The silence that descended was heavier than the oppressive magic that had pulsed through the ancient ruin moments before. Xylos, his serpentine form still coiled tight in the heart of the chamber, felt the void press in. It wasn't a void of emptiness, but rather a dense, expectant stillness. The illusions, the insidious whispers promising earthly delights and worldly power, had vanished like mist in the dawn.
He hadn't even felt the slightest tremor of desire for any of it. The seductive curves of phantom female cultivators, the glitter of mountains of gold, the roar of adoring crowds – all of it had been a meaningless charade. They didn't understand him. They couldn't grasp the stark, unwavering path he had carved for himself. He wasn't driven by lust, greed, or vanity. He was propelled by the cold, unyielding forge of his own will.
The final offering, the illusion of overwhelming strength, the potent promise of unparalleled dominance, had been almost comical. “Power,” the phantom voice had purred, “All the power you could ever desire, yours for the taking.” Xylos had almost chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that echoed in the sudden quiet. “Power?” he thought, his nascent soul core flickering with a cool, blue flame. “I don’t need power to be given, I earn mine, always.”
He had no need for shortcuts, for borrowed might. Every scale on his sinuous body, every refinement of his nascent soul core, had been the product of relentless effort, of unwavering commitment. He had forged his own cultivation path, painstakingly piecing together fragments of knowledge, testing, refining, discarding, and rebuilding. He had no grand master to give him guidance or some ancient manual. He created that manual. He had no peers to lean on, no comrades to share the burden. He stood as an island of self-reliance.
The journey had been brutal. He had clawed his way through countless trials, facing setbacks and pain with a grim determination. He had learned to endure the biting cold of isolation, to nurse his own wounds, and to never, ever rely on the fickle kindness of others. He found peace in suffering and growth in pain. The thought that he needed some sort of support was laughable.
“I don’t need friends,” he thought, a chill that had nothing to do with the environment radiating from his core. “All I need is my own mind.” His thoughts were his greatest weapon, his sharpest tool, and his most trusted companion.
Now, the test was silent. The oppressive aura that had permeated the chamber had vanished, replaced by a strange, almost expectant stillness. It was as if the ancient ruin itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what Xylos would do next. He was no longer being pushed, no longer being tempted. He was left alone, in the heavy silence, with nothing but the cool, unwavering resolve of his nascent soul and the echo of his own unwavering will. He closed his eyes, his scales gently scraping against the cool stone floor and he began to think.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The air hung thick and still, a suffocating blanket in the judging arena. Xylos, the cold-blooded serpent, felt his scales itch with an unusual tension. The silence was absolute, punctuated only by the rhythmic hiss of his own breath. Then, a shifting began – a thick, milky fog coalesced, obscuring the already stark landscape. From within its swirling depths, a form emerged.
It was a primitive being, a silhouette carved from shadow, raw and ancient. Xylos could not make out any distinct features, only the deep, absolute darkness it emanated. It flicked its tail, a movement that seemed to disturb the very fabric of reality. A whisper, low and resonant, slithered out – words in a tongue long lost to time, yet somehow perfectly understandable to Xylos. They spoke of judgment, of criteria beyond mortal comprehension, and of a score identical to one who came before.
The ancient shadow seemed to struggle, its form flickering with a subtle frustration. There was no reward prepared, it communicated in a way that felt like a void speaking. The predecessor, it seemed, had achieved a perfect score as well, leaving this timeless being with no precedent. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, the shadow extended a hand – or rather, the suggestion of one – and tossed an object to Xylos: a bone, timeworn and ancient.
The whisper resonated again, echoing with names that carried the weight of epochs. "Seed of the Ascended," it hissed. "Relic of the Fallen. Legacy of the Creators."
As Xylos' serpentine eyes focused on the bone, his consciousness began to ascend. It wasn't a physical movement, but rather an expansion, an unfurling into something vast and limitless. He felt the boundaries of his own being dissolve, replaced by an endless ocean of potential. Time became meaningless, replaced by a sense of boundless, eternal possibility. He swam in the currents of cosmic truth, seeing the tapestry of existence in its entirety. It was a sensation of utter limitlessness, a feeling that stretched into infinity and beyond.
Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, it ceased. Xylos found himself back in the ruins, the ancient bone lying cold and smooth before him. His breath hitched, the familiar confines of his physical form feeling alien and restrictive after the endless expanse he had just experienced. Even for him, for a creature as ancient and composed as Xylos, a profound sense of shock rippled through him. The experience had gifted him a comprehension that was both terrifying and exhilarating – a knowledge that demanded reflection and understanding.
He moved with a purpose he didn't quite understand, quickly returning to his labyrinthine cave system. The euphoria was fading now, leaving behind the lingering taste of infinity. His thoughts, however, immediately shifted. With a sudden clarity, he found himself wondering about Kaelon, his blood clone. Years had passed since their separation – how had Kaelon faired? Had he grown? Had he flourished, or withered under the weight of his own existence? A profound sense of curiosity, tinged with a flicker of something akin to concern, filled Xylos. He had much to contemplate, much to process, but the fate of his clone, a copy wrought from his very essence, was now foremost among them.