The air inside the mountain pass was colder, denser, and carried with it a sense of ancient history that clung to the jagged rocks like a forgotten memory. The narrow trail twisted ahead of Rabaston, its walls steep and oppressive. The stone seemed almost to close in around him as though the mountain itself sought to swallow him whole. The further he ventured, the more the oppressive silence weighed on him, broken only by the occasional scrape of his boots on the uneven ground.

He adjusted the strap of his satchel, feeling the weight of the talismans and potions inside. His breath came in slow, deliberate puffs of mist in the chill air. The Labyrinth was close now—he could feel it, like a distant vibration beneath the surface of reality, calling to him, pulling him deeper.

The pass narrowed ahead, the stone walls closing in until the trail was little more than a jagged path wide enough for one person to walk. Rabaston moved carefully, his hand brushing the rough stone as he descended into the shadows. The temperature dropped further, and the mana in the air became almost nonexistent.

This was a place beyond the reach of Terra Minor's weak cultivation sects. No one came here willingly, and few had reason to. The ancient sects that once roamed these mountains had long since faded into history, leaving only the bones of their temples and the scars of their ambition etched into the rock.

Rabaston paused, his eyes narrowing as he noticed faint markings on the stone beside him. They were old—worn almost to the point of being unrecognizable—but he could still make out the faint outline of a cultivation sigil, one that had once belonged to a minor sect that had been wiped out centuries ago. The sigil glowed faintly under his touch, a weak pulse of mana that had long since drained away.

He traced the lines of the sigil with his finger, wondering what had happened to those who had once trained here. Terra Minor had always been a graveyard for those who sought power, and the remnants of its past were scattered across the planet, forgotten and eroded by time.

They failed, Rabaston thought, his gaze hardening. But I won't.

The trail widened slightly, leading into a small clearing where the mountain pass opened up to reveal a plateau. Rabaston stepped out into the open air, blinking as the sudden change in light stung his eyes. The sky above was darkening, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the landscape.

At the far end of the plateau, nestled between two towering pillars of stone, was the entrance to the Infinite Labyrinth.

Rabaston's breath caught in his throat. He had heard descriptions of the Labyrinth, of the strange, interdimensional gateway that marked its entrance. But seeing it in person was different. The gateway was unlike anything else on Terra Minor. It shimmered with an ethereal light, its edges blurring as though it existed in multiple realities at once. The air around it was thick with mana, far more potent than anything Rabaston had ever felt on this planet.

The pillars that framed the entrance were carved with intricate runes, their surfaces glowing faintly with a light that seemed to pulse in time with the beating of Rabaston's heart. The gateway itself was a swirling vortex of shadow and light, its depths impenetrable, as though it led to a place beyond the reach of mortal understanding.

For a long moment, Rabaston simply stood there, staring at the entrance. This was it. The Labyrinth—the place where his journey would truly begin. The power he sought was within reach, but so too were the dangers he had been warned about.

Tyron's words echoed in his mind: The Labyrinth changes you.

Rabaston shook his head, pushing the thought away. There was no time for hesitation. He had come too far to turn back now. With a final breath, he stepped forward, his hand brushing the edge of the gateway as he prepared to enter.

The moment his hand touched the gateway, the world around him shifted.

The air grew thick with mana, the atmosphere warping as the boundaries of reality stretched and twisted. The ground beneath his feet seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a single drop of water. Rabaston felt a strange pressure in his chest, as though the very fabric of the universe was compressing around him.

The next thing he knew, the plateau was gone.

Rabaston stood in a vast chamber, its walls impossibly high, stretching up into darkness. The floor beneath him was smooth, polished stone, etched with the same glowing runes he had seen on the pillars outside. The air here was different—heavy with power, saturated with mana that thrummed through the air like a living thing.

He took a cautious step forward, his eyes scanning the chamber. There was no sound—no wind, no footsteps, nothing but the soft hum of mana that seemed to resonate from the very walls themselves. It was unnerving, the silence so absolute that Rabaston could hear his own heartbeat, steady and deliberate in the quiet.

The chamber seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions, its size impossible to comprehend. Yet Rabaston could feel the presence of something—something ancient, something alive. The Labyrinth wasn't just a place. It was a living entity, watching him, waiting to test him.

He moved cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The ground beneath his feet felt solid, but there was a strange sensation in the air, like the space around him was shifting, bending. Rabaston had heard rumors that the Labyrinth changed with each step, that it rearranged itself to test those who entered. There were no maps, no guides—only the path that revealed itself as you walked it.

