Aamon remained standing, sword in hand, heart still pounding. His limbs trembled from exertion, his coat torn and scorched, but he didn't let himself collapse. Not yet. Not until he was certain it was over.
For several long moments, the only sound was the echo of his own breath, ragged and strained. He waited. Expected something else—another challenge, another foe. But none came.
Five minutes passed.
Still nothing.
Aamon slowly lowered his sword.
He had won.
Against overwhelming odds—against ten coordinated killing machines and a towering monstrosity that should have crushed him—he had survived. He should've felt triumphant. Elated, even.
But just as relief began to bloom in his chest, the world tilted.
His vision spun.
Aamon staggered, tried to stay upright—but darkness consumed his senses.
When his eyes opened again, he found himself lying on a white floor in a place far removed from the ruined arena. The ceiling was high and arched, formed of luminous material that pulsed faintly like a living star. There was no door, no windows—just endless, serene whiteness.
Six figures stood nearby, watching him.
Three men. Three women.
All impossibly distinct. All powerful.
Aamon sat up slowly, and before he could speak, one of the girls grinned and called out, "Look! Little junior is finally awake!"
Her tone was playful, but Aamon felt something deeper beneath it—an ancient weight. These people weren't just strangers. He knew who they were.
The other Inheritors.
His breath caught.
The first to step forward was a tall man who radiated presence like a mountain in a storm.
"I'm Thalor Veyne," he said, his voice deep and calm. "I discovered the legacy of the Awakening God."
Thalor was statuesque, clad in an obsidian coat etched with glowing silver runes. His features were sharp—ice-blue eyes, angular jaw, and a white streak running through his otherwise coal-black hair. His left arm was wrapped in ceremonial cloth, ancient and worn.
"Scars," he said when he noticed Aamon's gaze. "A gift from my ancestors. They glow in the presence of great bloodlines. They helped me find the legacy." He gave Aamon a faint nod. "The part I inherited is the Awakening Physique."
Next came a man who looked as though he'd walked straight out of a battlefield.
"Caedric Morwyn," he said simply.
Broad-shouldered, weathered, and formidable, Caedric's face bore the traces of countless battles—old cuts, a scarred brow. His hair was a rough mane of brown-gold, and his amber eyes held a quiet strength. His bronze armor was tarnished but proud, the crest of the Forgotten Vanguard emblazoned on his chest. Around his neck, a broken shard of oathstone hung on a leather cord.
"I carry the Awakening Armor," he said. "It has saved me more times than I can count."
The third man was lean, his movements deliberate and composed.
"Elias Drenn," he introduced himself.
Clad in tailored robes of midnight blue and steel-gray, Elias exuded elegance and menace in equal measure. His skin was pale, and his emerald eyes gleamed with hidden knowledge. Silver chains dangled from his wrists—each one a mark of a pact, or perhaps a fallen rival.
"I inherited the Awakening Manifestation," he said with a thin smile. "It reveals the true form of one's essence."
With the men done, the women stepped forward.
The first was a vision of beauty and sorrow.
"Seraphine Kaelith," she said softly.
Porcelain-skinned, with violet eyes and flowing raven hair, Seraphine's presence was like starlight—soft, distant, and cold. Her indigo gown shimmered like dusk, and upon her brow rested a shattered crystal diadem.
"My family was destroyed because they believed I held a treasure beyond value," she said. "They were not wrong. It took me seven centuries to avenge them."
Her voice was calm, but the weight of her history hung in the air.
"I possess the Awakening Weapon," she continued. "It takes the form I desire—blade, bow, or beyond."
Next was a regal woman with fire in her gaze.
"Nyra Valebryn."
She stood tall, her coiled auburn hair cropped at her shoulders. Her crimson surcoat bore the sigil of the Crimson Reach, and her black leather armor blended nobility with function. Her left hand, charred from an old childhood incident, remained gloved.
"I own the Awakening Will," she said firmly. "It removes the limits others bow to."
Last was a quiet, silver-haired woman.
"Isolde Thorne," she said with a voice as soft as falling snow.
Her storm-gray eyes watched Aamon without judgment. A cloak of ghost-hide draped over her leather armor, and silver vine tattoos curled around her forearms, pulsing faintly. A whisper-thin blade rested at her hip.
"My strength lies in the Awakening Bloodline," she said. "It assimilates and awakens all others."
Aamon sat still for a long moment.
Six bearers of a god's shattered legacy. Six powers awakened. Each one had walked their own path to find their piece of the divine inheritance.
And now, they were all looking at him.
Waiting.
He stood slowly, wincing as the pain returned. He had inherited the Awakening Skill—the most versatile, yet perhaps the most demanding.
It held the potential to grow into the other aspects. To rival the Physique, the Will, even the Bloodline.
But...
That same potential came at a cost.
Resources. Time. Power.
Things he didn't currently possess.
He lowered his gaze, hands clenching.
Then came the spark of madness.
Aamon made a choice.
He integrated the Awakening Skill into his system.
No longer would it rely on external materials. No resources. No rituals.
Only Evolution Points.
Pain surged through him as the change took hold.
Aamon gasped and staggered, his system interface flashing in his mind's eye. The Awakening Skill had merged completely, consuming EP to grow stronger.
Now, his greatest weapon had also become his greatest burden.
And he smiled.
Because he knew how to earn EP.
He raised his head to the six Inheritors and finally spoke:
"My name is Aamon Celastine," he said, voice steady despite the pain. "And I'm ready."
The white room shimmered.
Aamon's eyes snapped open.
Back in the real world.
He didn't know how much time had passed—but one thing was certain.
The true journey was only beginning.