As Castillio’s voice cuts off, a tarnished red light illuminates. I can see a circular monochromatic stone room with no ceiling or at least no visible top; instead, a layer of darkness blocks whatever is above. A wooden door is the only exit, an entrance into the challenge. Examining the walls, I find no markings or degradation on the hewn mix of block sizes held together with no mortar. Inspecting myself yields my dagger and two metal tubes, identical to those I have been tirelessly engraving.

Through the wooden door, three paths lay in front of me: one to the left, one in front, and one to the right. I randomly choose after marking the corners with my dagger. The hallway on the left goes on for twenty meters before coming to another intersection, which I again check. Returning to the first section, I ensure the chip remains. Alright, all is going well.

After meticulously following each of the three initial paths and nine subsequent diverging paths, I conceive a problem. Back at the starting area, sitting in a meditative position, I pray the newest path doesn't mean what I think it does. Within my mind palace, metal tubes trace out the courses I’ve already traversed, leading to discovering an intersection that doesn't.

This place is a maze whose pieces lay disconnected in front of me. This revelation does not preclude the idea of connecting deeper along. It did, however, beg the question of how exactly a maze can have a solution if it isn’t bound and, therefore, you cannot map it. Or can it be mapped? Or is it not a maze? Assuming the pathways don't change, the lack of interaction with each other could be unconventional. For example, if I teleport to a different section upon choosing an initial path. If that is the case, I would need to find a connected pass before I could map anything.

Encountering my first challenge in the thirteenth consecutive hallway, I‘ve been examining the ground, and upon marking the fourth successive turn down the left pathway, I spot a slight crease. A touch assures me that it is indeed present. With no other distinguishing triggers, I press my hand on the stone. Nothing happens. Re-positioning myself, I depress my foot against the floor. After a few moments of gradually increasing the pressure, the floor snaps. I lift my foot and pull it back.

The floor falls away into a pit with a bubbling substance at the bottom, leaving a ten-meter gap to the other end of the hallway. The indistinguishable liquid seems less than hospitable, but the true terror is another aspect of the pit. I scooch up on my belly to peer into the void. Looking at it from this angle, I can see under the floor and walls in front of me, which is only a foot thick, informing me that this entire maze suspends over this roiling pit.

The horror isn’t any added inconvenience, but seeing the corridors— seeing underneath everything. It momentarily disconcerts my sense of balance, as if the revelation will suck me into the pit. I pull myself back with a sheen on my head.

Another dilemma is the possibility of a new trap or even a sequence after this initial one. With little recourse, if that is the case, I will be left on the other side, only able to move forward. Any choice which pushes towards an outcome will be a bad one. No, I have an idea. I can gain resources from the components and triggers of these traps. The false stone floor helps test the stability of the far side of this gap. The pattern is clear after checking the two other passageways: a trap upon entering a certain subsequent turn number.

This strange development, placing traps in such an obvious pattern, will make them less likely to be triggered after the first encounter. The middle passage has pitfalls after the fifth turn instead of the fourth, and the far right has one on the sixth turn. They are all similar in design, with weight inducing a pit trap. The idea that these paths aren't connected is becoming likely. The only distinguishing feature I have found is this difference. Also, the left courses have fewer turns and dead ends.

I considered the problem while arranging the passageways I had mapped in my mind palace. The only reasonable conclusion is that some pathways are shorter and more dangerous while others are longer and less dangerous. My entire effort in trying to map this out has been worthless. The clear option is the least harmful passageway, which is the far right at six turns.

Though a nagging concern begs at the back of my mind, a possible fail condition could be the amount of time taken to complete the test. Deciding on a centrist approach, I go down the middle passage, a mix of distance and danger. I form a crowbar out of one of the tubes, using it to deconstruct the trap and break it apart into smaller pieces. I drag those to the middle passageway in my undershirt and toss the chunks of stone over the gap. Within fifty pounds, I find security. My running hop takes me over the ten-meter gap to land among the rubble.

A deeper understanding can only help, swaying my mood from the melancholy of doubt and concentrating my efforts on pushing further down this one pathway. Three out of four paths end, so I constantly have to backtrack. On the tenth successive turn down the middle path, a new challenge arises, one that pulls free the arteries holding up my heart.

