Mokai moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had never once doubted himself. Even in the damp, musty air of the dungeon, he carried an air of immaculate perfection, as though the chaos of the world could not touch him.
His face was elegantly structured - high cheekbones tapered into a slender jawline, and a straight, refined nose that balanced the delicate curves of his lips. Those lips, neither too full nor too thin, held a faint, knowing smirk, because he found the world around him both amusing and beneath him. His eyes were his most striking feature - large, almond-shaped, the colour of rich, molten bronze. Framed by long, dark lashes, they gleamed with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the shadows. His black hair, sleek and glossy, was tied back in a tight knot, not a strand out of place, emphasizing the clean lines of his face and the graceful curve of his neck. The fabric of his training gear clung to his lean, muscular frame, making him a vision of controlled power.
Before him stood two doors.
"For the Wise."
"For the Righteous."
Mokai exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Oh, great", his lips curled slightly, "isn't this poetic?"
He barely hesitated before stepping toward the "For the Righteous" door. Of course, that was his path. The wise could sit and ponder all they liked - he already knew the answer. He was strong, disciplined, and undeniably capable. If this labyrinth demanded proof, he would give it - flawlessly.
His fingers brushed over the worn surface of the door, and for a brief moment, he caught his own reflection in the polished bronze. Sharp features, unwavering gaze, not a single imperfection to be found. He belonged here.
The air hummed as he stepped through, the heavy door groaning shut behind him. He didn't flinch. Whatever trial lay ahead, he would conquer it - not because he needed to, but because he was meant to. Because this entire exercise, as gruelling and convoluted as it was, was just that - an exercise. A performance. And Mokai? Mokai was perfect.
The chamber reeked of damp fur, old blood and urine - the stench that had long claimed this place as its own. The air was thick with it, clinging to the stone walls.
Scattered across the uneven floor were deep gouges, claw marks etched into the stone. Feathers, or maybe tufts of fur, drifted lazily in the stale air, disturbed only by Mokai's entrance. Something had lived here. Something still did.
What kind of beast would he have to face?
A low, rumbling exhale stirred the silence.
He moved instinctively, shifting into a loose, balanced stance as the shadows at the far end of the chamber deepened. Then, it emerged.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light - a shifting blur, too large to be entirely real. But then the form solidified, muscle and fur rippling into existence. It was massive, a creature that walked the line between beast and nightmare.
Its body was feline in shape but grotesquely exaggerated, massive frame rippling with muscle beneath a coat of thick, obsidian fur that shimmered with streaks of silver. Its head was broad, with a mane of dark, smoky tendrils that seemed to writhe and shift as though alive. Its eyes, deep orbs of molten gold, were not the eyes of a mindless beast. There was some ancient intelligence in their shimmering glow.
Its muzzle was lined with sharp, ivory fangs that gleamed like daggers, and its breath came in low, rumbling exhales that carried the faint scent of ash and iron. Its claws, curved and black, scraped against the stone floor with a sound that sent shivers down a spine.
Yet, for all its ferocity, the beast moved with an eerie grace, each step deliberate and measured, as though it were not bound by the laws of nature. Its tail, long and whip-like, flicked lazily behind it, the tip glowing faintly with a tuft of silver fur.
Mokai's muscles tensed. This was the test and he had no intention of failing.
His eyes scanned the debris-strewn floor. In the wreckage of what might once have been a restraint post, a length of rusted chain lay coiled, half-buried in dust and stone. He dove for it.
The chain was clumsy, unwieldy, but it sang as it sliced through the air, a silver arc against the dim light, each heavy link catching the glow before blurring into momentum. There was an artistry to it, a seamless command of movement - perfect control, perfect form, perfect…
The strike landed on nothing. The beast was gone. The moment they should have connected, the creature dissolved into smoke.
Mokai pivoted sharply, scanning for movement. The beast was already behind him. He lashed out again. With a flick of his wrist, the chain spun cutting through the air in a yet another perfect arc aimed this time at the creature's legs, but once more, his weapon passed harmlessly through its shifting form.
It did not attack.
Mokai's scowl deepened. "If you're going to test me, then fight."
No response.
