At the chamber's center stood the onyx statue, a towering figure of an ancient general, its features sharp and unyielding, as if sculpted from the essence of war itself. Its jian, black as the void, hummed with a deep, resonant thrum—a war drum buried under centuries of silence and stone.
Belial took a slow breath, his violet eyes narrowing as the statue shifted into a back stance. The weight of its presence was a physical force, pressing against his chest, his bones. Moments ago, it had been still, a lifeless monument. Now, it radiated intent—a coiled beast, waiting to strike. His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, steel singing as he unsheathed it in a fluid motion. He had come to this forsaken place not merely to pass a trial, but to hone his edge against something worthy. This statue, etched with the scars of forgotten wars, felt like a gift from the abyss itself—a sparring partner born of stone, magic, and unrelenting will.
He needed this.
The Dance of Death, his art he may have been forced upon it but it was still his....though still eluded full mastery. Forms lingered just beyond his grasp, locked behind some unseen door in his mind or body. Since overcoming the limitation of summoning the dance only under duress, he had begun to wield it at will. Each movement, each form, was a silent sermon whispered into the air. Pain was his teacher, and he its devoted student. The poison that throbbed beneath his skin, a constant companion, reminded him how to drown agony with agony.
He glanced at the mechanism behind him—a series of hairpins embedded in the hair, each tied to the statue's power. The middle pin had unleashed a force that nearly broke him. This time, he had chosen the bottom one. Weaker? Different? Only one way to find out.
The statue moved.
Not with the clumsy stagger of a golem, but with a predator's grace—precise, fluid, impossibly fast. Its Jian cut a clean arc toward Belial's chest, and he twisted away, his blade meeting enchanted stone in a clash that scattered sparks across the floor. The impact reverberated through his arms like a sledgehammer, rattling his bones. This was no mere construct. It fought like a man who had once bled, once breathed—a warrior whose skill had been sealed into stone.
Belial gritted his teeth, parrying another blow that drove him back a step. The statue's strength was staggering, rivaling Cassidy, an Aetherion-ranked hunter who had humbled him in every spar. Against her, he had never landed a clean hit. The gap between their ranks was a canyon. Yet his blade still moved, driven by something deeper than skill—instinct, hunger, defiance.
The statue pressed forward, its jian a blur of lethal arcs. Belial ducked under a horizontal slash, the blade grazing his cloak, and countered with a thrust aimed at the statue's chest. The tip of his sword skittered off the onyx surface, leaving not even a scratch. He cursed under his breath. Indestructible. The realization sank in, heavy but thrilling. This was no opponent he could break—it was one he had to outlast, outthink.
He darted to the side, using the chamber's vastness to his advantage. The statue pursued, its movements eerily silent despite its bulk. Belial feinted left, then rolled right, narrowly avoiding a downward strike that cracked the floor.
Shards flew, one nicking his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. He ignored it, his focus narrowing to the rhythm of the fight. Not control—never that—but awareness.
Their blades clashed again, a flurry of exchanges that echoed through the chamber. Belial's arms burned, each block sending jolts of pain through his shoulders. The statue's blows were relentless, each one carrying the weight of centuries. He parried a thrust, then spun low, aiming a slash at the statue's legs. The blade rang against unyielding stone, the impact numbing his hands. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, refusing to yield.
Pain flared in his ribs from a glancing blow he hadn't fully dodged. He shoved it aside, the poison in his veins a familiar ally, teaching him to embrace agony. His lips moved, not in Sylvaic, but in the guttural tongue of demons. The words felt like home—natural, powerful.
Death Dance: Rebirth.
He raised his sword into an upper stance, his breath slowing, his heartbeat steadying. Then—he moved. A single, fluid slash surged from him like a sprout breaking through soil—natural, unstoppable, elegant. The statue parried, but it stepped back, the blow registering even against its impervious shell. Belial followed, his body flowing into the next form.
Death Dance: Silent Passing.
His stance vanished. His body lowered. He became the hush before a blade sinks in. Then—nothing. No sound, no step. He moved like mist, unseen, unheard, until he reappeared—upside down—mid-flip above the statue's shoulder, with no ground beneath to support the next motion. But he was ready.
Death Dance: Death's Reversal.
Momentum inverted. Gravity became a lie. His slash, meant to come down, twisted up instead, cleaving across the statue's back with impossible force. He flipped again, landing behind it, sliding across the stone floor on one knee. The statue staggered, its balance disrupted, but it did not fall. Its surface remained unmarred, its glowing eyes unyielding.
Belial's chest heaved, sweat stinging his eyes. The statue turned, its jian raised for another assault. He grinned, feral and alive. The fight was far from over.
The general lunged, its blade a streak of black lightning. Belial sidestepped, but the statue anticipated, pivoting mid-strike to catch him with a backhand slash. He blocked, but the force sent him skidding across the floor, his boots scraping against stone. He rolled to his feet, narrowly avoiding a follow-up thrust that embedded the Jian an inch into the obsidian wall. The statue wrenched its blade free, unfazed, and advanced.
Belial circled, his mind racing. The statue's patterns were complex, unpredictable, but not flawless. It favored power over finesse, committing fully to each strike. He could use that. He baited an overhead chop, stepping just out of reach as the blade cratered the floor. Seizing the opening, he darted in, slashing at the statue's wrist. His sword bounced off, but the statue's arm jerked slightly, its rhythm disrupted.
He pressed the advantage, chaining attacks with relentless precision. A thrust to the chest—deflected. A spinning slash to the neck—parried. A low sweep at the knees—blocked. Each strike rang out, the chamber a symphony of steel and stone. The statue countered, its jian slicing toward Belial's throat. He ducked, feeling the air hiss above his head, and retaliated with a rising cut that forced the statue to lean back.
The dance continued, a brutal ballet of near-misses and fleeting openings. Belial's body screamed—muscles straining, ribs throbbing—but he refused to falter. The statue was tireless, its stone form immune to fatigue, but Belial was fueled by something else: the need to prove himself, to push beyond his limits.
He leaped onto a broken pillar, using the height to launch a diving slash. The statue raised its jian, blocking the blow, but Belial twisted mid-air, landing behind it and striking again. The statue spun, its blade a whirlwind, and Belial barely parried in time. The impact drove him to one knee, his sword trembling under the statue's strength.
He rolled away, springing to his feet as the statue charged. Its jian stabbed forward, and Belial sidestepped, grabbing the statue's wrist with his free hand—a reckless move. The stone was cold, unyielding, but he held firm, using the statue's momentum to redirect its thrust. The jian grazed his shoulder, drawing blood, but Belial countered with a point-blank slash to the statue's chest. The blow did nothing to the stone, but it bought him a moment to retreat.
He found himself cornered, his back to a wall of smooth crystalline, chipped with the scars of the previous challenger.
No room to dodge.
No space for flourish.
His breathing grew shallow. The statue's glowing eyes locked onto him, its jian raised for a killing blow. Belial's grip tightened, his pulse steady despite the odds.
Good, he thought, rising slowly, blade ready. Very good.
He whispered, voice a low growl in Demonese: "Let's see if you can handle the next one."