Mark wakes, sprawled on the cold stone floor, every joint aching as though his bones have aged decades in moments. The chalk lines of his failed ritual lie faded, faint remnants of what nearly was. He stares numbly, exhaustion seeping deeper into his body.

  Ashburn stands a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, patient as always. Mark glares at him through the fringe of sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead.

  “You almost succeeded this time,” Ashburn notes dryly, "but close does not suffice. Rest, meditate, and then start again. You've come this far; don't falter now."

  Mark wipes sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of chalk across his forehead. “You're telling me this isn’t done?”

  Ashburn raises an eyebrow slightly. “The ritual is merely preparation. You must invoke the Spiritual Flame to ignite and finalize the ritual."

  Mark groans, collapsing into a sitting position, head bowed. “After all this... there's more?”

  “Precisely. To fully open the passage, you must complete the invocation. That is the true test.”

  Mark stares at him, disbelief etched into every line of his weary face. Days have bled into nights, every moment filled with relentless repetition and strain. He meditates when able, forcing Flux into his depleted form, but the relief never lasts.

  Time blurs. He loses count of the attempts, the failures blending together until they seem meaningless. The words of power burn into his memory through sheer stubborn persistence:

  “Lux Infinitum Iter Pandit – Mortuis Porta Aperta Est – Nex Nutrit Vivum – Iter inter Spatia.”

  Each attempt takes more from him, leaving him hollow. Yet finally, after what feels like lifetimes, he stands on the brink again, body shaking from exertion, vision blurred at the edges. The symbols glow faintly, pulsing softly, waiting for his final act.

  Ashburn speaks, voice calm yet distant, “Now, invoke the flame."

  Mark gathers the shattered fragments of his strength. The incantation emerges raggedly, syllables clawing at his throat:

  "Ona A NexVa LihEmbe Vansan Qus Azy Cho Chs Aflub."

  A flickering spark appears, weak yet persistent, struggling to stay alive. He forces his palm forward, releasing the flame. It arcs gracefully, merging with the symbols, igniting them in spectral brilliance.

  His knees buckle, vision swirling as darkness closes in. Ashburn’s quiet voice reaches him from afar. “You've done it, but can you hold onto the strength that brought you here?”

  Mark collapses to his knees, eyes fixed on the burning patterns etched into stone. The price isn’t just in reaching this moment, it’s in the strength required to continue.

  Mark practices relentlessly, the invocation becoming as familiar as breathing, each attempt consuming him with increasing agony. Every invocation pushes him deeper into exhaustion, yet he persists, driven by determination or perhaps stubbornness. He repeats the gestures endlessly, mouth shaping the incantation until it becomes second nature.

  The days blur into an endless loop of chalk, fire, and pain. He wakes, meditates just enough to regain his strength, then returns to the ritual. Each repetition leaves him weaker, more ragged, but also more precise. His movements tighten; his words sharpen. Slowly, painfully, it becomes something he can reliably do.

  Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, Mark stands over the completed ritual. Every line glows steadily, humming gently in perfect harmony. The spiritual flame crackles in his hand, spectral embers flickering across his fingers. He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and releases the flame.

  In an instant, reality shatters around him.

  Mark is torn apart. It's as if he's dissolved into a thousand tiny pieces, each atom ripped free, spinning wildly through a void filled with nothing but blinding pain and nauseating vertigo. His consciousness scatters, awareness fragmenting, lost in a torrent of raw, chaotic sensation.

  Then, just as suddenly, he's reassembled inches away from where he started, collapsing onto the floor. The stone beneath him feels cold, unforgiving. He gasps desperately for air, choking back the wave of nausea rising sharply in his throat.

  He rolls onto his side, body convulsing weakly as his stomach twists violently. Every nerve in his body protests, echoing with residual agony. Slowly, painfully, he forces himself upright, eyes blurry, vision spinning.

  Ashburn stands calmly across the room, watching.

  “Better,” Ashburn says simply. “With practice, it will hurt less. Slightly less.”

  Mark coughs harshly, wiping bile from his mouth with a shaking hand. “You could've warned me,” he gasps, still trying to regain control of his trembling limbs.

  Ashburn’s expression is impassive. “Experience is the best teacher. Next time, brace yourself better. And try not to vomit on the ritual circle.”

  Mark pushes himself slowly to his feet, bracing against the cool stone wall until the dizziness fades. He stumbles toward the bathroom, muscles protesting with every step, head throbbing with the lingering echoes of nausea. The cold water splashes across his face, clearing away sweat, chalk dust, and the remnants of his earlier nausea.

  After a few moments of steady breathing and splashing cold water over his face, he straightens, blinking into the mirror. The man staring back at him looks drained, pale, haunted. He sighs, drying his face before returning to the balcony.

  As he steps outside, Mark pauses. The balcony is spotless absolutely no trace remains of the ritual's aftermath. The smudged chalk and vomit have vanished entirely, leaving the stone pristine, ready for him to begin again.

  “Convenient,” he mutters with mild irritation, reaching for the chalk.