He attacked again - faster this time. A flurry of blows, sharp and relentless. Each one hit nothing but air.
The beast moved in a way that was unnatural, shifting between solid and incorporeal, evading with an ease that made Mokai's teeth grind together. It was toying with him.
This wasn't just a battle. It was a test.
Mokai stilled. He let his arms lower. The chain hung loosely from his hand.
The beast tilted its head, considering him. Its golden eyes glowed with an almost amused intelligence, as if it were waiting for him to understand.
"Why do you fight?", words not exactly spoken but forced into his mind.
A test. Always a test.
Mokai's gaze darkened. He did what he was meant to do. Because it was expected. Because it was the only path he knew. From the moment he could walk, he had been trained, moulded, and honed into a vision of perfection. His worth was measured in victories, his identity defined by his strength and discipline. He had never questioned it, never dared to.
"Because I must."
The beast exhaled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath his feet. The creature's golden eyes fixed on him, not with malice, but with an unsettling weariness - like an ancient being who had seen countless battles, witnessed the arrogance of warriors, and grown tired of their same mistakes.
And then it attacked.
It moved so fast that he barely had time to react. A blur of black fur and claws tore through the space, aiming straight for his throat. He twisted, barely evading as he slid backward, the chain swinging loudly in his hand. But soon the beast was upon him again.
This time, it did not miss.
A sharp, burning pain sliced across his arm as claws raked through the fabric of his gear. Mokai snarled, staggering back. Before he could properly register the injury, the beast was gone again.
The wound wasn't deep, but it stung.
His breath came in ragged gasps now, each one burning in his chest.
The beast reappeared and circled him, its movements deliberate and unhurried.
"Why do you fight?"
"Because I can!" Mokai snarled, his voice rising as he swung the chain with all his strength. The beast dissolved into smoke, reforming behind him with a low, rumbling growl.
He staggered. He had always been strong, always been capable. But now, faced with this impossible creature, he began to wonder if that was enough.
The beast lunged.
Mokai dodged, barely slipping past the strike, but the beast kept coming - again and again, its attacks growing faster and more precise with each passing moment. The beast's movements were a blur of black fur and gleaming fangs.
He couldn't keep this up. His body was a map of pain now, the beast's claws drawing blood from his torso in an elaborate net of marks. His training gear, once immaculate, was torn and stained, the fabric clinging to his skin with sweat and blood.
He was forced onto the defensive, blocking and evading, unable to counter. The chain felt heavier now, its weight dragging at his arm as he struggled to keep up. His muscles burned, his breath came in gasps, and the wound on his arm throbbed with a sharp, insistent pain.
His frustration boiled over. He forced himself forward, launching everything he had. If this thing thought it could outmanoeuvre him, it was wrong. He lashed out, striking the instant it reappeared again - and this time, the chain reached its mark.
For a brief, perfect moment, he felt the solid weight of the beast beneath his blow. The chain wrapped around its massive form, the links biting into its shimmering fur. A surge of triumph coursed through him. He had done it. He had won. After all he is the one.
Then it shattered.
The beast dissolved into fragments of smoke, the chain falling uselessly to the ground as the creature's form spiralled back into the shadows. Mokai stumbled, blinking in shock. His breath was ragged, his arm still bleeding, and his chest heaved with the effort of the fight.
The beast reformed. It stood exactly as before, untouched, unscathed. Its golden eyes glowed with the same infuriating calm, watching him as if nothing had happened.
Mokai's stomach twisted, though he refused to show it.
He had struck true. That should have ended it. Why was it still standing? This was not how it was supposed to go. He was strong. He was skilled. He was perfect. And yet, here he was, bleeding and breathless, while the beast stood before him, unharmed and unyielding.
"Why do you fight?"
Mokai clenched his jaws. He had no answer - not one that would satisfy the beast, not one that would satisfy himself. He had always fought because it was what he was meant to do. Because it was what he was good at. Because it was what was right.
Faced with this impossible creature, Mokai had that sickening feeling, that he had missed something. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the encounter. The beast's questions, its relentless attacks, the way it seemed to mirror his every move. It all pointed to something he couldn't quite grasp.
