Gravity wasn't the only challenge.
As Atticus climbed, his body grew heavier with each ascent. The green sea had stopped rising, but Atticus had never planned to stop in the first place.
However, as he moved, another obstacle reared its head: the wind.
It whipped around him with ferocity, howling like a storm unleashed, threatening to tear him from the mountainside.
Atticus's grip tightened. Now, he couldn't ascend without keeping at least one hand firmly attached to the mountain, or the wind would sweep him away.
A river of sweat drenched his body, mingling with blood from small tears in his skin. His muscles screamed in protest, and every movement pushed him closer to his limits.
But Atticus gritted his teeth and pressed on. His piercing blue eyes burned with intensity. There was no hesitation, no room for second guessing.
Hours bled together as he climbed, his resolve unwavering. Eventually, he reached the storm cloud shrouding the mountain's peak.
His gaze sharpened as he took it in.
The wind outside had been unbearable, but Atticus could only imagine the chaos waiting for him inside.
With a deep breath, he resumed his ascent.
As Atticus entered the storm cloud, the world around him vanished.
The wind lashed at him from every direction, sharp as blades, howling like a feral beast.
Dense fog engulfed him, blinding his vision. Gravity pressed down harder, making each movement a battle.
His arms were numb now, throbbing with each desperate grip. His fingers dug into the mountain as small tears across his skin seeped blood into the storm.
It was hell.
But Atticus's mind roared louder than the storm, urging his battered body to keep moving.
Then his instincts screamed.
He froze, his grip tightening. His gaze snapped upward just in time to see it, a massive wind blade, an arc of razor-sharp air, slicing down toward him.
"Shit," he muttered, eyes wide.
He lunged to the side instantly, gripping another section of the mountain. The wind blade narrowly missed, carving a deep gash into the rock.
But it wasn't over.
The blade twisted mid-air, curving back toward him with terrifying speed.
Atticus moved again, leaping to another spot, narrowly avoiding it. The relentless gravity dragged him lower with each jump.
And then, more came.
Dozens of wind blades honed in on him, slicing through the air as if they had minds of their own.
Atticus's breathing turned ragged, his body trembling under the strain. Sweat poured off him, mixing with the blood on his scraped hands.
He was descending, lower and lower, as he dodged the relentless blades.
He glanced down, his gaze narrowing as he saw the green sea rising again, sizzling and hissing like a predator waiting to devour him.
'I can't keep this up,' he thought coldly. Every inch of his body was screaming. His muscles felt like they were on fire, his arms on the verge of giving out.
The wind blades showed no mercy, their arcs slicing through the storm with deadly precision. One wrong move, and they would cut him to pieces.
Atticus's gaze darkened, then firmed.
He had no choice.
The spirit, watching silently, gazed at him with an impassive expression. But only the spirit knew the weight of the thoughts running through his head.
'I have no choice,' the spirit thought.
Atticus piercing blue eyes burned brighter with resolve.
If he continued like this, it would only end in his death. His body was breaking, and the storm showed no sign of relenting.
In the next instant, his mana churned violently.
"Let's hope the peak is past this storm," he muttered under his breath.
And then, he acted.
The air around him crackled as a storm of swirling mana formed beneath his feet and above his head, spinning like a living drill.
The mana beneath him compressed, tighter and tighter, until it was no larger than a fist.
Atticus's gaze sharpened. He released his hold.
The compressed mana exploded.
The force launched him skyward like a cannonball, tearing through the storm. The wind blades raced after him, but the swirling mana above his head shredded them apart with ease.
The world became a blur of motion. Gravity pulled at him, the storm raged, but Atticus didn't stop. His mana drained rapidly, his reserves dwindling with each second. Every movement sent waves of pain coursing through his battered body.
Then, he saw it.
The peak.
Soft golden rays pierced through the storm, bathing the summit in light.
Atticus surged upward one final time, landing hard on the mountain's peak. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, the sun's warmth washing over him like a balm.
His breathing was ragged, labored. Every muscle in his body felt torn and frayed, and his mana reserves were so low he doubted he could even muster a small swirling breeze.
But he was there. He'd made it.
Atticus breathed in and out, steadying his nerves. Though his body screamed in agony, his senses remained sharp, alert. He doubted he could fend off another attack, but he refused to lower his guard.
His eyes sharpened as he took in the sight before him.
The peak stretched out into a massive platform carved from stone, surrounded by flat, open ground.
Rows of floating earth encircled the arena, filled with spectators.
Their eyes bore into him, expressions ranging from awe to contempt, curiosity to indifference.
Atticus's gaze narrowed.
'They're here too.'
Among the crowd, he spotted the two other spirits he had encountered at the start of the fourth trial.
'What's going on? Are they here to watch?'
Atticus wondered. He had expected a battle with the katana's avatar, but despite scanning the empty arena, all he could see were the spirits seated silently in the floating rows.
'Was my assumption wrong?'
His mind spun, working to piece everything together. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Each movement sent waves of searing pain through his body, but his resolve kept him steady.
'Let's see.'
Just as Atticus was about to take a step, his eyes widened.
A pull.
An overwhelming, intense pull.
'What…?'
His thoughts spiraled as his sharp senses scanned his surroundings. He was certain the only one behind him was the spirit who had guided him.
'Did the avatar appear behind me without me realizing it?'
The idea sent a chill down his spine. But it didn't matter, it was too late.
The pull yanked him backward with brutal force.
His exhausted body flew through the air, whizzing past the edge of the cliff.
He plummeted.
Fast.
As he fell, time seemed to slow, and he saw it.
A figure standing just behind where he had been.
The spirit.
The one who had accompanied him throughout the fourth trial.
But he had changed. He had grown into his original form, a commanding presence, exuding power.
Atticus's gaze locked onto one thing: the spirit's outstretched hand.
He didn't need to guess. It was clear.
It was him.
The spirit had yanked him off the cliff.
Atticus's strength was gone. His mana depleted. He was plummeting to his death.
But none of that mattered.
The coldness in Atticus's gaze as he fell was enough to freeze the world.
His eyes burned crimson.
Revenge.