As he moved deeper into the chamber, Rabaston noticed something strange. The runes etched into the floor were glowing more brightly now, their light pulsing in time with his steps. He bent down, tracing one of the runes with his finger. It was warm to the touch, the mana within it flowing like a current of energy just beneath the surface.

Suddenly, a soft noise echoed through the chamber—a whisper, faint but unmistakable. Rabaston froze, his hand tightening on his sword as he listened. The whisper grew louder, though he couldn't make out the words. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as though the walls themselves were speaking to him.

You are not welcome here.

The voice was barely a whisper, but it sent a chill down Rabaston's spine. He straightened, his eyes scanning the shadows that clung to the edges of the chamber. He couldn't see anything, but the feeling of being watched was undeniable.

Rabaston's heart pounded in his chest as the whisper faded into the silence. Whatever presence inhabited the Labyrinth, it knew he was here.

Rabaston stood still, his senses straining as the echo of the whisper faded into the vastness of the chamber. The presence of the Labyrinth loomed over him like a shadow, pressing against his consciousness. His heart raced, and for a moment, he felt as if the very air around him was waiting—waiting for his next move, waiting to see if he was worthy of the challenge ahead.

He took a cautious step forward, his fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. The chamber remained silent, but the tension in the air grew thicker, as though the Labyrinth itself was watching, observing. The runes on the floor pulsed with a strange energy, each step sending a ripple through the ground beneath his feet. Rabaston could feel the mana here, denser than anything he had ever experienced on Terra Minor, thrumming like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

The silence was unnerving, but Rabaston pressed on. There was no turning back now. The Labyrinth had accepted his presence, and whatever test awaited him, he would face it.

As he moved deeper into the chamber, the light from the runes grew dimmer, their glow fading as the shadows thickened around him. The temperature dropped, and the air grew colder, biting at his skin. His breath came in shallow puffs of mist as he ventured further into the unknown.

Suddenly, the ground beneath him shifted. Rabaston stumbled, his balance momentarily thrown off as the floor rippled like water. He caught himself, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword as the chamber began to change. The walls, once solid and unyielding, seemed to melt into the shadows, twisting and warping as though reality itself was unraveling.

The chamber grew darker, the runes on the floor flickering weakly before vanishing altogether. Rabaston felt a surge of panic, but he forced it down, steadying his breath. This was the Labyrinth's first test—an illusion, a manipulation of space meant to disorient him. He had expected something like this, but the sheer scale of it was overwhelming.

The darkness closed in around him, thick and impenetrable. Rabaston could no longer see the floor beneath his feet, nor the walls that had once surrounded him. He was suspended in a void, a place where time and space had no meaning. For a moment, he considered drawing his sword, but he knew it would be useless here. This was a test of the mind, not the body.

His thoughts raced as he tried to focus. The Labyrinth is alive, he reminded himself. It reacts to those who enter, testing their resolve, their strength, their very will to survive. This was no ordinary dungeon. It was an ancient, sentient entity, one that fed on the minds and souls of those who dared to challenge it.

A voice echoed through the void, low and whispering, barely audible above the pounding of Rabaston's heart. It was the same voice he had heard earlier, but now it was clearer, more distinct.

What do you seek, Rabaston Rose?

Rabaston's eyes narrowed as he turned his head, trying to locate the source of the voice. It was everywhere and nowhere, filling the air around him like a whisper carried on the wind.

"I seek power," Rabaston said aloud, his voice steady despite the disorientation. He had no reason to hide his intentions. The Labyrinth had likely known his desires long before he had even set foot in its entrance.

Power… The voice lingered on the word, as though savoring its taste. And what are you willing to sacrifice to obtain it?

Rabaston's jaw tightened. This was the crux of the test. The Labyrinth would try to break him, force him to confront his deepest fears and desires. But he had already made his decision. He had nothing left to sacrifice but himself.

"Whatever it takes," he replied, his voice firm.

The darkness around him shifted, the void pulsing with a life of its own. The voice hummed in response, a deep, resonating sound that filled the air.

Whatever it takes… The voice repeated, softer now, almost a whisper. We shall see.

Suddenly, the void trembled, and the ground beneath Rabaston's feet solidified once more. The shadows receded, and the walls of the chamber returned, though the space around him had changed. No longer was he standing in the vast, empty hall. Instead, he found himself in a narrow corridor, the walls lined with ancient carvings and symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light.

Rabaston exhaled slowly, his hand resting on his sword as he surveyed his surroundings. The first illusion had passed, but the Labyrinth was far from done with him. The carvings on the walls depicted scenes of ancient battles, cultivators locked in combat with monstrous creatures, their faces twisted in agony as they fell. Each scene was more gruesome than the last, a grim reminder of the dangers that awaited him.