"I have already answered you," he said, his voice tight with frustration
What was it? His brain raced as he tried to figure it out. He had missed something. Something important.
The beast lunged.
There was a split second when he realised it.
But that was a gamble!
He didn't move.
The claws stopped an inch from his throat, the beast's massive form looming over him. Its breath was hot against his skin, but Mokai stood still.
A test. It had always been a test.
His fingers relaxed. His breath steadied. The chain slipped through his fingers and dropped to the ground with a clang.
"I fight…" His voice was quieter now. "Because I choose to."
The words hung in the air, simple yet profound.
He had started this. He had charged first, attacked without thought. He had been so focused on winning, on proving his strength that he just had assumed that whatever was there in the chamber, it must be conquered. While the beast had only responded to his aggression, to his arrogance.
It wasn't about being strong or skilled or perfect. It wasn't about fulfilling expectations or proving himself. It wasn't even about being right or wrong. It was an act of choosing. He had chosen to fight.
This wasn't a battle to be won - it was a lesson to be learned.
The beast exhaled. Its golden eyes softened, the intensity in its gaze fading as it stepped back. The heavy weight of its presence shifted. It no longer loomed, no longer hunted. Instead, it bowed its head - and then, it stepped aside, revealing a new path carved into the stone wall.
Mokai's heart pounded in his chest.
The test was over. Another trial passed. Another victory. And yet, he could not shake the feeling that this one had not been his victory at all.
He did not like it.
This achievement just tasted foul. He should have done nothing! Nothing. All futile, all for nothing. That was simply wrong.
Mokai took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. He cast a glance down at his arm, where shallow claw marks had torn through his gear and flesh. The wounds weren't deep, but deep enough to really stung.
With a final glance back at the chamber, he turned toward the new passage.
The corridor stretched long and narrow. The chamber behind it was vast, circular, and eerily silent. The walls were smooth, their surfaces devoid of cracks or any imperfections.
He entered and the chamber responded. The ground trembled, stone shifting beneath his feet. A series of pedestals rose from the floor, smooth columns of pale stone, their surfaces unmarred by time. Each one bore a single object. And there were dozens of them.
Mokai's brow furrowed as he stepped closer, his eyes scanning the objects. They were relics of his past, each one a fragment of his life. The training sword - his first weapon, given to him as a child. The medallion - a reward for his first victory in the arena. The banner - a symbol of the world he had sworn to protect. The scroll tied with a red thread - a letter from his beloved teacher.
He moved forward, stopping before the first pedestal. The training sword, he knew so well - it was the sword he had wielded as a child, back when his strikes had been clumsy, his footing unsure. With this sword he earned the first proud look from his father, that he remembered.
His fingers brushed over the wood, tracing the worn edges. This was where he had begun.
He lifted it.
The moment he did, he felt a weight settle upon him - not in his hand, but on his shoulders.
Heavy. Solid.
It was as though the very air thickened around him, pressing into his skin, his bones. It pressed into his very being, dragging at his spine, his breath growing sharper in his chest. His muscles tensed instinctively, adjusting to the new strain.
What is it about this time?
He tried to put the sword back, but couldn't. It felt like leaving the part of himself. He gritted his teeth and dropped the sword onto the floor. It fell with a clang.
The weight on his shoulders lightened just slightly.
And then he made a mistake.
He looked down. He looked at the sword, now lying in the dirt at the bottom of the pedestal. It felt wrong.
Why would he discard it?
The pressure rose again.
He looked around confused. What is it about?
The next pedestal bore a golden medallion. It gleamed in the dim light, its surface etched with the symbol of his first tournament victory. He had been so proud. He had worn it, let it shine against his chest as the world watched. Proof that he was stronger, that he was more.
He reached for it and the weight he felt doubled, the air thickened.
He moved to the banner, its fabric soft beneath his fingers. The insignia of his family - a symbol of the legacy he was meant to uphold. What did any of it mean?
The scroll caught his eye next. The crimson thread unravelling as he unrolled the parchment. The words were faded, but he recognized them instantly - a letter from his mentor, written after one of his most painful defeats. "Strength is not measured by victory alone," it read. "It is measured by the choices we make, the burdens we carry, and the lessons we learn."