Chirping clicks echo above, punctuating a rhythm of beating wings. I curse my lack of attention, halting my forward momentum and shifting the weight of my back foot. I instinctively reach to find the handles of two rapiers at my side. Unsheathing them floods me with a familiar fuel until I notice that these are not my new black rapiers but the old wooden ones.

The sounds of the creatures approaching me vary but originate from one general spot. Once the sounds are upon me, it's easier to tell precisely where they descend, reminding me of a screaming animal. Sometimes, when my father and I are in the woods, we hear a willow panther catch its query. The Panthers are honorable and end the encounter quickly, but the screams always ensue; pain persists no matter how painless things mean to be.

Wishing not to be between whatever makes that sound and the undiscovered part of the pathway, I turn around to run back while revising a strategy. There are too many to fight off, or there seem to be. A plan B forms in my head as I flee. I consider my options before deciding the quickest tunnel will be the best option. Flapping screams haunt me, and distance is indiscernible in echoey corridors. I avoid all the pitfalls until I reach the trapless portion and pick up speed.

Moving out of earshot of the screams gives some reduction in heart rate, so much so that I even crack a smile as I loop back around the main room into the far left tunnel. I am adamantly against unnecessary violence, even if these are not living creatures. The skills I have honed inflict damage in non-fatal areas of people, not animals.

Several scenarios run through my head, ending with me killing. I frantically reason for alternatives. The first thought that comes to my mind is a substance to obscure the area, though I have no time or materials to create any sort of smoke. On deeper consideration, I realize that won't be effective because these bat-like creatures use echolocation. That opens possibilities, prompting me to grab the other metal tube from my pocket and put it in my mouth.

I have to slow my pace to keep an eye out for the upcoming threats, theorizing that the bats' pursuit is either stuck in their tunnel or slow after a certain distance. The task is to create an indentation at the top and close off the edge of the chamber. Popping the tube out of my mouth, I blow— the sound is off. I attempt twice before locating a faint pitch resembling the bats. I hope this will work, but their emanations edge my hearing, so it may still be off. The effort diminishes my creation magic reserves, slowing my steps until it replenishes.

The whistle is as close as it will be. I am coming up on the eighth turn. Whether to run down the corridor filled with creation knows what while bats herry or find a corner and fight. Choosing the former, I stretch in step and grip a whistle with my lips as I round the turn, scanning in front of me before adopting a defensive stride.

The screams come again, so I tear out a mighty whistle blow, the bats who’ve adapted quickly enough and avoided those who didn’t fly straight at my head. I run with one rapier above and one scraping the ground before me. Grazes carve my upper body into flailing. I can’t use my creation magic to broaden the whistle frequency while running from the group of flying screeching things. Their attacks lessen as my trap detector snags on a slit— I leap faithfully, landing clear of the trap before stumbling to keep the whistle in my grin. I blow and blow until the attacks stop, two tunnels and six traps later.

A glance back confirms a few dozen dark objects on the ground. It isn’t compelling enough, and I note a slight, almost indiscernible, difference in the chirps from the remaining creatures. I curse again. If they have a wide range of frequencies, another whistle is needed. Since that isn’t an option, I’ll change the frequency with the magic I’ve regenerated. On the bright side, the population of bats has dwindled by a third, and the remainder is wary enough to give me room.

Splitting attention between looking for traps, deflecting the persistent hunters, and working the whistle, I can progress down the paths. I lose several chunks of my flesh to their little claws and teeth. Adding to the succumbing dread in my core, the traps past this point escalate, a row of five snares placed closely together, forcing a stuttering high knee to surmount, costing blood and speed.

At the end of the third corridor, my heart submerges. Five passageways of choice halt me, “Fuck,” I curse.

Which direction to go? The bats are no longer harrying me. Looking back, I see that the corridor I’d exited is empty. I sigh, sit, and tear the sleeve from my robes into cloth strips for the bat bites, wincing as I tie them tight. Re-examining the situation, my prospects dim, like that day on the road—

The first two paths I choose lead to dead ends in one turn. The third path, however, leads me to another fourth turn, which, being more aware this time, I knew to hold an increased challenge from the others. The task presents a situation in which you need to be hyper-cautious, possibly increasing the difficulty of that situation to see the extent of your problem-solving ability. In the upcoming challenges, there will be bats and traps and a new addition, or something else entirely?

