Chapter 43

The Infernal stares at me. He doesn’t speak. The fire in his eyes dims for half a heartbeat as he watches the ember hovering over my palm.

For the first time, the room goes completely silent.

Then the Infernal snaps back. Anger floods the mirrors, turning every reflection into a scowl.

“Do this then. This is the trial.”

He waves a claw, and the cube vanishes. In its place, a pillar of interlocking gears appears, spinning faster the longer I stare. Each gear is covered in hooked runes and nested locks. The Infernal sneers.

“Unbind the gears and unlock the rod at the center. Fail and you die.”

I don’t wait. I send the Grimoire in. My mana slips past the hooks, finds every hidden release, and I break down the sequence. I pull the rod free with one twist.

The gears fall away. The Infernal’s mouth snaps shut.

“Alright, that was just a warm up. This is the

real

trial.”

He tries again. A puzzle of shifting tiles appears next—each tile covered in symbols that twist and writhe.

“Align the glyphs. Miss once and the whole thing explodes.”

I let my mana flow over the puzzle. The solution forms in my head before he’s finished talking. I move the tiles into place, one after the other, every piece snapping into alignment.

Tiles vanish. The Infernal’s voice goes tight. “You little—”

He doesn’t finish.

“

ALRIGHT

.

THIS IS THE REAL, REAL TRIAL

.”

The tiles turn into a spiked sphere, orbiting a crystal heart.

“Disarm the core. Don’t trigger the spikes.”

I pulse the Grimoire, scan the sphere, and slide the spikes back into their sockets.

I pull the heart out and hold it up.

The Infernal’s eyes go wide. The anger fades. What’s left is raw disbelief.

“You cheated,” he snarls. “No mortal solves the puzzle that fast. You must have gotten lucky. Very well, little wretch. You passed all the children’s test. Let’s see if you can survive the real, ultimate, true trial.”

He doesn’t give me time to answer. The cube vanishes, and another shape forms in the air. This time it’s a tangle of interlocked rings, each one spinning in a different direction, each ring covered in runes and spikes. In the center, a black core throbs with light. Runes crawl over the surface, shifting every time I blink.

“This is the trial for adults,” the Infernal says, voice cold and sharp. “Solve it, or

die

.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I don’t bother with the drama. I pulse the Grimoire, let it scan every moving part, every rune, every trap hidden in the rings. The solution comes up before the Infernal can even finish his threat.

I send my mana in, split it six ways, hit the fail-safes, and push the core out. The rings freeze. The core pops free and floats into my hand. The whole trial lasts less than a minute.

The Infernal’s mouth opens. He doesn’t speak. His eyes track the core, then jump to my face, then back to the puzzle.

I let the black core and the ember float side by side above my palm. I meet his glare and do not blink.

He tries to say something, but the words die in his throat.

He paces, horns scraping the ceiling, shadows whirling behind him. Then he spins on me.

“What are you?” he demands. “You’re not an Infernal. You’re not even trained in our ways. How did you do that? Nobody does that. Not even my own blood.”

“How do you know I’m a miner?” I ask, confused.

“That’s your first question?” the shadow looks at me in disbelief. “Your

Skills

, idiot.”

“You can read my Skills?” I frown.

The Infernal’s horns twitch. He looks almost insulted.

“Not all of them, but every shadow in this room can see what you carry. It’s written on your mana. You’re still just a miner, even if you dress yourself up in my people’s power.”

I squeeze the black core, rolling it in my palm.

“So, what’s the reward? I didn’t know secret rooms would be this easy. Is this, like… like, what’s the hardest a room can get?”

* * *

King Baalrek watches the boy, studying every twitch and gesture. The puzzles lie broken on the floor, every trap unraveled and every challenge turned to dust. Jacob stands in the center, sweat on his brow but not a hint of fear in his eyes.

No mortal solves those tests like this

, Baalrek thinks.

Not without training. Not without centuries at the forge or the pyre. His hands don’t even tremble. He moves through the trials as if he’s done this a hundred times. It isn’t right.

King Baalrek keeps his stance wide, letting the heat pulse off his body. He stares down at the mortal who broke every trial without hesitation, a mortal who refuses to kneel or ask for mercy.

He has no idea what kind of feat he has just accomplished. He has some Skill, I suspect. A bloodline, perhaps. But a Skill is more likely. Something profoundly

ancient

. And whatever he got, it merged with him perfectly. Even if someone finds a great Skill, it doesn’t always fit the person. This boy here, instead, has been ordained by fate.

This insolence should have earned death, yet something in King Baalrek refuses to crush it. He feels the old code waking up in him, the law that binds every true Infernal king.

This one stands as if he owns the place

, King Baalrek thinks.

He acts as if the system was meant for him. There is no terror in him. There is only defiance. He’s the spitting image of the best of my kind.

He feels the old urge to crush the challenger, to teach him humility, but the fire cools as he watches. The boy’s attitude grates, but it’s familiar.

This is how Infernals act, Baalrek reminds himself. We do not bow to anyone—not to fate, not to gods, not even to death.

King Baalrek studies every line of Jacob’s face, searching for trickery or fear, but he finds only the hard edge of pride. There is no Skill signature he recognizes. There is no sign of forbidden magic, only a stubborn will that mirrors his own kind.

If the system wants to cheat its rules, then I will answer as a king should.

King Baalrek raises his voice so that it shakes every wall.

“You have met every test, mortal. You did not break. You did not beg. There is worth in that. ”

He draws fire and shadow into his hand, forging a shape from his own authority. The chamber bends to his will. The glass hums with the weight of his presence.

King Baalrek does not smile. He does not look away.

“You will receive a reward. I am King Baalrek, and I do not break my word. You have earned it, not because you are clever, not because you are strong, but because you stood here and spat in the face of every death I promised you.”

He lets the fire settle into a single point, the shadow folding around it.

A piece of infernal power, shaped by an ancient king’s hand.