He had not been defeated since…
He looked around at the pedestals, at the fragments of his past. Each one was a piece of who he was. One by one, he claimed them all. And with each choice, the weight upon him grew heavier. It was no longer something he could ignore - his breath was shallow now, his shoulders burning from the effort of standing.
He reached the final pedestal. It was empty. Or so it seemed.
As he stepped closer, words formed upon the stone, "What remains when all is stripped away?"
The weight on his back was unbearable now, sinking into his ribs, crushing his breath.
"Is this all I am?" he muttered, his voice barely audible. "A collection of trophies and trinkets? And what he was without them?"
What had the encounter with the beast taught him?
That was the act of choosing! His fingers trembled.
He inhaled sharply, his gaze sweeping over the objects.
"I choose to leave them behind," he said.
The weight lessened. That was what the chamber wanted him to do!
The chamber seemed to exhale, the air shifting as the pedestals began to sink back into the floor. The objects disappeared one by one, until nothing remained but himself. The weight was gone.
And yet, he did not feel lesser. As he stood in the silence of the chamber, he felt something eery. Something new.
And then he recoiled.
The anger, so far shimmering unnoticeable in his chest, exploded. He hated being toyed with. He played along with these abstract challenges for long enough.
He had expected a fight - a test of strength, skill, and endurance. Not this. He wanted to hit something - he needed to hit something.
"Hocus pocus," he muttered under his breath. "Is this how the Temple chooses? Ridiculous."
He felt deceived and betrayed. This was not worth the journey to Mytharok.
Face distorted with disdain, he punched the nearest wall.
The wall groaned and shifted, a new path opened exactly where he hit. He sneered and strode forward. Whatever came next, he would meet it head-on and crush it.
The next chamber was smaller, its walls lined with intricate carvings that seemed to pulse faintly with light. At its centre stood a single pedestal, and on it rested a smooth, black stone. The air hummed with energy, a low, resonant vibration that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
A voice echoed through the space, calm and measured.
"Prove your worth."
Mokai's lips curled up. This was more like it.
He approached the pedestal, his eyes fixed on the stone. It was unremarkable, just a smooth, dark rock, but the way it seemed to absorb the light made it feel unnatural. He reached out, his fingers brushing its surface-
And the chamber burst into chaos.
The walls shifted, the carvings coming to life as figures emerged - shadows given form, their shapes shifting and twisting as they moved toward him. They were humanoid but featureless, their bodies made of swirling darkness that seemed to ripple like water.
He didn't wait for them to reach him. He charged, his body moving on instinct, his fists flying. His first strike connected with the nearest shadow, his knuckles sinking into its form.
After the incorporeal beast, he half expected, his fist moving through smoke. But he felt resistance. The figures could be hit after all.
Good. A real fight then!
The shadow retaliated, its arm lashing out in a blur of darkness.
Mokai dodged, but not fast enough. The blow struck his shoulder, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his body. He stumbled back, his teeth bared in a snarl.
He launched himself at the shadows, his movements fuelled by rage and frustration. He struck again and again, his fists and feet cutting through the air with brutal force.
But no matter how many times he hit them, the shadows reformed, their forms shifting and swirling.
Ah, would it be an endless fight?
The dungeon was not done with him. But he was done with it!
The more he fought, the angrier he became. His strikes grew wilder, less controlled, his breathing ragged as he poured everything he had into the battle. The shadows were relentless, their attacks growing faster and more precise.
One of them struck him in the chest, the force of the blow sending him sprawling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, his body trembling with exhaustion and fury.
One by one, their swirling darkness stilled, their edges sharpening until their forms became clearer. No longer faceless, no longer empty.
He knew them.
His master, standing as he had in the training halls, his stance rigid, arms crossed in disappointment. His father, a silent spectator, his gaze heavy with expectation. Rivals he had bested, comrades who had fallen behind, their figures carved from shadow, their eyes burning with something he refused to name.
His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his pulse thundering in his ears. This was wrong.
The weight of it settled into his chest, heavier than any wound.
The figure of his master spoke. "Strength is not measured by the force of your blows, but by the choices you make. Violence is a tool, not a solution."
He had failed!