Leonidas stepped into the private sparring ring on Ceruviel’s manor grounds with an assessing look.

The arena, if it could be called such, was smaller than the Adventurer Guild’s own, and barely spanned a diameter of forty yards. It was enough for single or even group combat on a relatively realistic scale, but lacked the expansive size for more versatile exploration of different methods of combat. According to his mentor, though, those would not be overly helpful for his current needs.

Lining the perimeter of the arena were intricate arcane constructs, each one shaped like some sort of elegant pylon. Precious gems crowned their angled tops, creating an image akin to steel talons curving in toward the top of the arena.

Their surfaces pulsed with latent energy, and runes he could not quite grasp the nature of pulsed and shimmered on their surfaces with clear purpose. Each pylon seemed to be something akin to an anchor point, weaving together an advanced magitech operation he could not discern.

“It is a combat simulation system.” the Duchess announced from where she stood on an elevated podium, her violet eyes fixed on him with unwavering focus. She had partially abandoned her usual air of detached amusement, and her gaze was sharper. Her discourse around her intentions for him with Aylar had seemingly filled her with clear purpose. “It is a fusion of high-tier magic and cutting-edge engineering—” she continued with an idle gesture “—designed for one purpose: creating reality within a controlled space.”

“...You have a simulation device?” Leonidas asked with genuine surprise. “That sounds incredible.”

“I am glad you can see the value.” Ceruviel answered with a glimmer of approval in her hard gaze. “This is not some mere illusionary trick, after all, Achilles; this is a battlefield recreated with lethal accuracy. It is capable of pushing combatants to their limits while ensuring they learn from every movement, every mistake, and every defeat.”

“Have you used it yourself?” he asked with genuine interest, and a certain amount of honest wariness.

“I have and still do, regularly.” she answered with a nod. “It is rated for my use, which is why it cost me so bloody much.”

“I take it this is a rare opportunity, then.”

Two of the guards standing nearby in observation laughed at his words, and Ceruviel’s lips curved into a wry smile—almost as if she was amused without wanting to be.

“Yes, Achilles. It is a rare opportunity indeed.”

Leonidas glanced at the watching Dusk Guard members, and then grumbled and turned back to Ceruviel. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose.”

“Well said. Your training will consist of discipline first,” the Duchess responded while gesturing at him in an up-down full-body motion. “We need to focus on honing your mind,” she stated while tapping a manicured nail to her own temple, “and then utilizing that discipline to hone your blade. If you are to not only win, Achilles, but do so with definitive might: you must first understand the necessity of control, and develop a properly tempered mind.”

Leonidas frowned at her words, and eyed the woman with cautious speculation. “I assume that is not going to involve meditation?”

Ceruviel smirked in approval of his assessment. “Oh, we are well past simple meditation, my dear Achilles. You have the raw power and the instincts of a warrior, but your mind is still too rigid in its expectations. More than that, you are trapped in a cage of your own trauma. You must learn to fight without those limitations—and to move with the flow of battle, not against it.”

Leonidas frowned at her words, and glanced up at the pylons more warily than before. “I’ve fought for five years, Ceruviel. I’ve adapted to more battlefields than I can count, and faced horrors that would break most people.” he said without false humility. It was, after all, the truth. “What exactly do you think I need to learn? I can’t just make the nightmares stop replaying in my head on a whim.”

“No, you cannot. They will always be a part of you.” she said with an accepting nod.

“Then what’s the point of revisiting them? Because that’s what you’re implying.”

“Trust.” the Duchess answered succinctly.

Leonidas frowned at her and furrowed his brow. “Trust in what?”

Ceruviel’s fingers flicked through the air, tracing symbols that shimmered and burned with enigmatic energy, and what he detected to be Psionic power. “In yourself, Achilles. In the power you wield, the experiences you hold, and in the chaos of battle itself. You are still fighting like a man at war, not with the apocalypse, but with himself. You do not yet grasp that battle is not about simply surviving—it is about control, not just of yourself, but of everything. That is how you do not simply overcome, but triumph instead.”

Before Leonidas could do more than open his mouth to argue, the runes she had traced ignited in the air and flashed with iridescent lavender light. Energy sparked between the Duchess and the pylons, and the gems upon them—Amethysts, he realized belatedly—blazed with luminescence.