The corridor stretched out before him, its end hidden in shadow. Rabaston moved cautiously, his eyes scanning the walls for any signs of traps or hidden dangers. The air was thick with mana, more potent than anything he had ever felt before. It thrummed through the stone, vibrating beneath his feet as he walked.

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As he moved deeper into the corridor, Rabaston felt a strange sensation in his chest, a tightening, as though the very air was pressing against him. He slowed his pace, his instincts warning him that something was wrong.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his head, blinding him for a moment. Rabaston staggered, clutching his forehead as the pain intensified, his vision blurring. The walls around him seemed to pulse, the carvings shifting and twisting in his peripheral vision.

And then he saw it—himself.

Standing at the far end of the corridor was a figure, tall and cloaked in shadow, but unmistakably him. The reflection of Rabaston stood still, its face obscured, but the presence was undeniable. The air between them hummed with a dark energy, and Rabaston felt a deep, unsettling chill run down his spine.

He took a step forward, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever this new challenge would be. The reflection did not move, only watched, waiting in the shadows as if daring Rabaston to approach.

Rabaston's grip on his sword tightened as he stepped cautiously toward the figure that mirrored his own form. The corridor felt impossibly long, the distance between him and his reflection stretching with each step, as though the Labyrinth itself was manipulating time and space around him.

The air hummed with dark energy, and with every breath, Rabaston could feel a heavy pressure settling on his chest. The carvings on the walls seemed to shift in his peripheral vision, their figures writhing as if alive, yet whenever he looked directly at them, they were still, frozen in ancient battle poses. The pulse of mana through the stone grew stronger, almost overwhelming, and yet, the figure at the far end remained completely still, waiting in silence.

He stopped a few paces away from the shadowy reflection, his eyes narrowing as he examined it. The figure was cloaked in darkness, its face obscured by a hood, but there was no mistaking the resemblance. The height, the build—everything about it was an exact match to him. It was unnerving, standing in front of a twisted reflection of himself in a place as dangerous as the Labyrinth. But Rabaston wasn't here to hesitate.

"What are you?" Rabaston asked, his voice echoing slightly in the corridor.

The figure did not respond immediately. Instead, it raised its head slightly, the hood falling back just enough to reveal a glimpse of its face. Rabaston's breath caught. It was him—his own face, staring back at him, but twisted in ways that sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes—no, its eyes—glowed faintly, a deep purple that flickered with an otherworldly light, a corrupted reflection of the strange hues that colored his own eyes.

I am you, the reflection finally spoke, its voice low and cold, carrying a hint of malice. The part of you that you try to bury. The part that you cannot escape.

Rabaston's heart pounded, but he kept his expression calm, his fingers flexing slightly on the hilt of his sword. "Another illusion?" he said quietly. "Another trick of the Labyrinth?"

The reflection smiled—a sharp, twisted smile that felt wrong in every way. No trick. No illusion. I am the truth you refuse to face.

Rabaston's eyes narrowed. He had expected something like this—tests that probed deeper into the mind, into the very essence of who he was. But he wasn't going to fall for it. "You're nothing," he said, his voice steady. "A shadow. A reflection. You don't define me."

The reflection tilted its head slightly, almost amused. Don't I? You've spent your entire life chasing after something you can never catch. Power. Respect. A reason to exist. And yet... The reflection took a step forward, its form blurring slightly at the edges. No matter how far you run, you're still the same, aren't you? Still the boy who wasn't enough.

Rabaston's jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of anger rising within him, but he forced it down. This was exactly what the Labyrinth wanted—doubt, fear, hesitation. It was trying to make him question himself, to break his resolve.

"I've already moved past that," Rabaston said, his voice cold. "I know what I am."

The reflection laughed softly, the sound echoing unnaturally through the corridor. Do you? It took another step forward, its face becoming clearer, sharper. Rabaston could see the faint lines of pain, of struggle, etched into its features—lines that matched his own.

You've never been enough. Not for your family. Not for your brother. Not for anyone. The reflection's voice was relentless, each word striking like a blade. You think power will change that? That if you gain enough strength, enough recognition, you'll finally be someone?

Rabaston's breath hitched slightly, but he didn't respond. The reflection took another step forward, closing the distance between them. But no matter how strong you become, you'll still be nothing more than that boy who was left behind. The boy who was never worth saving.