I refocus my attention— will rules mind. If the traps remain, they will be well within my ability. The unknown is something I can not prepare for, but I can consider the obstacles thus far, which gives me the idea to split the remaining tube and graft it to the point of my weapons. I take the bit of metal left and toss it in my mouth, using my tongue and teeth to mold it over the tip. The latter will cut a snare if I catch it.

The tip of my rapier tests the ground as I crawl around the next turn to an empty hallway. I hesitantly creep, wary of any indication on the three visible surfaces composing the border of my reality. About halfway down, I hear a click and a quiet hiss. Frantically looking around, I see nothing until a gout of orange flame bursts from the walls inches before me. I instinctively fall back on my butt while the heat from the trap reddens my face. The screaming sound of the bats soon follows along with a vicious roar, a hauntingly familiar roar, the roar of a willow panther.

“Fuck.”

The hallway behind me darkens with an undulating mass of bats while the fire trap ahead dies, revealing an abnormally well-built willow panther stalking forward. Whistles in mouth, I blow all the life in my lungs through them. The noise has the added benefit of agitating the panther, though possibly that's not so much of an advantage. I don't glance behind myself to see how effectively it impacts the bats. Though the bats will overwhelm me in seconds, the willow panther is the threat.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

This difficulty, killing or even attacking such an animal, is abhorrent. Of course, some Willow panthers die in accidents. It is akin to killing another conscious life, which I have done before. Memories of the person flash before being quickly strangled and set back in place. These are sacred creations of creation, the protector of the willows, my allies.

I have moments before the bats are on me. The Panther's size hampers its movements in this enclosed space, a disadvantage to maneuvering around leaves above or underneath. Choosing the former, I blow on my whistles and jump over the panther using the distraction. The panther shoots into my trajectory as soon as my feet lift.

I am swiped from the air, crashing from their paw to the floor. In the collision, the panther successfully sinks two claws into my chest. I swallow the whistles, giving me the metal for sheets to form across my forearm as I leverage the claw. Luckily, the metal plating is enough to stop the lacerations, but the force fractures my arm.

I am— fight pours from new openings in my chest. But the pain is waiting to see if I'll die before bothering. The panther is right on top of me, determined to rip off a piece of me. I am confident that this is the end of the test. Proving every noble who says I am not strong enough to be here. My thoughts slow when the panther freezes while closing its jaw on me. It takes me a second to realize that I have slowed my perception of time. The drain is the only passing sensation.

I have two options: try to kill the panther or get past it another way. I cannot see another way to get past the panther— not anything. I try to console myself with the discarnate panther, with the fact that they will not feel actual pain, how painlessly they will die. I fail to reassure myself as my rapier falls to resignation.

The Panther’s jaws close around my arm as I plunge my tool of creations’ mercy into their chest. Their jaws fail to penetrate the metal as they crunch, though they successfully pulverize the bones. Screaming is strange because one can do so without registering said pain. With time dilation, I aim between two ribs, straight through the Panther's heart. Time snaps back, my entire body crushed by the panther now dead atop me.

Extricating myself from underneath the carcass is a taxing endeavor, each movement encouraging my broken body to protest. My tears need not be mutually exclusive, dripping freely from my face for both as they mix into mingled pools of blood. It is clear that my internal creation magic is draining to prevent death; however, this leaves me on the floor, under a panther, with several broken bones and unresponsive muscles. I can hardly lift the panther a centimeter off my body before my arms give.

After hours of struggling, my energy replenishes enough to crawl from underneath the panther. Unconscious bats scatter the ground, demonstrating the limit to their frequency range. I stumble through the corridor. Even with my knowledge of healing magic, my capacity still restricts how much I can repair. Some creation magic is reserved to remove the metal from my body and recreate the whistles.

My shattered arm pulses, but the itchy new skin on my forearm somehow distracts from it. I limp my way to the next challenge, confident I will fail, with no possible way to complete the challenge. I work on properly healing the arm as I go, occasionally requiring me to shift bits of bone by hand. The bone isn’t as compliant in pulling together as skin or muscle.

Mood sinks my cheeks, though it does not determine my path. Each staggering step rages against my inevitable failure. I snuff out the remaining traps until the next turn. Upon reaching, I examine the floor thoroughly until I find the fire trap. The pressure plate set into the ground is indistinguishable unless you are at an angle, and it does not take significant pressure to trigger.