Within the arena, the runes ringing its edge near the pylons flared to life.

A low hum rippled through the air, and the space around him distorted. Arcane sigils illuminated the ground beneath him, interwoven with strands of liquid metal that pulsed in response to the magic like organic matter. Energy crackled in the air, offering the faint scent of burning ozone; and then, from the heart of the arena, a form took shape—rising upward in a smooth Terminator-esque ascent of silvery liquid metal while coalescing into solid mass.

A shadow-clad figure emerged from the process, its form shifting and hardening into unmistakable detail.

Blackened armor, molten eyes, a blade wreathed in crimson fire.

Azrageth.

Leonidas’ body went rigid.

“How?” he asked in a voice that was traitorously hoarse.

“You know the answer to that.” Ceruviel said in a ruthlessly calm tone. “Now focus.”

Despite her words, Leonidas felt a ringing in his ears already starting.

His mind screamed at him, his pores opened with fear-driven perspiration, and his instincts flared with the same warning they had all those years ago. This wasn’t an illusion—this was real.

The battle against the Demon Lord wasn’t being simulated in his mind; it was happening here, in front of him.

The fusion of magic and technology had birthed a fully tangible entity, one that mimicked his greatest foe in every possible way. Every movement, every shift in the air, even the infernal heat radiating from its form—it was Azrageth as he had been in the final battle, the greatest enemy Leonidas had ever faced.

His mouth felt dry.

His hands shook.

“Fight.”

Ceruviel’s voice rang out sharply from a different location. She was no longer in her place on the podium, and instead had moved; pacing the edge of the arena with her eyes locked onto him like a hawk evaluating its prey. “Do not let your past master you, Achilles.” she commanded sternly. “You cannot afford hesitation.”

Azrageth lunged in the instant Leonidas glanced at his mentor.

He barely had time to raise his blade on remembered instinct alone before the impact sent a shuddering force through his arms.

Infernal flames flashed into existence along the Demon Lord’s sword, and seared the air between them with molten heat. The power behind the strike was just as overwhelming as he remembered.

Leonidas hunched his shoulders against the cascade of recollection.

This wasn’t a test of skill, he realized.

This was a test of will.

“You know how to survive, Achilles.” Ceruviel declared from where she was still slowly making her way around the edge of the arena. “But do you know how to live?”

Leonidas gritted his teeth at her words, planting his feet and forcing himself to meet the assault head-on. Something about the situation felt different, too. More dangerous, if that were even possible.

“This is not the Demon Lord you fought, Achilles.” Ceruviel said as if in response to his unspoken instincts. “This Azrageth is not bound by the moment in time limiting the one you fought before. This Azrageth will adapt. It will react. This is not merely a memory,” she stated sternly, “it is a manifestation of the Demon Lord’s true combat ability, drawn from your own subconscious fears.”

“How the fuck do I win against something I would have lost to at the height of my power?!” he demanded of her while instinctively making space and fending off a pair of savage sword blows. Each strike vibrated along his arms, emphasizing how weak he was compared to his time on Elatra. Miranda would have been ashamed of his showing, but it was all he could do to survive the mere presence of the reforged Demon Lord.

Steel met steel in a cacophony of violence, and Leonidas snarled against the terror that bubbled up within to devour him.

Ceruviel’s voice cut through the clash of blades. “You think this battle is about winning?” She demanded. “You think this is about proving yourself against the past? You cannot still be so foolish, Achilles. You have already defeated him once. That is not the point.”

Leonidas pivoted while she spoke, stepping off of his left leg and barely half-deflecting, half-dodging a vicious downward slash. The sheer heat of the blade singed his shoulder, and he hissed through clenched teeth. “Then what the hell is the point?” he shouted back.

Ceruviel’s lips curled into a smile, sharp and knowing, which he could hear in her words. “Control.”

The battle intensified.

Leonidas felt himself falling into a rhythm despite the trepidation still gnawing at his bones and the fear cinching his heart. It was not a matter of somehow overcoming it with sudden courage, it was a simple matter of dialled in realization: he could either thrive, or be brutalized by the specter of his own fears absent chance of reprisal.

