The grasslands accepted them.

Not warmly.

Not violently.

It simply did not resist.

The moment the Patron's foot pressed into the pale grass, the fog rose.

It did not surge like a storm or crawl like smoke. It seeped–thin as breath on cold glass–then thickened until distance lost meaning. Sound dulled. Color softened. The world narrowed until only weight, contact, and forward motion remained.

No one spoke.

They walked.

Each step felt measured. Not by the land–but by something listening beneath it. The grass bent under their boots with deliberate resistance, as though memorizing their balance, their hesitation, their intent.

The fog did not blind them at once.

It waited.

Temptation came first.

A glint between the grass–metal, unmistakable. A blade half-buried, its unfamiliar hilt humming faintly, alive with promise. Spirit pills lay scattered as if spilled by careless hands, amber and gold catching the pale light. The scent of rare herbs brushed the throat, sharp enough to tighten breath.

No one stopped.

Then came the voices.

Not loud.

Not distant.

Close enough to feel like thought.

Take it.

One won't matter.

You've endured more than the rest.

Why let it rot here?

The words slid past resistance, pressing gently at doubt.

Strength solves what patience cannot.

Power doesn't need permission.

If someone disappears here… who would know?

Hands tightened.

The chain flexed–but did not break.

The voices adjusted.

They softened.

You're not being greedy.

You're being practical.

With this, you could protect them.

With this, you wouldn't kneel again.

For some, the pills glimmered warmer. For others, sharper.

For Princess Lainsa, the fog chose a different language.

Kill.

The word struck clean and precise.

Kill.

Again.

Revenge.

Her breath faltered.

The sound did not come from the fog. It came from somewhere deeper–places sealed by discipline and bloodline, places that remembered screams without needing sound.

She did not look around.

She did not search.

Her fingers tightened around the Patron's palm instead, nails biting through skin until pain replaced echo.

From him came no command.

No reassurance.

Only stillness.

And then–

A monochrome wave flowed from the Patron's body, silent and immediate. It did not suppress the voices. It stilled the mind beneath them–cool, stabilizing, like deep water swallowing fire.

The whispers raged, circled, pressed harder.

But they found nothing to root in.

Princess Lainsa lowered her head slightly.

And kept walking.

But–

The Chief's steps faltered.

For a single heartbeat, the grass beneath his boots was no longer grass.

Stone replaced it.

White. Polished. Endless.

He stood in a vast imperial courtyard, its surface scrubbed clean too many times to ever truly forget the blood that had soaked into it. The air smelled faintly of iron and incense–memories burned into stone.

Before him knelt his wife.

His son.

Their wrists were bound behind them, cords cutting deep into flesh already bruised. Armored boots pressed their shoulders down, forcing their heads low. The sigil of the Royal Palace gleamed coldly on steel greaves.

A general stood nearby, posture relaxed, expression entertained.

"Beg properly," the general said, voice light, almost bored.

The kick came without warning.

Her body folded inward, breath ripped from her lungs. His son surged forward instinctively, small hands clutching at the general's leg–

–lifted.

Hung.

One hand gripping his collar, boots dangling uselessly above the stone.

Blood spilled from the boy's mouth, thin and bright, dripping onto the pristine ground. His eyes fluttered, unfocused, body trembling at the edge of consciousness.

The general chuckled.

Then his wife looked up.

Not at the general.

At him.

Her eyes searched his face–not for rage, not for defiance–

For hope.

Her lips moved soundlessly.

Save us.

A sword fell at the Chief's feet.

CLANG.

"Prove your loyalty," the general said calmly. "One finger. Then another."

The world narrowed.

Rage surged–hot, violent, righteous–filling his chest until breath burned. His muscles tensed, instinct screaming to move, to kill, to tear the courtyard apart.

His grip tightened–

–and pain bloomed in his palm.

Sharp.

Immediate.

Real.

Hylisi's nails bit deep into his skin, drawing blood. She did not look at him. She did not slow.

"Walk."

Two steps ahead. No emotion. No hesitation.

The word cut deeper than the illusion.

The courtyard fractured.

White stone splintered into grass. Blood smeared into dew. The general's laughter dissolved into nothing but fog.

The Chief stumbled, breath tearing from his chest, vision swimming.

But his feet kept moving.

He forced them to.

His jaw clenched until his teeth ached. His eyes burned, but he did not look back.

And he did not loosen his grip again.

Laughter brushed Mu Long's ear.

Low.

Intimate.

Too close.

Warm breath followed, carrying a scent that stirred instinct before thought–familiar perfumes, remembered skin, nights blurred by indulgence and distraction. Soft hands slid along his shoulders, uninvited, tracing the line of his neck, his chest. They did not grab.

They claimed.

Women emerged from the fog, their forms shaped from memories he had never bothered to keep. Faces half-known. Smiles practiced. Eyes promising comfort without consequence.