By the sixteenth turn, affirmation firms my footfalls. Failure is the likely outcome, but inevitability is a lie. There is a way to succeed if you don't accept defeat. If you can’t see such a thing, try to deepen your understanding of the situation or the variables involved. This outlook is one of my father, as his commitment bolsters my bravado, standing my hobble straighter as I cradle the wall till the next corner. Instead of finding another hallway, identical to every hallway I’d found up to this point, a door rests twenty meters in front of me.

The double doors are grey stone, identical to the walls of the passageways. Intricate circular designs texture the surface. After looking it over, I recognize the runes, but the formations are bizarre. They are almost like the banners in the sanctum but intertwined. I grin, committing every last marking to my mind palace in a book entitled Door Runes.

The runes I seek concern the flow of magic through the formation, the transference runes. I have options: try to brute-force my way through the door, decipher the purpose of the other runes, or cut off the appropriate function. Part of this interweaves the door with enough oomph to discourage direct tampering.

Draining the formation would be possible if the border was accessible, though I assume it is either at the back of the door or, more likely, on the frame. The problem is trickier than I initially imagined. The dagger tip heats in my mouth as the puzzle mulls over my mind.

It takes a surprisingly small amount of elemental magic to heat the tip red before I press it against the door, something I will have to consider later. My dagger slices through the metal smoothly, gouging a furrow through the desired transference rune. The inductor rune it leads to will continue to absorb mana until the rune formation grows unstable and releases it violently. The rune starts to glow, prompting retreat. Once it starts hissing, I turn to give the door a wide berth, not feeling safe until the turn stands between us.

A crack reverberates through the world, chattering teeth. Back down the corridor, the door caves inwards with a new hole where the mana storage used to be. The joy of completing this puzzle elicits a chuckle. Move the broken bits a few centimeters before squeezing through the crack. An octagonal room on the other side of the door confines twenty shorter humanoid creatures.

Their faces are oblong and angular, their hands tip with purple nails, and their skin has a slight green undertone. They all stand under a meter tall. Aside from that, their characteristics vary greatly, like the shades of green in their skin or how their noses stick out at angles. The strangest is the animal carcasses, sighting which turns my stomach as the skin-jackets jostle at their movements. There are piles of stuff in one corner. Is this the last challenge? Do I have to kill these beings now, too? No.

“Stupid. You broke our door. We will kill you and take all of your things as recompense.” The largest barks as the rest rush me.

“I apologize about the door. I didn’t know it was yours. I’m just trying to find a way out of this place.” I attempt, standing up straighter and adjusting the tatters of my robe.

The group pauses at the remark, everyone looking to the largest. “Apologize? No matter, it's probably a trick anyway. We kill you, and we take all your things.” They command, looking to those around them for support as they all brandish crude weaponry.

“There's no need for that. I can give you all my stuff if I go through that door behind you. Honestly, you can have it all. I'd like to express my sincere apologies about the door as well. I can fix it, perhaps?” I consider looking at the door.

“Oh? Well...” The leader again halts in their advance, looking over to a subordinate. “It will be easier. Wait, you’re just tricking. I know you’re people. Blind fools the lot of ya,” they condemn.

“What if they aren't tricking? If the door doesn't get fixed, the white death comes,” voices a mob member towards the back.

“The white death will be upon us before this dirty human can do anything. That’s why we should kill it and take its stuff before we all die.” The leader argues.

“I don’t think we need to be bigoted, oh... I am dirty. That is a lovely plan, truly fraught with consideration. I believe the white death you speak of has already died. That is how this haim got so dirty.” As I finish my last plea, revenant admiration stares back at me from little green faces.

“You kill the white death?” The leader whispers, as if afraid someone overhearing them will bring destructions’ wrath down.

“I did. You can check if y—”

“A trap.” The leader retorts, cutting me off.

“Fine! I can get it, I guess, and bring it over here to you?”

The leader laughs loudly before pulling together the people around them and holding an intense discussion. This interlude gives a moment to think about the situation. There are three races on Terminus, but none are like these people. Closer inspection of their skin color recalls a story my father told me about his service on the wall. About the destructive races— But this couldn’t be them.

A couple of years older than I am now, in officer training on the Wall, an attack occurred before escaping towards the mountains to the north with Balduan. Monstrous creatures swarmed the wall with a greenish tint to their skin. Though the skin is similar, the other aspects described are nothing like these people-

“Will we still get all your things right now?” One of them asks, interrupting my

thoughts.