Where before he had simply weathered the assault of the simulacrum and retreated, now instead he met the construct’s approach with blade in hand.

A cleaving oberhau came down toward him to be met by a decisive block, and Leonidas growled at the force of the impact against his blade.

A sweeping slash was deflected and used as a chance for a daring counter, which scored a superficial blow against the reconstructed Azrageth’s hellish warplate.

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That small, insignificant victory was like a dam breaking free in Leonidas’ mind.

“Control.” Ceruviel repeated again in a firm, carrying tone of voice.

“Control.” Leonidas echoed, while exhaling a shaky breath and focusing not on the identity of his foe—though he could hardly forget!—but instead on the existence of the enemy before him.

An enemy, not a nightmare made manifest. Just another challenge.

Azrageth struck once more a moment later, but this time, Leonidas was not reacting in desperation.

He was leading the battle.

His movements guided the fight into his rhythm, his sword an extension of his will. The brutal blow was turned aside with a smooth parry from the edge of Leonidas’ blade, and he travelled with the momentum; bringing the Demon Lord’s zweihander around and forcing it toward the arena’s floor—before stepping forward and lifting his right hand to smash his sword’s pommel into the construct’s chin.

Breathe in. He said into his own mind. Feel the rhythm.

The construct hesitated. The simulation registered the shift.

Fear was not gone; it was simply corralled.

Panic gave way to steady focus.

Harmony overcame Chaos.

The Simulacrum roared its defiance at Leonidas with remembered hatred, imbued within its form by Ceruviel’s psionic sorcery. Its blade came around, sweeping in a wide arc overhead with a trail of hellfire, and surging down to hew him in twain with speed that defied its size—or crush him beneath the force of the blow.

Leonidas accepted neither.

Instinct and trained awareness bled through his mind, and he moved while throwing aside the fear that had constrained him. Azrageth’s blade descended inches from his face and his body, turned sideways in his dash into the Demon Lord’s guard, and Leonidas felt his skin flush and blister at the heat that washed past him. Instead of focusing on the pain, however, he looked upward.

The Demon Lord’s hateful eyes glared balefully back at him.

“Checkmate.” he quipped in remembrance of his first months in Elatra.

His [Archon’s Psiblade] thrust upward in his grip, and punched through the hardened chitinous boneplating protecting Azrageth’s jaw from conventional attacks. The weapon, itself a thing that defied the physical limitations of other blades, sliced apart the natural protection like a hot knife through butter.

The Azrageth simulacrum froze when Leonidas’ blade punctured its skull, and the liquid metal comprising its body turned abruptly opaque—de-rendering the details of the Demon Lord, and returning to a non-descript humanoid mass of shining silver.

Leonidas almost felt disappointed.

Ceruviel clapped once a moment later, a sharp sound that echoed through the arena and brought his focus back to the Duchess. “You have taken the first step, Achilles. Fear and trepidation are not easily conquered in a single bout, but I saw the difference in that move.” she announced with a faint smile. “Before, you fought not without fear of death, but instead absent a desire to live. Many confuse the two, but the difference is like night and day.”

Leonidas lowered his sword at Ceruviel’s words, and took into a bracing breath.

“You’re right.” he admitted while looking at the Dusk-Lord, and then back down to his Psiblade. “By the end in Elatra, I just wanted it to be over—even if it claimed my life. After returning home, the desire to live came with me, and facing Azrageth again… there was a primal panic I couldn’t restrain. Last time we fought, I wanted to die. That inoculated me against the fear I truly felt. This time…”

“This time you wanted to live, and so the fear took hold.” Ceruviel finished with tacit approval. “That is natural, Achilles. No warrior truly lacks fear, they simply have the courage, purpose, conviction, and fortitude to fight despite that fear.”

“Control.” he said once again, while partially turning it into a mantra for later remembrance. “It comes down to control, as you said.”

“Correct.” Ceruviel affirmed with approval. “But even with that epiphany of yours, one victory does not a tempered mind make. You have taken your first steps to overcoming fear, Achilles, but you did so against a known element.” the Duchess stated with an ominously intense gaze. “Now, let us see what you do when fear meets uncertainty.”

Leonidas reaffirmed his grasp on his sword and nodded once. “I’m ready.”