  And he begins again, each stroke of chalk painstakingly precise. Hours pass like seconds, fading into a blur of repetition. Every line drawn pulls on his dwindling reserves of strength, but determination keeps him upright.

  Days pass, or what feels like days; time has lost meaning here. Each repetition is a struggle against exhaustion, against himself. Yet each time, he grows more precise, more confident. The Words of Power flow from his lips with increasing certainty, etched into his memory like scars of discipline.

  Finally, the symbols glow steadily again. Mark’s body trembles, his mind frayed by effort, but he refuses to falter. The Spiritual Flame bursts forth from his palm, intertwining with the intricate symbols on the floor. Reality fractures once more, dragging him through that nauseating vortex of pain and disorientation.

  He collapses, breathing heavily, but he doesn’t vomit this time. He grits his teeth, satisfied, if only barely.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  That night, slipping into the steaming water of a bath that mysteriously awaits him, Mark lets exhaustion pull him under. Warmth envelopes him, soothing every ache. He closes his eyes, drifting.

  This time, his mind conjures a scene of utter indulgence. Warm water cradles him as soft, gentle hands caress and cleanse every inch of his body. Masked beautiful women surround him, their bodies bare, their touches delicate yet thorough. Bodies that he faintly recognizes drift in and out of clarity, groupies from his band days, women who once flocked to him months ago. He had had sex with each of them, all beautiful, and weird. None of them wanted to use protection, and every one of them wanted him to cum in them. They lovingly washing away the fatigue and strain from his weary body.

  Mark sighs contentedly, sinking deeper into this imagined paradise, allowing himself a rare moment of indulgent peace.

  Mark wakes abruptly, heart racing from restless dreams, immediately noticing something off. The soothing openness of the balcony has vanished. In its place, a dimly-lit chamber extends outward, filled with stacks upon stacks of pet carriers, each cage buzzing with restless, angry screeches. A pale, spectral moonlight filters oddly into the room, illuminating Ashburn, who stands calmly at the center.

  Mark staggers forward, confusion and apprehension rising. "What...what is this?"

  "Your next lesson," Ashburn says smoothly, motioning to the countless cages around them. "One of your most necessary and distasteful abilities: Death Touch."

  Mark's eyes widen, anxiety twisting in his stomach. "I don't like where this is going."

  "Distasteful, perhaps, but necessary." Ashburn moves deliberately to one of the cages, opens it, and pulls out a massive rat, its size comparable to a house cat. The creature squirms violently, eyes glittering with panic and defiance. "These creatures are your pets now. You must care for them, nurture them, and then end their lives with your new power."

  "What?" Mark recoils instinctively, nausea rising. "You're joking."

  Ashburn’s gaze is unflinching. "Death Touch is among your most powerful yet most distasteful abilities. To master it, you must intimately know what you're taking. Understand the cost, Mark. You cannot command death without first grasping the meaning of life."

  He steps deliberately into the center spotlight, holding the struggling rat high. All eyes from the stacked cages seem fixed upon him, tiny noses pressed against bars, frantic eyes wide with terror.

  "Observe carefully." Ashburn’s voice is chillingly steady as he speaks the Words of Power: "Ona A Nex LihWrai San Qus A DraZy Che."

  Instantly, the rat stiffens in Ashburn’s grasp, shrieking with agony. Its fur bristles, flesh bubbling and twisting grotesquely beneath its skin, the creature writhing desperately as if being cooked alive from the inside out. Six seconds of horrific struggle pass, and then the rat suddenly liquifies, collapsing into a vile pool of viscous fluid that splashes onto the floor.

  Silence follows, punctuated only by the horrified murmurs of the other rats, now even more frantic and terrified.

  Ashburn turns back to Mark, his expression coldly neutral. "There are exactly one hundred here. Given your current limitations, perhaps you'll manage one, possibly one and a half, before your Flux depletes and exhaustion overtakes you. Meditation will be crucial."

  Mark swallows thickly, stomach churning violently. Ashburn's voice softens slightly, though the chill remains. "Learn quickly, Mark. This will not be easy, nor pleasant. But mastery seldom is."

  Mark stares at Ashburn, his hands trembling at the horrifying demand. “I won't do this,” he says, voice shaking. “These animals haven't done anything wrong. I killed those who deserved punishment, I wasn't a monster.”

  Ashburn’s gaze is coldly patient. “You may refuse if you wish. But failure means being cast into the river, slowly consumed until your essence scatters, becoming part of the endless cycle. Your existence will cease as you know it, reborn in fragments spread across the universe.”

  Mark hesitates, heart heavy with dread. He reaches toward a cage reluctantly, opening it to extract a large rat. The terrified creature immediately bites deeply into his hand, drawing blood. Mark cries out in pain, instinctively releasing it. The rat scampers frantically away, only to suddenly reappear in its cage, bewildered and even more frightened.

