Jack’s chest heaved, each breath ragged and shallow as he struggled to calm the torrent of adrenaline surging wildly through his veins. It coursed through him like fire, leaving his hands trembling and his legs taut with tension. Every beat of his heart thundered in his ears, drowning out the rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. The rhythmic pulse pounded like war drums, keeping time with the tremor that ran through the forest floor beneath him. The vibrations echoed outward from the massive form of the basilisk, shifting its weight as it coiled for another strike. Jack could feel it, almost as if the creature’s pressure was bending the earth around them—like molten metal pooling before it was cast into a blade. That monstrous body tensed, poised to crash through the trees, ready to tear him limb from limb.

  A mental ripple brushed the edge of Jack’s consciousness—a soft, familiar presence. Goldeyes. The message came like a whisper carried on wind: Save yourself. Come back. Or let me help.

  Jack felt the message stir in the back of his thoughts, tugging at his instincts, at the part of him that wanted to live without risking this kind of trial. But he cut it off without hesitation. This was his test. His alone. No one else could step in. No one else could prove for him whether his skill, his strength, his will—were truly his own.

  The basilisk lunged—or started to. It froze halfway through, muscles locked mid-motion. Clawed feet dug into the moss-covered soil, each talon anchoring with brutal force. Its eyes, glowing like blood-lit coals, locked on Jack with unflinching fury. The creature’s maw opened just enough for thick strings of acid to dribble down from its cracked, jagged fangs. The liquid sizzled where it hit the ground, tiny wisps of smoke curling up as it scorched the moss away.

  Jack swallowed hard. A tight knot of fear curled in his throat, but he didn’t let it take him. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised his hand—just barely. It was a subtle motion, no more than a twitch, but it was enough. The gesture opened a channel within him. He let his mind slip past the haze of panic and into the cold, razor-thin focus of psychic power.

  The spell he chose wasn’t one he knew well. He’d only practiced it a few times, and never once against something truly alive, let alone this deadly. Still, he committed. A flicker of intense concentration passed through his consciousness, and the world around him responded. It quivered. Not visibly at first—but the shift was there. The light warped. Dust motes, once drifting lazily in beams of muted sunlight, now danced erratically. The shadows thrown by the leaves twisted across the basilisk’s blood-red scales. And then, like a ripple disturbing still water, the forest itself seemed to peel open at the edges of perception.

  From the tear in reality stepped another figure. Not another creature, not an ally—but an echo. A perfect, synchronized reflection. A double.

  The illusion was Jack. Or rather, it looked like him. It moved exactly as he did, in flawless mimicry. The same leather armor clung to its shoulders, the same spear rested in its grip. Its steel-blue eyes glinted with that same defiant fire. Light caught its dark hair in the same scattered dapple. Every detail, every nuance, down to the faint rise and fall of breath—perfect.

  Almost perfect.

  A trained eye would have seen the flaws. The edges of the double shimmered faintly, as though reality hadn’t fully committed to its presence. Its weapon—Jack’s spear—flickered intermittently, vanishing in part, or returning with a subtle jitter. The folds of its tunic moved wrong, too stiff or too fluid depending on the angle. Its skin didn’t stretch quite right over its muscle, and the rhythm of its breathing lagged behind Jack’s own by a fraction of a second. Almost imperceptible. Almost. But to a creature blinded by fury, driven by the scent of blood and the promise of carnage, such imperfections were easily ignored.

  The basilisk hesitated. Its eight legs twitched, caught in the tension of a coiled strike. It tilted its massive head slightly, a strange gesture of uncertainty. Its nostrils flared. It inhaled deeply, scenting both the real Jack and the illusion. Two targets, two threats. Its confusion was palpable.

  Jack took the opportunity.

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  He flowed into Laughing Wind, a combat stance that turned his body into a river of motion. With a dancer’s grace, he wove sideways, drawing the basilisk’s gaze just a sliver further from truth. His spear cut through the air in an elegant arc, tracing a line toward the creature’s exposed side. The illusion mirrored his movement, executing the exact step, the exact angle, as if choreographed to perfection. Together, the real and the false advanced, one solid and lethal, the other a whisper of trickery and light.