The pylons flared with power once again, and Ceruviel harnessed her psionic strength to weave a new foe. The next opponent formed from the liquid metal at her behest, changing from the shape of Azrageth that is still clung to—a new challenge writ large, drawn from the depths of her calculating mind.

Leonidas exhaled in preparation, and sought to reassert calm preparedness.

Around him in the interim, the very arena itself darkened like it was artificially shaded, as if the magic asserting itself during the process was actively working to deepen the dread of Ceruviel’s new challenge.

While the metal asserted its new shape, Leonidas was struck immediately by a realization: This was not another version of Azrageth—it was something entirely new.

The entity that came from the Demon Lord’s remnants was taller, clad in segmented armor that seemed to shift between states of corporeal indomitability and ephemeral mist. Its face was obscured beneath an executioner’s hood, with only the eerie glow of two burning sockets giving away its presence.

A pair of long, curved blades materialized in its hands; each one humming with a resonance that vibrated the air itself.

Leonidas narrowed his eyes and glanced at his mentor, who only smirked back in response. She knew what he was thinking, he surmised: This was not an enemy he recognized. The construct was no longer testing his ability to fight the past with a twist, as he had expected—instead Ceruviel was forcing him to fight the unknown.

His new opponent didn’t wait. It moved in an instant, flickering forward in a blur of steel and shadow, with a whisper like the sigh of death from beneath its reaper’s hood. Leonidas barely raised his guard and leaped aside before the first blade passed through where he had been standing only seconds prior, the air around it warping from the sheer force of its swing.

It made Azrageth look downright sluggish by comparison.

Ceruviel had clearly ratcheted up the lethality.

Leonidas inhaled deeply, rolled his shoulders, and adjusted his stance. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, feeling the weight of it settle naturally in his grip. This was no longer about reacting to past traumas—this was about facing something unknown and commanding the fight’s momentum for himself.

He’d had a taste of it with Azrageth, but the Demon Lord was a relatively known quantity; drawn from the depths of Leonidas’ own fears and memories.

This new foe was something outside the scope of his experiences.

It moved unlike anything Leonidas had ever encountered, its form flickering between the tangible and the ephemeral. One moment it was solid and armored, a towering figure of physical might and brutal speed.

The next, it was mist, shifting like smoke around his blade as he struck.

Leonidas swung first in a controlled and cautious arc, aiming to carve through its center.

Instead of the dodge, parry, or counter he expected: The reaper-like entity simply dissolved into incorporeal vapor a second before impact, and his blade passed through it harmlessly.

Before he could do more than widen his eyes in surprise, a jagged force slammed into his ribs and sent him skidding across the stone floor. Leonidas barely managed to keep his footing, with his boots grinding against the reinforced ground and his body screaming in protest.

Ceruviel’s voice cut through the air, stern and merciless. “Do not fight it as though it follows your rules, Achilles. It does not.”

Leonidas spat blood onto the floor in response, and reached up to wipe his lips with a grimace of displeasure. “Would’ve been nice to know that before I got hit.”

Ceruviel chuckled, though there was barely any amusement in it. “Adapt, Leonidas, or fall. It is all in your hands.”

Leonidas grimaced at her words and his eyes narrowed in study of the creature.

It wasn’t simply phasing between states—it was responding to him. When he attacked, it became untouchable. When he defended, it struck like a storm. The battle was not one of strength or skill alone, he realized after a moment.

Ceruviel was testing his ability to see beyond the obvious.

The entity lunged again, twin curved blades descending in a blur. Leonidas twisted, stepping away just in time, but the creature adjusted mid-strike, one blade solidifying while the other remained incorporeal. The solid one carved against his armor, sparks flying. The other passed through him like fog, sending a chill through his very core.

Leonidas grimaced. So that’s how it works.

It was an enemy that required more than instinct—it demanded intelligence.

He steadied his breathing and adjusted his grip. If my strikes triggered its phasing, then I have to fight without giving it time to respond.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” he said decidedly, and burst into forward motion toward his eternally patient opponent.

Leonidas lunged, feinting high at the same time as if to strike at his enemy’s upper torso and lower neck.

As expected, the entity flickered to mist.

