The first man smiled, but just as he was about to speak, a cynical voice interrupted from the side as the third man spoke.
"Stop wasting time and just get to the point," he said sharply, turning to Atticus. "For the fourth trial, you only need one spirit to accompany you on your journey. You will select between us."
The first man shot the third a dirty look but didn't argue, turning back to Atticus instead.
"He's right," he said, his voice calmer. "You have to select one of us to continue."
"Why?" Atticus asked plainly.
"Why what?"
"Why do I have to select one of you? Why doesn't the katana just assign me a guide?"
"It's also part of your trial," the man responded.
"What is the fourth trial about? And do you each have different quirks to offer?"
Atticus tried to make sense of it all. Having to choose a spirit seemed odd, almost like a trap. Did they each bring unique advantages?
"Will you fight alongside me during the trial?" Atticus asked before the man could respond to his earlier question.
The first man sighed deeply, shaking his head. "I cannot reveal the nature of the trial, unfortunately," he said. "Yes, we each have different quirks, but no, we will not fight with you. Our role is to guide."
Atticus's mind raced, Ozeroth's parting advice echoing in his thoughts.
"I see," he muttered thoughtfully. "So I just choose one of you?"
The three spirits nodded in unison.
"Alright."
Without hesitation, Atticus turned and pointed at the silent man who had remained still throughout the scene. "I choose you."
All three spirits blinked, taken aback. Even the silent man seemed momentarily surprised.
"A-are you sure?" the first man asked, his tone filled with disbelief.
Atticus nodded firmly, his decision unchanged.
"Why?" the first man pressed, unable to hide his curiosity. He had gone out of his way to be kind and cooperative, answering Atticus's questions calmly to secure the boy's favor. Yet, it was clear Atticus wouldn't change his mind.
"Because he's quiet," Atticus said bluntly.
The room fell silent, and the spirits exchanged incredulous looks.
"Because… he's quiet?" the first man repeated, as though confirming he had heard correctly.
Atticus nodded again, his expression unreadable.
"A-alright," the first man said reluctantly, sighing in defeat. He didn't push the matter further, realizing there was nothing more he could do.
In an instant, the first and third spirits vanished, leaving only Atticus and the silent man behind.
The two stared at each other for a moment. True to his word, one of the reasons Atticus had chosen this man was because he seemed quiet and to the point. Whatever the fourth trial entailed, Atticus had no interest in dealing with a talkative guide.
The silent spirit finally nodded at him. In the next moment, the room dissolved around them, and they both disappeared.
A blinding light erupted in the middle of an endless desert.
As it dimmed, Atticus appeared, his sharp gaze already scanning his surroundings.
Beside him hovered a miniature, translucent version of the guide he had just chosen.
Atticus performed a quick inspection of himself once more, his mind racing. He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar presence of mana within him.
His earlier assessment held true: he could only use mana.
The heat pressed down on him like a weight. He swept his gaze across the horizon. An endless expanse of golden sand stretched in every direction, interrupted only by shimmering mirages.
The sun blazed high above, glaring, with just enough time left before it dipped toward the horizon. It would set soon.
"It's hot," Atticus muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. The sun's intensity was oppressive even for him, and he found himself truly missing his elements.
He frowned. Something felt off.
'I still don't have my katana,' he thought.
A deep voice broke through his thoughts. "Listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you."
Atticus turned to face the spirit.
"Firstly, my job here is to guide you by providing information. But there's a limit," the spirit said. "I can only tell you about things you're directly involved with. For example, since you've now entered the trial, I can tell you its objective and your goal."
Atticus nodded, his expression cold, his mind focused. "What's the goal?"
The spirit's translucent form crossed its arms. "Simple. Reach the other side of this world. That's it. The rest will fall into place as you go."
"Is there a time limit?"
"No," the spirit replied, shaking its head. "But—" its voice hardened—"there are no second chances. Once you die, it's over."
Atticus's eyes narrowed. But he wasn't surprised. He was already aware of this fact.
He exhaled deeply, trying to focus, when a flicker of movement caught his attention.
His gaze shifted to the top of a nearby sand dune. Something strange poured down its side, soft, fluid, and ethereal.
Mist.
But this wasn't ordinary mist.
Atticus could feel it, a strange, foreboding energy radiating from it. Despite the distance, it was already making him feel weaker.
"What is that?" he quickly asked, his tone sharp as he pointed toward the approaching mist.
"You're not directly involved with it. I can't tell you," the spirit said, shaking its head.
Atticus frowned, his fist tightening.
'It doesn't matter. I won't let it touch me.'
Without hesitation, he spun away from the mist. His mana surged, coiling through his legs as he bent low, preparing to move.
'Focus. Don't get distracted.'
In a burst of speed, Atticus shot forward, sand exploding behind him.
He streaked through the desert like a blur, the world narrowing into a single point, the horizon.
He knew it wouldn't be as simple as running to the other side. The trial would challenge him, push him to his limits.
But Atticus was ready.
As the mist crept closer, swallowing the dune behind him, the desert seemed to stir. The ground beneath his feet rumbled faintly.
And high above in the sky, the sun set.
In the next instant, Atticus's cold gaze flickered.