On the rocky western coastline of the Seventeenth Continent, the crashing of the ocean waves was entirely drowned out by the waves of hostile intruders.

An Extradimensional Rift hovered violently over the churning water, tearing a jagged hole in the sky. Gorak stood at the absolute edge of the coastal cliffs, stationed at Sector Seven on Red’s classified directive. The strict orders were to maintain a permanent blockade and hunt down the migrating apex predators before they could threaten the capital.

Right now, the rift was bleeding. Boiling particles poured from the spatial tear, followed closely by a swarm of subterranean wyverns and ash-scaled dragons. The beasts shrieked, snapping their jaws as they poured into the Vanguard’s territory.

Once again, Gorak cracked his thick knuckles, stepping ahead of the defensive trench line to face the draconic incursion alone. He lowered his stance, fully prepared to batter the first diving wyvern to death with his bare hands.

Just as he braced for the impact, the Sovereign’s blessing struck.

The Divine Conduit surged through the spiritual tether connecting him to Red. Gorak didn’t even have time to register the sudden influx of magic. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and his massive, bone-plated body collapsed into the coastal dirt like a felled oak tree, plunging instantly into the required spiritual slumber.

The leading wyverns shrieked in delight, folding their leathery wings to dive straight toward the unconscious Warlord.

High above in the sanctuary, Red watched the disastrous timing unfold through his interface. He couldn’t abort the trial once it started, but he didn’t need a system menu to protect his most fanatical commander. Reaching through his divine connection, Red projected his voice directly into the minds of the local defense swarm.

[ Trinity Hive. Secure the Warlord. Let nothing touch him. ]

Down on the coastline, the Vanguard’s darkest contingency responded instantly.

Before the wyverns could sink their claws into Gorak’s vulnerable flesh, the surrounding cliff face conceptually detonated. A literal tidal wave of chitin, scythe-like appendages, and clicking mandibles poured out of the coastal caves. Hundreds of Red’s heavily mutated Hive crawlers threw themselves over the unconscious Warlord.

They formed a living, impenetrable dome of armor and rage over Gorak’s body. As the larger Hive beasts spewed corrosive acid into the sky to force the dragons back toward the rift, a legion of worker-strains hoisted Gorak’s immense weight onto their armored backs. Moving with synchronized efficiency, the swarm rapidly carried the Warlord away from the frontline, retreating into a highly fortified coastal bunker to protect him until he awoke.

As his physical body was dragged safely into the dark, Gorak’s consciousness plunged into the trial.

The pristine white void fractured the moment he stepped into it.

The Warlord felt the damp, freezing chill of the deep caverns replace the emptiness of the spiritual plane. The suffocating stench of rusted iron and stagnant water filled his lungs. He looked down and found his heavy boots sinking into wet mud on the shores of a sprawling black lake.

Suddenly, a horrific, yet familiar scream tore through the cavern.

Gorak turned his head. A short distance away, the water violently erupted. The Moon-Crazed Hydra rose from the depths, its pale scales glowing with a sickly luminescence. Its massive jaws snapped shut with the sound of a falling guillotine, biting a phantom image of Uncle Vark entirely in half. Boiling green acid spilled from the beast’s maw, hissing against the cavern floor and melting the solid rock into bubbling slag.

"Run!" a desperate voice roared.

Warrior Grog stepped directly into the monster’s path. Gorak’s father raised his chipped iron hammer, planting his boots in the mud to shield a tiny, terrified seven-year-old boy cowering behind him.

Gorak stood motionless, watching the exact recreation of the trauma that had defined his entire life. The trial had dragged his deepest nightmare out of his soul to test him.

But the Warlord did not tremble.

He felt a brief pang of sorrow seeing his father again, but the Pale Doom itself elicited absolutely no fear.

How could it?

Every single day in Bastion, Gorak walked straight through the gaping jaws of this exact monster just to enter the Temple of the Spiral. Red had butchered this supposed God-Tier Calamity for basic building materials. The myth of the Hydra was thoroughly broken.

"You are just a ghost," Gorak rumbled, stepping forward. "My Sovereign already turned your skull into a doorway."

As if challenged by his arrogance, the trial shifted. The phantom Hydra ignored the cowering child and Grog. All three of its heads swiveled simultaneously, locking their glowing eyes onto the adult Gorak.

The beast lunged, moving with a speed that defied its massive bulk.

This time, Gorak didn’t even blink an eye. He planted his feet, roared a battle cry, and threw a devastating right hook to meet the central head.

His bone-plated fist slammed into the Hydra’s snout. The kinetic impact shattered the monster’s jaw, sending a shockwave echoing across the black lake. But the beast did not fall. It was a conceptual manifestation of his past, not a creature of flesh and blood.

The shattered bone instantly reformed, and the Hydra retaliated by unleashing a torrent of boiling green acid point-blank.

Gorak crossed his arms to block. The pain was immediate and absolute. The acidic breath washed over his body, sizzling and popping as it rapidly ate through his impenetrable bone-plating.

He was forced backward, his boots carving deep trenches into the mud.

’Brute strength is not working,’ Gorak realized, gritting his teeth against the searing agony.

He threw another heavy punch, caving in the beast’s ribcage, but the monster simply regenerated and lashed out with a sweeping tail strike that knocked him to his knees.

Gorak gasped for air, his vision swimming. He looked past the towering monster and saw the phantom image of his father still holding the chipped hammer. Grog had used raw physical strength to fight this beast twenty years ago, and he had been reduced to red paste against the rocks for his efforts.

The trial wasn’t testing his courage. It was testing his evolution. If he fought exactly like his father, relying only on muscle and bone, he would die exactly like his father.

’How did I survive?’ Gorak asked himself, staring up at the cavern ceiling as the Hydra reared back for an executing strike.

"How do I defeat something that is already dead and cannot be killed? What is going on? Has the Spiral abandoned me for my incompetence of not being able to help and serve him? Am I being punished for my arrogant actions?"