The words cut deep, and Rabaston could feel the heat rising in his chest—anger, frustration, the raw emotion he had tried so hard to bury. He had spent years pushing these thoughts aside, telling himself that he was above them, that he didn't care. But now, here they were, brought to life in front of him, undeniable.

The reflection smiled again, a twisted, mocking smile. You've failed, Rabaston. You've always failed. And you'll fail again.

Without warning, the reflection drew a sword—identical to Rabaston's own—and lunged forward.

Rabaston reacted instinctively, his own sword flashing as he blocked the strike. The sound of metal clashing against metal rang out in the narrow corridor, the force of the blow sending a shockwave through the air. The reflection was fast—faster than Rabaston had anticipated—and the weight behind the strike was heavier, as if the reflection was drawing on something more than just physical strength.

Rabaston gritted his teeth, pushing back against the attack. The reflection's eyes gleamed with that strange, purple light, and Rabaston could feel the pressure building, the weight of his own doubts pressing against him. The reflection wasn't just a physical opponent—it was feeding on his fears, his insecurities, turning them into strength.

The reflection struck again, its blade slicing through the air with precision. Rabaston dodged, barely avoiding the strike, but the reflection was relentless. Each swing was faster, more vicious, as though the reflection was growing stronger with every passing moment.

Rabaston's heart raced as he parried another blow, his mind racing. He couldn't fight this thing head-on—it was too fast, too strong, and it seemed to draw power from his own doubts. He needed to find a way to weaken it, to strip away the advantage it had over him.

The reflection lunged again, its blade aimed directly at Rabaston's heart. This time, Rabaston didn't block. Instead, he stepped to the side at the last moment, letting the blade pass just inches from his chest. The reflection stumbled slightly, its momentum carrying it forward.

Rabaston seized the opportunity. He twisted his sword, slashing across the reflection's back with a quick, precise strike. The reflection cried out, its form flickering, distorting. For a moment, it seemed to lose its solidity, as though the illusion was unraveling.

But then, it straightened, turning to face Rabaston once more. Its smile was gone now, replaced by a look of pure fury. You think you can defeat me? it hissed. You can't escape what you are!

Rabaston raised his sword, his expression hardening. "I don't have to escape," he said quietly. "I just have to move forward."

With a final, decisive swing, Rabaston struck. His blade sliced through the reflection, cutting it cleanly in half. The reflection let out a soundless scream as its form shattered, dissolving into the air like smoke.

The corridor fell silent once more. The carvings on the walls remained still, and the oppressive atmosphere lifted slightly. Rabaston lowered his sword, his breathing heavy, his body tense.

But he had won.

For now.

The shattered remains of Rabaston's reflection hung in the air for a moment longer, dissolving into wisps of smoke that twisted and vanished into the cold air of the Labyrinth. Rabaston's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his body tense, though the immediate threat had passed. The corridor was still once again, but the sense of being watched—of being judged—had not left him. The Labyrinth was alive, and this had only been the first test.

Rabaston took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the walls of the corridor. The carvings, once animated in his peripheral vision, now seemed still, though their presence was unsettling. The scenes of battle, loss, and struggle etched into the stone felt like a grim reflection of the trials that lay ahead. He couldn't afford to be complacent.

As he sheathed his sword, the pulse of mana beneath his feet seemed to intensify, the Labyrinth reacting to his presence as though it was acknowledging his success. But there was no sense of relief. If anything, the air felt heavier, the path ahead more treacherous. The Labyrinth wasn't done with him—it was only beginning to peel back the layers of his mind, exposing the raw, untamed parts of himself that he had long tried to bury.

The corridor stretched out ahead of him, dark and winding, its end hidden by the shadows that clung to every corner. The air was colder now, and Rabaston could feel the weight of the mana pressing down on him, growing denser with each step. He moved cautiously, his senses sharp, every movement calculated. The Labyrinth had already proven that it could bend reality to its will—what other tricks lay ahead?

As he walked, Rabaston's mind drifted back to the encounter with his reflection. It had spoken truths he hadn't wanted to acknowledge, words that had cut deeper than any blade. The reflection had been a manifestation of his doubts, his fears, the part of him that had always wondered if he was truly enough. Even now, the echo of those words lingered in his mind.

You've always failed. And you'll fail again.

Rabaston's jaw tightened as he pushed the thought away. Failure was not an option. He had come too far, sacrificed too much. This was the only path left for him, and he would walk it to the end, no matter the cost.

The air shifted again, and Rabaston froze. There was a faint sound—barely audible—like the soft rustling of fabric or the whisper of a breeze through an open window. But there was no wind here, no open spaces. The sound came from deeper within the corridor, hidden within the shadows.

