The air in the cavern thrummed, thick with ozone and anticipation. Xylos, a serpentine behemoth of shadow and scale, was coiled tight within the cavern's heart. His form, a chaotic tapestry of obsidian chitin and writhing tendrils, pulsed with an inner fire. He was no longer just a demonic snake, but a nascent being poised on the precipice of a terrifying transformation. The lightning tribulation had begun.

Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, rent by jagged forks of incandescent energy that screamed down from the heavens. Each strike vibrated through the stone, shaking the very foundations of the mountain, and Xylos felt the raw power slamming into his core, threatening to unravel him. The pain was excruciating, a purifying fire that tested the limits of his demonic essence. He writhed, his scales scraping against the cave walls, leaving trails of phosphorescent ichor.

The first few waves were brutal, meant to break his spirit. Each bolt of lightning seared his scales, leaving behind smoking, blackened pits. Xylos endured, his ancient heart a furnace of defiance. But the tribulation was escalating. The lightning became more focused, more malevolent, targeting the very core of his being. That was when he knew it was time.

He uncoiled slightly, and the cave floor rippled as a massive section of his discarded carapace rose. His first trump card: the Chitinous Shell. It was a grotesque, almost skeletal thing, the size of a small cart. As another blinding flash tore through the cave, Xylos thrust the shell before him. It pulsed with faint energy, absorbing the brunt of the lightning's fury. The shell cracked and groaned under the assault, but it held, buying Xylos precious moments to recover, to knit back together the wounds inflicted by the celestial fire.

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The shell was deteriorating rapidly. It was a one-time shield, designed for a single, decisive blow. When that was exhausted, the lightning surged once more, no longer diffused, but directly impacting Xylos' vulnerable flesh. He hissed, a sound like ripping fabric, as the energy tore at his very essence.

Then, Xylos shifted, his serpentine form recoiling back towards the cave's deepest shadows, where a pool of what appeared to be dark, viscous oil simmered. The air around it tasted of rust and death. His second trump card: The Pool of Stagnant Blood. He lashed out with a tendril, dragging a thick ribbon of the potent fluid across his scorched flesh. Instantly, the agony began to recede. The corrosive fluid tingled, burning as well as healing, knitting together torn scales and singed flesh. It was a gamble, as the blood was a two edged sword, but it was working.

As the healing process started, Xylos knew he had to unleash the final ace. He focused his intent upon the debris scattered around the cavern floor. His third trump card: The Circle of Bone Shards. He vibrated, sending a resonating pulse through the stone. The pulverized bones of his past foes, each microscopic shard, rose into the air, forming a swirling vortex around him. As the next wave of lightning descended, it did not slam directly onto Xylos. Instead, the shards of bone, saturated with despair and lingering echoes of death, acted like a chaotic array of lightning rods, pulling the most destructive bolts away from his core. Lightning flashed erratically, a chaotic display of raw power, but its intensity was diffused, scattered amongst the bone fragments.

Xylos roared, a sound of triumph and pain, his form shuddering under the constant bombardment. He was not unscathed. He had been tested, pushed to the very brink, and used every trick he had to survive. The tribulation was not over, but the use of his trump cards bought him the crucial breathing room he needed. He was damaged, but he was still here. He had not broken. He would endure. He would become. The nascent demonic being held on, his eyes glowing with a malevolent red light, promising a dawn of terrifying power.