A/N: Note that I am using AI to modify the lines. I didn't edit much. But I will do so later. For now, I don't have enough time. The plot and the conversation are all written by me. A little adjustment from AI. Nothing much. Hope you enjoy it.
When I finally edit the chapter, I will remove the 'A/N'
INFO -
1. I am calling the power MC got "The Primal Power"-- The Power to Manipulate Laws.
2. Thoughts are within '__' and in italic character.
And conversations are within "__"
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After crossing the bridge, the MC didn't pause. No sigh of relief. No moment of triumph.
He simply kept walking—unhurried, precise.
'One trial down. Let's see what flavor of nonsense comes next.'
The path ahead seemed endless at first—an illusion of continuity painted across the still skies. But it didn't take long before something new crept into view.
A jagged cliff loomed ahead, rising out of the mists like a broken crown. Its edge was sharp and sheer, and beyond it, nothing but void.
He approached slowly, peering over.
'Another bottomless drop. They really like these.'
Then, without warning, the ground beneath him shivered.
"…Here we go again."
Cracks laced outward from where he stood, and with a low, hollow groan, the chunk of land beneath his feet detached. Clean. Intentional.
He didn't move. Just widened his stance slightly as the platform began rising, drifting off the cliff and into the empty space like it had been waiting for him.
Wind whispered past his coat, carrying the scent of static and something faintly metallic.
'No controls. No prompts. Just movement. They really want you to feel powerless, don't they?'
He let the silence stretch.
The platform floated smoothly through the sky, the world beneath fading into mist.
Soon, a shape appeared ahead—a stone platform hanging in midair like an abandoned coliseum. No walls. No roof. Just a flat, cold surface.
As his ride slowed to a stop in front of it, golden light flickered into existence midair.
Words.
[Goal: Walk to the Gate "NORMALLY"]
A faint hum echoed as the words glowed brighter for a moment, then dimmed into stillness.
He stared.
"…That's it? Walk?"
But he didn't move just yet. His eyes scanned the open platform carefully.
It looked simple.
Too simple.
'I wonder what's the trick?'
He narrowed his gaze, then took a single step off the floating slab and onto the trial's stone floor.
The moment his foot made contact—he felt it.
A sudden shift in weight—subtle, but unnatural. Like gravity itself had twitched.
'There it is.'
He exhaled slowly and straightened his coat.
'Alright, whoever you might be. Let's dance.'
His first steps were calculated, each one deliberate.
He walked in a straight line toward the gate ahead, letting his senses spread.
The distortions weren't visible, but they were present. Pockets of warped force layered across the platform—some compressed like neutron stars, others featherlight like walking on clouds.
He moved through them with practiced ease.
Ki flowed subtly through his legs—anchoring him when gravity grew dense, stabilizing him when it tried to vanish beneath his soles. His body adjusted, almost casually, like this was just another kata. Another morning drill in a war-temple.
But then the trial shifted.
Mid-stride, one zone pulsed. Gravity spiked.
A force like a collapsing planet pressed against his chest—just for a moment. Enough to throw off his rhythm, to make his gait falter.
He tripped.
Light snapped around him like broken glass.
And in an instant, he was back at the start.
"…Tch."
He cracked his neck once.
'So if your movement isn't normal, you reset. Cute.'
He stepped forward again, faster this time. Reading the flow better. Every shift, every pressure point—met with equal response. He leaned with the force, bent with it. Became fluid.
But the trial adapted again.
Three zones stacked on top of each other—chaotic, jerking in opposite directions.
He stumbled.
Reset.
Again.
This time, he said nothing.
He took his stance. Ki lit his body like a quiet fire.
He moved.
But the gravity turned feral—warping not just force, but momentum—slowing one leg, accelerating the other. Twisting space as if trying to unlearn physics.
He stopped walking mid-step, one foot hovering.
'They're not testing my balance anymore…'
He lowered his foot slowly, the weight pulling it unnaturally.
'They're testing if I'll break.'
And for a moment—he smiled.
"…Wrong guy for that."
This time, he didn't just let his ki respond.
He reached deeper—beneath the layer of gravity. Beneath sensation.
Into the Laws.
Like hands parting threads, he slipped between the fibers of the trial's framework.
What he found wasn't chaos. It was designed.
Woven Laws—gravity fields stitched into patterns. Triggers and resets tied to biomechanical cues. Crude, but clever.
It didn't matter.
He whispered—not with sound, but with intention.
And the Laws listened.
He didn't overpower them. He rewrote them. Softly.
The weight shifted back to normal.
Then again. Then again.
He walked.
Straight. Balanced. Calm.
The world didn't fight him this time.
The zones no longer tried to break his stride.
By the time he reached the gate, the trial wasn't resisting at all.
The golden text returned.
[Trial Completed]
The gate opened without ceremony.
He didn't even pause.
Just walked through.
No smirk. No swagger.
Just quiet control.
'I wonder what next cute trials you have for me.'
--
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the maze where time seemed to stand still, the cracked plaza was lit by a pale artificial sun that never moved. Old metal benches, moss-grown statues, and repurposed buildings formed the skeleton of a place once vibrant—now quiet. Survivors moved in the background, tending fires, repairing armor, and watching the world around them with weary eyes.
At the center of the plaza, two figures stood apart from the crowd—one representing a stubborn hope, the other a resigned survival.
"You're throwing lives away, Dalen."
Riva's voice was sharp and tired, each word carrying the weight of countless losses. Her eyes, marked by both scars and determination, met his with unyielding resolve.
Dalen, still clad in the battered armor of the latest trial, shook his head slowly.
"No. I'm giving them a chance," he replied, conviction resonating in his tone. "A chance to escape this endless maze, not to languish in this decaying refuge."
Riva's gaze hardened.
"You think they quit? You weren't there when Marcus started screaming at the walls. Or when Lara stabbed her own shadow because it 'whispered' to her."
She stepped closer, her presence as fierce as the memories that haunted her.
"You didn't bury them, Dalen. I did."
A heavy silence fell between them. Dalen's eyes shifted briefly to the makeshift town behind Riva—a town built by survivors who had chosen to give up the desperate quest for escape.
"So what now?" he asked quietly. "We rot here, waiting for The Warden to grow bored and wipe us clean?"
At the mention of The Warden, a shiver ran through the nearby onlookers. The name—the enigmatic force orchestrating these brutal trials—was a reminder of the unseen puppeteer pulling the strings.
Riva's jaw clenched.
"At least here, we can breathe," she said. "The trials aren't just tests; they're psychological warfare meant to shatter our spirit. The Warden thrives on our breakdown."
Dalen's gaze dropped for a moment, his voice low but steady.
"I've seen what these trials do. They break some, yes. But surrendering isn't surviving—it's giving up on the possibility of freedom."
He met her eyes one last time, the unspoken challenge hanging between them.
"Fine then. You stay with your ghosts. I'll take my squad and continue the quest, even if you call it a lost cause."
Without another word, Dalen turned and walked away, his followers trailing behind him like a silent promise of rebellion. Riva stood alone, her eyes fixed on the departing figures, a storm of emotions swirling behind her guarded expression.
The air remained still as the artificial sun flickered—a solitary, unsettling sign, as if something unseen was watching, waiting, and listening.