The air shifted.
Where once the Veiled Labyrinth whispered in mournful tones, now it roared with fury. Solan stepped through the arch of Regret, its skeletal lattice groaning as it sealed behind him. The shift in atmosphere was immediate—heat, thick as iron breath, pressed against his skin.
This was Wrath.
The third Tier.
Jagged obsidian protruded from the ground in violent spirals. The walls pulsed with molten veins, as though the Labyrinth bled fire. In the distance, deep rhythmic hammering echoed—a forge unceasing, building something monstrous.
A field of broken blades stretched out before him. Every weapon impaled a corpse, some twitching, others whispering prayers in forgotten tongues. These weren't illusions. These were fallen Voidmarked, the remnants of those who failed.
Solan swallowed. His fingers grazed the inside of his coat, brushing against the worn edge of his grimoire and the weightless presence of the Forsaken Mask. Wyrm stirred.
"The Tier of Wrath feeds on fury… and punishes restraint. Here, chains break. Here, masks devour."
Solan pressed forward, boots crunching black sand. His Soulchains hummed with tension. He could feel it—this Tier wanted to break him. The Labyrinth didn't test strength alone—it tested alignment. Purpose. Control. The stronger the soul, the more violently it was tested.
His pace slowed at a slope where molten glass pooled around stone monoliths. Etched into their surfaces were runes burned by divine fire—Wrathborn glyphs. One flared to life as he passed.
Pain lanced through his shoulder. The Soulchain of Wyrm convulsed, threads of shadow peeling away from his back. A trial had begun.
Ahead, a gate of fused steel rose from the ground, reshaping itself into a snarling visage.
An ancient voice growled, deep and distorted. "You carry memory that was never yours. Step into the Forge. Prove you were worth the body you stole."
Solan inhaled through gritted teeth. The system's interface flickered faintly in his sight.
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[SYSTEM ALERT: SOUL-BRANDED GATE DETECTED]
Tier of Wrath Trial Initiated: The Blood-Forging
Objective: Survive the Foundry of Wills. Seal your soul in wrath or be unmade.
Reward: Crown Chain (Wrathbound Echo) | Soul Tempering (+1 Stability)
Warning: Tempering Failure = Chain Shatter Event
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The gate split open, and he stepped through.
The temperature intensified, searing his lungs. Chains dangled from above, each bearing remnants of flayed armor and scorched bone. Hulking silhouettes moved beyond the fog—constructs of flesh and metal, stitched by wrath itself.
The Foundry of Wills was not a battlefield—it was a crucible.
He barely dodged the first blow. A molten blade cleaved through the ground, sending sparks into his cloak. The golem was nearly three meters tall, a furnace sealed into its chest, heat distorting its outline.
Solan's hand shot up.
He didn't chant. He didn't beg.
He carved a rune mid-air with his blood—Sahr-Neveth, the Rune of Unbinding.
Veilcraft flared, igniting the symbol before his palm. A pulse of raw, destructive memory shot forward, destabilizing the creature's equilibrium. It stumbled, screeched—then adapted.
Another came. Then another.
Three Wrathbound constructs surrounded him. Their movements were deliberate, like judges passing sentence. Their only language was pain.
Wyrm surged. "Release me."
"Not yet," Solan muttered.
He didn't need Wyrm—not here. Not yet. Wrath wasn't about surrendering to the shadow. It was about control within the storm. That was the lesson.
He darted under the strike of the second golem, slashing its leg with a flicker of his Soulblade—an echo-formed dagger conjured from his tethered regrets. The golem howled, fell to one knee.
From the forge's sidewall, a new shape emerged.
Tall. Humanoid. Masked.
But this one bore a crown of smoldering chains and a voice like metal folding over fire.
The Warden of Wrath.
"I am the Iron Thane," it intoned. "You stole a dead man's flesh. Will you also steal his vengeance?"
Solan stood tall. "I have no vengeance. Only purpose."
"Lies," the Warden said. "Strike. Or burn."
Solan surged forward, rune etched across his arm. The Mask's hunger gnawed at him. His veins flared with Veilcraft as he channeled Dreth-Tamar, the Sigil of the Hollow Flame.
The floor cracked.
Flame erupted in a spiral, carving a boundary around the two of them. Wyrm shrieked with laughter. The Iron Thane raised its hammer. Veilsteel met shadowcraft.
Each impact rattled the Tier.
Chains snapped, but Solan held fast. He fought not with hatred, but with the fury of survival. The kind of fire that endured.
After a final clash, Solan's runes flared gold and bled out.
He stood above the kneeling Warden, the forge silent.
The system interface blinked.
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[Trial Complete: Soul Tempering Achieved]
Crown Soulchain Acquired: Voice of the Iron Thane
Veil Stability +2%
Chain Tempered: [Wrath] integrated. Emotional threshold unlocked: Controlled Fury
New Rune Unlocked: Yul'Kareth (Rune of Burning Will)
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The Tier trembled.
A pathway formed—stairs of obsidian leading higher. The next realm was already opening.
But behind him, the Warden's molten voice returned, softer now. "You carry the weight of flame well, Solan Maelvaran. May you not burn for it."
Solan nodded, eyes burning.
He ascended without looking back.
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Far above, in the waking world, storm clouds gathered over Eidralune. The sky wept ash. And somewhere deep within the Forbidden Towers, the seals groaned.
The world, it seemed, was remembering him.
And something else was watching.