  The basilisk’s fury flared again, but its attack lacked the certainty it had before. It lunged—not at Jack, but at the illusion. Its claws carved deep gouges in the air, passing through the mirage where flesh should have been. The impact forced a distortion—cracks of mental energy split across the illusion’s form like shattered glass—but it held just long enough. Long enough to shift the beast’s trajectory. Long enough to pull its deadly momentum away from where it would have struck true.

  The creature’s enormous bulk slammed into the fading double. It struck the forest with a concussive force that snapped branches and shook nearby trunks. The illusion exploded into drifting, silver motes of light. The basilisk roared in frustration, jaws snapping at empty air. It had expected resistance. Instead, it had found a phantom.

  But the strategy had worked. It had bought Jack the time he needed. The illusion, flawed as it was, had done its job. With it gone, the beast stood in a cloud of shimmering remnants, disoriented and winded, its breath hissing out in great gulps. Acid leaked in slow drips from its jaws, pitting the earth.

  Jack didn’t wait. He summoned another trick—not deception this time, but elevation. He tapped into his inner reserve, letting the latent psychic force within him carry him skyward. First it was a feeling—his limbs lighter than they should be, the drag of gravity easing. Then, gradually, he lifted. Smooth. Silent. Effortless. The forest floor dropped away beneath him, revealing the mosaic of pine needles and undergrowth from above. Through breaks in the branches, golden shafts of sunlight caught on the basilisk’s scales, outlining it like a creature from myth.

  From above, Jack hovered. The beast lashed out again, snapping at the illusion’s remnants. Jack drifted to the side and gently guided his descent, choosing a quiet patch of tangled roots to land behind. The moment his feet touched down, his focus sharpened. The weight of the world returned, but so did clarity. That short flight had cleared his head, steadied his pulse.

  No time to linger. No time to hesitate.

  Jack moved. Fast. Fluid. Focused. He wheeled around behind the basilisk, sliding between pools of shadow. His spear slashed upward in a brutal arc, channeling the power of his ice dagger spell. Frost crackled in the air. The weapon hissed against the basilisk’s scales, already scorched and tender from previous strikes. Steam rose in tendrils as the cold magic collided with overheated flesh.

  The basilisk reeled, shrieking in pain, but it wasn’t finished. Rage burned away hesitation. It twisted violently, sending acid flying in droplets. Jack ducked, but not in time. The creature struck him with a brutal backhand swipe, a foreleg catching him square in the shoulder.

  He flew. Pine needles and debris blurred around him as he hit the ground and rolled. Pain bloomed bright and hot across his shoulder. The bear-leather armor he wore took the worst of it, but not all. He landed on his side, coughing, dazed. Dirt clung to his lips. He tasted blood.

  The basilisk was already charging again, fast despite its bulk. Its claws scraped bark from tree trunks as it bore down. Jack scrambled. No time for breath. No time for doubt.

  He reached deep. Not just into muscle or mind—but into the core of himself. Where his elemental strength lay. Water magic.

  Geyser Eruption.

  Jack focused. Normally, the spell required a mark on the ground, a clear point for the water to erupt. That was how it worked. That was how he’d trained.

  But he forgot. Or maybe he simply didn’t care anymore.

  The geyser didn’t wait.

  It exploded—from the very tip of his spear.

  With a roar, the spell unleashed itself in a column of searing water. Boiling jets sprayed from the crystal tip of Aether, surging forward in a net of force and heat. The pressure knocked pine needles into the air, charred the soil, and scattered roots. Jack barely had time to roll aside as the full blast struck the basilisk head-on.

  The creature screamed. Steam billowed into the sky, blinding and thick. Through the mist, trees groaned and cracked. The glade became a battlefield of heat and sound.

  Then, silence.

  Jack gasped for air. Each breath dragged through tight lungs. His shoulders trembled. He forced himself up, wiping soot from his brow. His armor steamed, but it held.

  The basilisk slumped.

  Its great body was broken. Cracked scales smoked where the water had scalded them. One of its eyes no longer glowed. Two of its legs were twisted at odd angles. It tried to rise—shakily, pitifully—but collapsed again, jaws snapping weakly in his direction. It wasn’t dead, but the winner of their little scrap was clear.

  Jack rose to his feet. He gripped his spear like it was part of him. Every part of his body ached, but somewhere beneath that exhaustion, a sense of triumph stirred.

  He had done it. He had faced his self imposed trial.

  And he had survived.