"You're lonely," one whispered, lips hovering near his ear.

Another leaned closer, fingers gliding along his jaw, tilting his face gently. "You don't have to be."

Mu Long did not slow.

He did not turn.

His steps remained even, his grip unbroken.

"Don't be stubborn," a voice coaxed, closer now, pressing warmth against his side. "We can give you anything you want."

Silk brushed skin.

Familiar.

Tempting.

Meaningless.

He ignored them.

Their laughter sharpened.

Hands tightened–not grasping yet, but insistent. One body pressed closer, another blocked his path briefly before melting aside, as if daring him to acknowledge them.

He did not.

The fog thickened.

Their tone changed.

Annoyance crept in, spoiled and sharp.

A mouth brushed his neck.

Not a kiss.

A test.

Teeth pressed down.

Pain flared–sudden, invasive.

Mu Long's hand snapped toward his axe.

Instinct screamed strike.

His fingers closed around the haft–

–and stopped.

The Yin–Yang emblem carved into the wood pressed against his palm.

Cold.

Solid.

Real.

Mu Li's face surfaced in his mind.

Not smiling.

Not angry.

Disappointed.

The way she used to look at him when he laughed too easily, touched too carelessly, treated closeness like a game that never counted.

Is that all you are?

Mu Long exhaled.

Slow.

Controlled.

The urge drained from his limbs, leaving behind clarity instead of hunger. His grip loosened–not in surrender, but in restraint.

The fog recoiled.

The women hissed.

Their forms warped, beauty cracking like lacquer under heat. Smiles twisted. Eyes hollowed. Their hands burned cold as they dissolved, tearing apart into shrieking wisps of mist.

The scent vanished.

Only rot remained.

Mu Long spat onto the grass.

"Annoying."

He stepped forward.

Patron was protected by Immortal blood and Will of Life.

Nothing came.

No whisper brushed his thoughts.

No image pressed against memory.

No distortion twisted the edge of the world.

Only fog.

It wrapped the grass evenly, uniformly, without favor or hostility. Too consistent. Too restrained.

The Patron walked forward, eyes open, senses alert–and found nothing to contest.

That, in itself, was wrong.

Lady Hylisi had been clear. Hallucinations did not wait. They struck quickly, viciously, exploiting hesitation before discipline could form. This place punished the unguarded and tempted the willing.

Yet for him–

Silence.

No hunger.

No grief.

No promise.

Only emptiness.

His steps remained measured, but his awareness sharpened–not outward, but inward. He examined the fog the way one examines a sealed door: not for what it showed, but for why it remained closed.

Am I exempt? the thought surfaced.

Or–

Am I being delayed?

The fog offered no answer.

For the first time since entering the Borderland, doubt brushed him–not fear, not temptation, but calculation. His focus shifted, just a fraction, inward rather than forward.

The chain slackened.

Barely.

But it was enough.

Pain snapped sharp and immediate along his arm.

He sucked in a breath.

Diala's fingers were buried in his flesh, nails pinching hard enough to bite through cloth and skin alike. Her face remained forward, eyes fixed ahead, but her voice cut low and fast.

"Stay here," she hissed. "Not in your head."

The words struck cleaner than any illusion.

The Patron inhaled once–deep, controlled–and forced his awareness back into his body. Into weight. Into movement. Into the warmth of living hands.

The fog responded.

It thickened.

Not aggressively. Not reactively.

As if acknowledging that he had almost slipped where others had been dragged.

The Borderland did not test him with desire or fear.

It tested him with absence.

And for the first time, it had nearly succeeded.

The fog opened Twin subordinates differently.

Not with temptation.

With opportunity.

Bodies lay scattered ahead–unfamiliar forms collapsed in the grass as if discarded by a careless god. Their shapes were wrong in subtle ways: bone structure too dense, musculature layered unnaturally, veins faintly luminous beneath pale skin. Some still radiated residual power, sharp and cold, prickling against the senses.

The twins stopped breathing for a moment.

New bodies.

Uncatalogued.

Untouched.

Their eyes moved in perfect synchrony, scanning details, already dissecting possibilities. One crouched, fingers twitching with the urge to probe muscle and sinew. The other tilted his head, studying the angle of a broken neck, imagining where resistance would have failed.

Cold instruments lay arranged nearby, half-submerged in fog–blades thin as leaves, hooks curved for precision, needles humming faintly with spiritual charge.

A gift.

Their pulses quickened.

"This tissue density–" one murmured, barely audible.

"–isn't human," the other finished.

They stepped closer.

That was when laughter cut in.

Crude. Deliberate.

A treasure hunter stood nearby, hands already at work. He lifted one of the instruments, weighed it mockingly, then tossed it aside. It struck a stone and snapped cleanly in half.

The twins froze.

"What are you staring at?" the man sneered. "Planning to play doctors again?"