But Leonidas was already moving, shifting his momentum mid-strike to spin low and drive his boot into the ground; kicking up a cloud of dust and debris in the process. The moment its form began to coalesce again, he struck—not the body, but the air just ahead of it.

The dust and debris were swirling around something tangible.

His [Archon’s Psiblade] met resistance in a heart-stopping moment of relief.

The construct reeled when his blade caught it in the side, and caught off guard. Leonidas didn’t hesitate. He pressed the attack, keeping his movements unpredictable, breaking patterns before they could form. His strikes were not aimed at where the entity was—but where it would be.

Some element of psionic prescience seemed to be working in tandem with his blows, but that was an entirely different kettle of troubles that Leonidas did not have the time to focus on at that moment.

The battle became a dance of deception.

Leonidas moved in ways that forced the construct to react improperly, catching it in its own weakness. He would feint at a leg, only to strike its torso. He would move to force a rebalancing of its stature only to manipulate that shift into an opening for an attack at its spine, or arms, or to slice into its ribs.

Every flicker of its form became an opening, and each transition a vulnerability.

Ceruviel watched from nearby, her arms crossed under her breasts as a faint smirk touched her lips. “Now, Achilles, you begin to see not just with your eyes. Good.”

Leonidas didn’t respond to her baiting words. He was too focused, and too immersed in the relentless symphony of the combat. Even with his advantages being pressed, there was a very real chance for severe damage if he faltered.

The construct was on the back foot, but it was not defeated. Leonidas’ rhythm was increasing, but he knew he had to be vigilant—he knew he had to keep focused, and to stay in control. One wrong move would hand the advantage back to his foe, and that could spell disaster.

Leonidas continued to weave in chaos to his motions, harnessing his plethora of experience with different combat styles to make seemingly random transitions from one sword art to another.

As a result, the entity had begun to falter; its transitions between states growing erratic.

It had not been designed to lose—it had been designed to learn.

Leonidas was denying it that chance with every iota of his ability in swordsmanship.

When a desperate double-swing came down at his shoulders, Leonidas saw his opening and capitalized on his enemy’s mistake. His body shifted to dodge the left blade while he put all his strength into parrying the right away hard, and then he surged forward.

His sword carved upward in an arc that anticipated the reaper’s reactive flicker, and the steel of his Psiblade met something solid. A deep, echoing crack resounded through the arena an instant later as the construct’s form shattered, and the liquid metal lost cohesion to disperse back into the magic of the runes below.

Silence followed his victory, broken only by his heavy, panting breaths.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his blood roared and adrenaline surged through him, but despite it all: his hands were steady, and his mind was shockingly clear.

Ceruviel descended from the edge of the arena and stepped onto the arena floor a moment later, her heeled boots clicking against the surface. The beautiful Duchess regarded him with an expression that was neither approval nor disappointment—but something else entirely. Something he had come to expect, and in some odd way, found comfort in: Calculation.

“You are learning faster than I expected.”

The words, given forth by the Dusk-Lord of Dawnhaven, were not light in their offering. There was a powerful compliment within them, mixed with inescapable expectation, and a clear intention to see more—to draw out whatever lurked within him that she sought to bring to the fore.

He was by no means fixed. His traumas, his fears, his scars—mental and physical—and his burdens remained; but Ceruviel had given him an important insight into a potential future where they no longer constrained him.

Leonidas rolled his neck a moment later after she spoke, and winced at the bruises forming beneath his armor. “Not fast enough.” he groused to her good-naturedly. “That thing nearly gutted me multiple times.”

Ceruviel’s gaze held something unreadable at his words, and then her painted lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Then I suppose we should move on to the next challenge, while you have such fantastic momentum.”

Leonidas froze at her words, narrowing his eyes at the Duchess. “Next?”

The pylons around the arena pulsed as if in answer to his wary question.

“Indeed, my dear Achilles.” Ceruviel said to him in a voice that was edged with competitive interest. “After all, if I am to make you a worthy King, I cannot stop until we find your true limit. Only then can we achieve a breakthrough.”

Liquid metal began to pool at her words, and this time, three distinct shapes began to rise from the arena.

Leonidas let out a resigned sigh.

“Alea iacta est.” he stated with a warrior’s acceptance.

Ceruviel’s only reply was an approving laugh.