Izen didn't scream.
When the mirror cracked, when the world bent and time groaned like a dying beast, when the floor fell inward and the room turned itself inside out—he didn't scream. He watched. With every nerve peeled open and humming, he watched the spiral of fractured light collapse around him.
And when he landed, he was already standing.
His boots struck rough stone.
The chamber was gone. Or changed. Or both. The Echo Spire no longer pulsed green—it bled red. Faint veins of light trickled from the cracks in the ceiling like spider-silk arteries, illuminating the cave-like arena around him. Carved statues lined the walls, each one a robed figure with no face.
Each held a blade pointed downward.
And Izen was no longer alone.
The first enemy came without warning.
One moment, the air was empty. The next, it tore open. A shape lunged through—black-cloaked, dagger-first, silent as a slit throat. Izen moved on instinct, ducking low, palm flashing upward to strike the attacker's wrist mid-swing. The dagger clattered to the floor. The enemy didn't falter.
He simply reached for another.
Fast. Unreasonably so.
No hesitation, no breath wasted. A real assassin.
This wasn't a student.
This was a test.
Izen drove his elbow into the man's ribs and twisted sideways, grabbing the discarded dagger as he spun. With a breath, he buried the blade deep into the attacker's thigh and kicked him off. The figure didn't scream. He simply dropped, rolled, and vanished into shadow.
Another tore out of the wall behind him.
Two now.
No—three.
They poured from the dark like phantoms. Uncloaked. Masked. Armed. Every strike was meant to kill. No bruises. No warnings. They weren't here to teach him.
They were here to see if he'd live.
Izen darted sideways, slamming his shoulder into the nearest statue to redirect his momentum. A blade grazed his forearm. Cold fire surged through the skin. He ignored it. Another came at him from above. He dove into a slide, legs scissoring out to trip one attacker before sweeping back to his feet with the stolen dagger in hand.
It was war now.
Not survival.
His mind opened again.
The way it always did.
He calculated.
The fourth attacker came in high, feinting left. Izen sidestepped—but not away. Into the man's range. He caught the man's collar, slammed him against the stone, and broke his knee with a ruthless heel drop.
Crack.
No scream.
Still no scream.
This wasn't pain.
This was ritual.
The chamber pulsed again.
Something shifted.
And for the first time, Izen felt it—not the fight, but the beat beneath it. A rhythm. A timing. Every enemy was striking on a thread of sound, a tempo just slightly off normal breath. He adjusted without thinking.
One breath too soon.
One strike too late.
And they missed.
He turned a pivot into a slash, carving across another's face. A mask split in half. Red gushed from the cheek beneath. The man stumbled. Izen didn't finish him. He pivoted again, slamming an elbow into another's temple. Then a roll, a leap, a stab to the throat.
One down.
Finally.
It hit him like a wave.
The first death.
Not in theory. Not in lesson. But in body. In blood. The weight of the corpse at his feet settled into his lungs like smoke.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he whispered to himself:
"One."
The others paused.
Only for a second.
It was enough.
Izen flung a loose dagger with precise rotation, striking one attacker in the shoulder. The man faltered. Izen lunged forward and ripped the blade out with a jerk, then plunged it into the neck.
Blood sprayed.
"Two."
Only two remained now.
Both circled him like hounds that had tasted ash instead of meat. The glow from the cracks had dimmed. The room tightened. The statues seemed closer.
The rhythm had changed.
And Izen heard it.
Not with ears.
But through his bones.
The last two struck in perfect unison.
Their blades sung in tandem, arcing from left and right. Izen ducked one, stepped into the other. Pain lanced across his side. He caught the wrist mid-strike, twisted, and slammed his head into the man's jaw.
Crack.
Then—he reversed the grip.
Stabbed.
"Three."
The last hesitated.
Just a flicker.
Izen didn't.
He surged forward and tackled the figure against the wall, forcing the air from his lungs. The assassin struck back hard—elbow to face, knee to thigh, fists blinding and brutal.
But Izen was faster now.
Not in speed.
In timing.
He caught the wrist, then the elbow, then spun the figure into a chokehold and locked it.
A gurgle.
A gasp.
Then—silence.
"Four."
Breathless, bleeding, shaking slightly, Izen stood alone once again.
His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.
He hadn't just survived.
He'd learned.
Above him, something opened.
A circle of red light bled into the ceiling.
Then—a voice.
Not spoken aloud.
But deep, like a whisper pressed against the inside of his skull.
"You are beginning to listen."
The floor shifted again.
Not a drop this time.
A lift.
He rose through the ceiling into another room—one made entirely of glass and steel. Clean. Modern. Cold. The echo of blood still clung to his skin, but the chamber didn't care.
Across from him sat the Archivist.
Waiting.
No chair.
Just stillness.
"Good," the man said without smiling. "Your heartbeat is... different."
Izen narrowed his eyes. "You sent them to kill me."
"No," the Archivist replied. "They were already dead."
He tilted his head. "What you killed were echoes. Slices of lives that once existed. They weren't fighting you. They were fighting the memory of death."
Izen didn't believe him.
But he didn't question it either.
Because something had changed.
In the timing.
In the pause between movements.
In the way his mind now drifted just half a second ahead.
Not fully.
But... enough.
"I felt it," Izen said, low. "The rhythm. Like they were moving to it."
The Archivist nodded. "The Breath of Hours. You touched it, barely. You will not again—not yet. But the door is open."
He stepped forward and handed Izen a long case.
Wood. Polished. Ancient.
"Take it," the Archivist said. "Lesson Two begins at dusk."
Then he was gone.
Alone again, Izen opened the case.
Inside was a weapon.
Not a blade.
Not a gun.
A stopwatch.
Old.
Tarnished silver.
Its face cracked but still intact.
When he touched it, it clicked.
Once.
And for a split second—less than a breath—the entire world around him stilled.
He didn't move.
Didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
He just closed the box again.
And whispered to the void,
"I'm not ready to use you. But I will be."