“Of course.” I offer magnanimously, renewing their debate.

“Fine than haim. If things are as said, and your stuff is ours, we will let you through this door without killing.” The leader allows, with a smile.

Retrieving the willow panther's body sucks well enough for a weak smile back before setting off. Muscles scream as I strain to heft it. However, the most challenging part is not dragging three hundred pounds of animal.

The difficulty is surrendering the remains of such a beautiful and beloved creature to beings that will desecrate it. Re-examining the situation yields no other resolution. The calculation: desecrating the remains is less morally untenable than harming life to protect them.

“Will you at least look out here so I don't have to pull them through the door?” I huff from my knees as I reach the door.

“To kill such a thing and kill it precisely. You must be a chief yourself, a chief of Haim?”

“I am grand and mighty. I do a great many mightily— grand things.” I lie in a full-chested haughtiness, channeling High Mage Gallah.

“Yes. Yes. Come this way. You may go to the door, but you mustn’t forget to give us all your stuff.”

“This is the blade that killed the wil— the white death.” I exaggerate, carefully unsheathing my rapier and presenting it to the chief. “ And these treasured items are forged from the strings of fate. Two whistles with the magical powers to stun the bats. All you have to do is blow into this end.” I instruct, freezing the chief and onlookers with my word.

“You have enriched us. In this hole where we reside, death is life, but these gifts—I beseech the Haim, tell me of your name so we may honor it in our songs forever.”

“I am Vesh’dan, first of my name, slayer of death.”

“You are a good haim, a rare breed indeed. Please take this token of our friendship.” The chief announces, handing me a circular stone chip with three equidistant horizontal lines and a vertical line running up the middle.

“What may I call you, and your people for that matter?”

“We are the Gobble-kin, and I am Chief.”

“Well, thank you, Chief. I have been honored by your friendship.”

“You did say you would give us all of your stuff?” the chief reminds me, stopping me before I can leave and gesturing to my robes.

“You want my robes? They won’t fit you, though?”

After a moment of silence, resignation strips me naked. The eyes of everyone, not on me but on the tatters pulling from bruised skin. Their attention is not uncomfortable because their nature is curious, not malicious. After giving away everything, the exit is accessible. There's only one rune on this door, an activation rune that spans the center of the two doors. A hand finishes the formation, swinging the door open and pulling me into the shadows beyond. A familiar chair in a familiar room with a familiar face greeting me. The healer's white robes are pristine, as always.

“Please tell me I’m not naked,” I laugh.

“No? Should you be?”

“Let’s just say I’m grateful that I’m not. How long was I under this time? It felt like a little under five days.”

“Usually, without the normal stimuli to indicate time passage, most have difficulties gauging how long they are under.”

“I just counted.”

“The seconds?”

“At least until I got to sixty... Do you know how I did?” I probe after a moment of silence while they check me over.

“I cannot tell you, and I do not know. High mage Castillilio has asked you to report to her office once I have cleared you.” They appeal, pushing me back into the chair.

“Wait until I finish.”

The Sanctum spire offices the officials. The person at the reception desk waves without a second glance. I survey spines upon entering the office, and only a moment later, after hearing someone clear their throat, I look at the desk.

“Vesh, it is good to see you again. How are your studies?”

“Informative enough. How have you been, High mage?” I pandor, feeling weary.

“Well, enough sums up things quite well. I believe I will steal it.” She attempts joviality.

“Call it a gift.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Is there anything you wanted to talk to me about?“

“Nothing in particular.“

“Yes, I’ll move to why you’re here. You passed the test.”

“Is that so?”

“Are you expecting something more grandiose?“ Castillo pries.

“More wondering why I am here.”

“I wanted to tell you about your success. The test is an early portion of the test used to grant someone the title of mage.“

“That is interesting,“ I refuse.

“Indeed. Well, I am sure you are tired.”

“Alright,” I mumble, leaving the office.

Once more, my room calls louder than contemplation. My body is fine, but my mind isn’t. I know Castillio can't be trusted, but what are her motives? What did she want? And if the point is to reduce my progress, why give me a head start on becoming a mage? Regardless, I passed— thoughts collapsed into a heap, crushing my consciousness.