skills could change like that."
He stood back up slowly, letting his muscles stretch as the deep pulse of the planet's core lit the space around him. That black fire—the same thing that had looked like liquified apocalypse just moments ago—flared a strong red, reflecting across his orange hoodie like he was bathing in the breath of a dragon. Yet with the heat dying down, the smell crept back in.
Sulfur.
It invaded his nose like a slap made of eggs and death. The kind of stench that made you question your life's choices. The beauty of the burning core faded fast beneath that smell. With the chaos over, his senses had no choice but to acknowledge the funk in full stereo.
So when the chime of the Prime Realm System rang out through the air like a bell tolling the end of judgment day, it was a damn welcome sound.
«Trial of the Bad is now complete. You have earned your passage.»
Light surrounded Artamis immediately, soft but powerful, like standing under the sun on the first warm day of spring. It cradled him gently, a warm and weightless cocoon. Before he could so much as blink, the world folded in on itself like a collapsing star.
And then… he was gone.
In the blink of a thought, he reappeared, standing once again in the snowy field he'd seen earlier that night. Except now, the darkness was gone, replaced by the soft wash of late morning light. The chaos? Gone. The carnage? Not even a stain. Not a scorch mark. Not even a footprint. The altar made of black oil? Vanished, like it had never existed.
Snow still floated down lazily from the sky, yet under the sunlight, the flakes refused to melt. It gave the whole field a surreal, dreamlike quality, as if reality was still catching up.
Artamis took a deep breath through his nose.
"That smells so much better."
Another chime. More words etched into his mind.
«Due to completion of the trial, [DATA RESTRICTED] will now grant the Pure Lord Seed holder the personal skill [Spirit Weapon: Hailian]. Bonus item: The Inferno Eye will be rewarded for completion of the secret objective, Fire with Fire.»
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's new. At least I got the Spirit Weapon skill." A small smirk formed across his face. New powers always came with a weird sense of calm, like a gift wrapped in destiny.
An intense golden-white radiance burst around him without warning. Something more than light—it was new power. Mana twisted and spiraled like glowing ribbons, circling his frame with the elegance of a dancer and the weight of a crown. The energy was mystical, divine even, flooding his entire being before vanishing just as quickly.
The magitons in the atmosphere rushed toward his right eye like they were answering a summons. A burning, orange glow coated his pupil as they fused with it, branding his retina with a living flame. His vision sharpened instantly—details, colors, distances. But beyond that, he couldn't sense anything yet. Not really. The power was there… simmering.
«You've danced with the dark flame and lived to tell the tale. Shall I open the door to your freedom?»
Artamis didn't answer out loud. He didn't need to.
He had achieved his goal—but the weight of it was just starting to settle in. That kind of strength didn't come free. And now that it was his, he had to decide what to do with it.
He looked down at his hand, then slowly curled it into a fist. Something had changed in him. Not just his strength. He had new resolve, along with new questions. He wanted to know more about himself. He needed answers only he could give himself.
He stepped toward the swirling portal of light ahead of him, its glow casting long shadows on the snow-draped ground. With one final glance back, he crossed the threshold—no longer the same man who walked into the Trial of the Bad.
He walked forward, not as a survivor…
But as a warrior transformed.
[End of Chapter]
[1] Year Five.