  He grits his teeth, forcing himself forward again, reaching to grab the trembling creature. Blood trickles down his arm as the rat continues biting desperately. Mark fumbles through the gestures, muttering the words weakly, incorrectly, over and over again. Nothing happens, but pain and blood stain his shaking hands.

  Then finally, it happens. Mark steadies himself, voice trembling as he clearly speaks the Words of Power: “Ona A Nex LihWrai San Qus A DraZy Che.”

  Energy surges through him, wounds knitting together instantly as the rat screams in anguish. Its flesh boils beneath its fur, muscles liquifying, the creature's body dissolving into a horrific puddle on the stone floor. Mark staggers backward, both healed and horrified, bile rising in his throat.

  He swallows hard, dizzy from the weight of what he's done, the realization of what he must continue to do. Grabbing another rat, he repeats the spell, but exhaustion hits him halfway through, and darkness overtakes him.

  He wakes to Ashburn’s stern command to meditate. The screeching never stops, a cacophony of endless torment. Mark struggles desperately for calm, fighting to reclaim enough Flux. An hourglass appears, counting the five agonizing hours until he can try again.

  Mark rises shakily, facing a rat already aware of its fate, trembling visibly in terror. He sees its pleading eyes, feels its dread in his bones, but forces himself to utter the words again. The rat dissolves into liquid agony, and Mark immediately reaches for another. His body betrays him halfway through; he must cease before passing out again. He shakily returns the wounded, terrified rat to its cage.

  Ashburn gestures silently toward a table holding food and water for the rats. Mark, hands shaking, distributes the sustenance, their frantic eyes watching him, their pleading impossible to ignore.

  When finished, he notices a small plate set aside for him—a sandwich, fries, and two bottles of Ebongreen ale, his favorite, its familiar black grassland label oddly comforting. He eats mechanically, barely tasting the food, drinking deeply from the bottle. The shower afterward is long, scalding, but it doesn't wash away the guilt.

  Sleep is filled with nightmares woven from the incessant screeching, until finally, mercifully, the scent of lavender and coconut drifts through his consciousness. Warmth returns, his head resting gently in a lap whose face he cannot clearly see. Another presence sits beside him, also blurred, softly humming a gentle, soothing tune, the first comfort he's felt since this nightmare began.

  Mark wakes each day feeling heavier than the last. The once comforting chamber now feels suffocating, each cage stacked like bricks upon his chest, their inhabitants' fearful eyes haunting every waking moment. Each morning he rises, murmuring soft apologies to the terrified creatures, his voice breaking as he gently feeds them, his hands trembling. Each rat becomes familiar, each face etched into his memory, a cruel bond formed from sorrow and guilt.

  When he finally reaches out to take one, their desperate squeals pierce his soul. The rat struggles violently, biting deep into his skin, drawing blood and panic. He pulls back, bleeding, hand trembling violently as pain and guilt swell within him. Every failed attempt at invoking Death Touch sends another shockwave of self-disgust through him.

  Eventually, the invocation comes again, bitterly clear, each syllable tasting of regret: Ona A Nex LihWrai San Qus A DraZy Che.

  The energy rushes through him, his wounds healing, but the rat screams, a sound of pure agony, flesh bubbling and liquefying beneath his fingers. Mark's stomach churns violently as the creature dissolves, its final cry haunting his mind long after the sound fades.

  Each day grows worse. By the sixth day, Mark’s spirit is hollowed. Every invocation steals more of him, scraping away layers of his humanity. He collapses onto the cold, merciless stone, sobbing uncontrollably. The echoes of a hundred frightened screams haunt his ears.

  It is then, amidst the crushing silence of his despair, that she descends—ethereal, radiant, and oddly comforting. She kneels gently beside him, pulling him tenderly against her, cradling him as he breaks apart in her embrace.

  Her fingers softly stroke his hair, her presence warm, soothing. Her voice, soft and hauntingly beautiful, whispers through the darkness:

  “In the stillness, shadows breathe, A quiet hum beneath the trees.

  Your weary heart, your fraying thread, Come to me, where fears are shed.

  Rest now, child, in my embrace,

  The darkness soft, a gentle place.

  Your burden fades, the pain will cease, In death’s shadow, you’ll find peace.

  The echoes call, so faint, so deep,

  A melody where shadows weep.

  Let go the weight, surrender whole,

  To the quiet pull of your restless soul.

  Rest now, child, in my embrace, The darkness soft, a gentle place.

  Your burden fades, the pain will cease, In death’s shadow, you’ll find peace.

  No light to blind, no fear to bind, Just the steady pulse of time unwind.

  Let the sand fall, grain by grain, With me, you'll never feel the strain.

  Rest now, child, in my embrace, The darkness soft, a gentle place.

  Your burden fades, the pain will cease, In death’s shadow, you’ll find peace.

  Breathe deep the quiet, feel the void, A haven safe, not to be destroyed.

  I know your pain, I know your fight, Rest in me, beneath the night.”

  Her lullaby wraps around him like a shroud, pulling Mark gently into a space between pain and peace, finally offering the respite he so desperately needs.