Another instrument smashed against the ground.

Then another.

"Without the Chief, what are you?" he continued, voice sharp with intent. "Pets. Tools. Pretending you matter because someone stronger tolerates you."

He dragged a torch across the grass.

Flames caught instantly.

One of the bodies ignited–power flaring wildly before collapsing into ash and smoke.

The twins' breath hitched.

Something hot surged up their spines.

Another body burned.

"You like cutting things?" the man mocked. "Here. Nothing left to cut."

The twins' hands moved as one.

Ruyi Guns slid into their grips–smooth, familiar, deadly.

Their stances shifted.

Muscles coiled.

Reflex screamed eliminate.

Then–

They turned.

Not toward the enemy.

Toward the Chief.

Both heads snapped in the same direction, eyes searching instinctively for command. For permission. For a nod that had governed their actions for years.

It wasn't there.

And in that empty space–

Clarity struck.

The fog wavered.

The instruments dissolved into smoke. The remaining bodies crumbled into harmless silhouettes. The laughter warped, stretched, then vanished entirely.

The twins exhaled sharply.

Their grips loosened.

They stood still, weapons lowered, hearts pounding–not from anger, but from recognition.

They had almost moved.

Not because they wanted to.

But because they were trained to.

Raised to wait.

To obey.

That reflex–their greatest weakness–had saved them.

One of them glanced sideways at the other.

A silent acknowledgment passed between them.

Marquis Gen Jin stepped forward.

For the first time since entering the fog, his stride broke rhythm.

Before him, the grassland ended abruptly.

A cliff rose without warning–vast, sheer, swallowing light. Its edge appeared too suddenly, too close, as if the land itself had been folded wrong. No illusion of depth followed, no false promise of footing. Only absence.

Reflex took over.

Gen Jin's hand withdrew.

Instantly.

The chain broke.

The sensation was sharp, like a tendon snapping.

The fog reacted at once.

Ahead of Kiaria, Diala, Princess Lainsa, Hylisi, the Chief, and the twin subordinates–the mist peeled away as if parted by an unseen blade. Vision cleared. Air sharpened. The grass regained definition.

Behind them–

"AAAHHH–!"

A scream tore through the fog, raw and unrestrained, followed by more–panicked voices overlapping, disoriented, breaking into cries that clawed at the ears but offered no direction.

Yi swallowed hard.

"The connection," he murmured. "It's broken."

No one answered.

From the grass at their feet, light stirred.

Six shapes emerged–slow, deliberate–rising from the ground itself as if called forth by judgment rather than summoning. Tokens, each distinct, each marked with faint inscriptions that shifted like living script.

They hovered for a breath.

Then fell gently into waiting hands.

Six tokens.

Kiaria.

Diala.

Princess Lainsa.

The Chief.

The twins.

Hylisi stood empty-handed.

Not because she had failed.

Because she had never been tested.

Her Association token pulsed faintly at her side, blood-recognition inscriptions responding as if in quiet acknowledgment.

The moment the six tokens were touched, the fog ahead of them condensed–flattening, stretching–until it became a translucent surface.

Words burned into it.

Not carved.

Not spoken.

Declared.

You have passed the Unfiltered Assessment.

The letters shifted, reforming as the message continued.

Trial Tokens are temporary authorization for candidates who endured the Grassland Judgment.

With this token, you may proceed toward the Final Assessment.

A pause.

Then more.

Each token bears a number.

Seek the Sword and Shield marked with the same designation.

Find them by your own means.

The fog pulsed once, darker.

When Sword and Shield are united, the route will be revealed.

A warning followed–cold, indifferent.

Along the path, Trial Beasts may appear.

Those who defeat them may enter the Hall of the Association.

Those who retreat out of fear–will not return.

Silence pressed down as the final line appeared.

Proceed.

The fog shifted again.

For the six who held tokens–and for Hylisi–the mist lost substance, turning transparent, almost nonexistent. They could see the grassland clearly now, its deceptive calm laid bare.

For the others–

The fog remained absolute.

The trapped treasure hunters moved somewhere within it, unseen, unheard except for distant echoes of panic and confusion. To them, nothing had changed. To the seven who stood outside–

It was as if a wall had been erected between realities.

The fog had become a screen.

Hylisi trembled.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

She turned sharply as six gazes fell upon her.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, voice tight. "I don't know this either."

Her hands curled into fists.

"This wasn't part of the Borderland before," she continued. "I've never heard of this trial. Never seen it. The grasslands were dangerous–but this?" She shook her head. "This is new."

No one moved.

The tokens were warm in their hands.

Alive.

Behind them, the fog churned, screams dulling into fractured murmurs.

Ahead, the grassland waited–patient, open, merciless.

They did not step forward instead waited for those still trapped, for judgment to finish unfolding.

From this moment on, the truth would be visible–only to those permitted to see it.

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