He strained his senses, his hand drifting once more to the hilt of his sword. His heart quickened, but his movements remained measured, cautious. The Labyrinth could create illusions, test the mind, but it also had guardians—ancient beings that protected its secrets, creatures born from the same mana that pulsed through the walls.

The sound grew louder, more distinct, and Rabaston's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward. His gaze shifted to the floor, where the runes that had once glowed faintly were now completely dark. The only light came from the distant glimmers of mana that flickered along the walls, casting long, eerie shadows that danced at the edge of his vision.

And then he saw it.

A figure, hunched and draped in tattered robes, moved slowly at the far end of the corridor. Its form was gaunt, almost skeletal, and the air around it seemed to shimmer with the faintest trace of mana, though it was weak, as though it had long since burned out. The figure moved with slow, deliberate steps, its head bowed, as if it hadn't noticed Rabaston's presence yet.

Rabaston's hand tightened on his sword, but he didn't move. He had learned long ago that the Labyrinth's guardians were not to be underestimated. They were ancient, powerful, and bound by the will of the Labyrinth itself. This one, though weak in appearance, could easily be more than it seemed.

The figure stopped, its head lifting slightly as if sensing his gaze. For a long, tense moment, neither of them moved. Rabaston's pulse quickened, his muscles coiled, ready for any sudden movement.

But instead of attacking, the figure spoke.

"You... are not the first." The voice was dry, rasping, as though it hadn't been used in centuries. The figure turned slowly, revealing a hollowed face, its skin stretched thin over sharp bones. Its eyes glowed faintly with the same dull purple that had flickered in Rabaston's reflection, though these eyes were clouded, empty. "Many have come before you, seeking what you seek."

Rabaston remained still, his hand on his sword. "And what is it you think I seek?"

The figure smiled, a twisted, joyless grin. "Power. Freedom. Escape from the prison that is this world." It gestured vaguely toward the corridor, as if the Labyrinth itself was a reflection of that prison. "You think you can conquer this place. That you can bend it to your will."

Rabaston's eyes narrowed. "I will."

The figure laughed—a dry, hollow sound that echoed unnaturally through the corridor. "So sure of yourself," it whispered. "So confident in your strength. But the Labyrinth is alive, boy. It has a mind, a soul, and it will not be so easily conquered."

"I didn't come here for easy," Rabaston said, his voice cold. "I came to win."

The figure's smile faded, replaced by a deep, unsettling silence. For a moment, Rabaston thought it might attack, but instead, it simply stepped aside, its hollow eyes fixed on him. "Then go," it said softly. "But know this—you will not leave this place unchanged."

Rabaston didn't respond. He didn't need to. The figure's words were just another layer of the Labyrinth's test, another attempt to shake his resolve. But he wouldn't be swayed. Without another word, he stepped past the figure, his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The corridor stretched on, twisting and turning in ways that defied logic. Time felt different here—slower, heavier. Each step took more effort, as though the very air around him was trying to push him back, to drag him down into the depths of the Labyrinth.

But Rabaston pressed forward, his mind focused, his body ready for whatever came next. He had defeated his reflection, faced the shadows of his past, and now, he would face whatever other trials the Labyrinth had in store.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted once more to the figure's words. You will not leave this place unchanged.

He knew that already. He had known from the moment he set foot in this cursed place that the Labyrinth would test him in ways he couldn't fully comprehend. But it didn't matter. Change was inevitable—he had accepted that long ago. The only thing that mattered now was how much of himself he was willing to sacrifice to achieve his goals.

And Rabaston had already decided. He would sacrifice everything.

Rabaston's path wound deeper into the heart of the Labyrinth, the air growing heavier with each step. The walls seemed to close in, the carvings more intricate and disturbing the further he went. Ancient battles, scenes of torment, and twisted creatures etched into the stone followed his every move, their silent faces watching, judging.

The corridor finally opened into a new chamber, larger than the others, its ceiling impossibly high. In the center of the chamber stood a massive, stone door, its surface covered in glowing runes that pulsed with a steady rhythm, like the beating of a heart. The mana here was thick, almost suffocating, and Rabaston could feel its power thrumming through the stone beneath his feet.

This was it. The next test.

Rabaston approached the door, his fingers brushing the smooth stone. The runes glowed brighter at his touch, their light flickering in time with his heartbeat. He could feel the power behind the door, waiting, watching, testing his resolve.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The Labyrinth had tested his mind, his will, his very sense of self. Now, it would test his strength.

With a single, decisive movement, Rabaston placed both hands on the door and pushed.