Extra To Protagonist
Chapter 110 - 110: Trial (2)

The dune dropped away like a trapdoor to hell.

Merlin didn't jump.

He slipped.

Deliberate.

Sand shifted under his boots and gravity took over. He let it.

The trialer followed, his knife was low, balance perfect, cloak snapping like a flag of impending violence.

Merlin twisted mid-slide, heel carving into the slope. The scroll buzzed under his coat like it knew it was being hunted.

He reached.

Not for his blade.

For the air.

Wind bent under his hand, curved behind him, and shoved him just enough to push his body sideways into a tighter line. The trialer's slash skimmed past him by inches, throwing sparks off a hidden blade.

'That would've gone through a lung.'

[The Messenger is eating grapes.]

[They like your form. Your enemy's is better.]

Merlin gritted his teeth. "Stop heckling me."

The trialer flicked forward again, this time not a stab. A grab.

Straight for the scroll.

Merlin let go of wind and snapped time.

Just a touch.

The slide slowed briefly, only for him.

Not for them.

They lurched past him like gravity forgot they were invited to this fight. Merlin hooked a foot around their ankle mid-skid and twisted. Hard.

The trialer went tumbling, rolled once, then snapped upright again like it was choreographed.

Too fast.

'Space. Buy room.'

He reached left and cut the air. Just a ripple, no teleport. Not here. Just distortion.

The sand folded, collapsing in on itself like it forgot how to dune.

They had to redirect.

A second to breathe.

Merlin turned, hand behind his back, drew water from the condensation in the air, enough for a blade-thin whip and cracked it forward.

It caught the edge of the trialer's cloak.

Pulled.

They stumbled mid-slide.

But recovered too fast.

Their dagger cut the water in half, their boots hit rock under the slope, and they surged forward again with no wasted motion.

'They're better on this terrain than I am.'

Then the worm roared.

Again.

Close.

The whole dune shook.

Sand shifted beneath both of them, more fall than slide now.

They hit a slope of compacted earth just as the beast breached behind them. Its jaws cracked the sky, all teeth and hate.

[The Messenger offers a wager.]

["Will you lose the scroll, or your pride?"]

Merlin answered by grabbing time again, not to freeze it, he couldn't do that. He just dulled the edges.

Motion blurred.

Perception sharpened.

He saw the trialer pivot.

Another reach for the scroll.

He let them get close.

Then, space.

A blink.

Not a full teleport. Not even a jump.

Just a bend, half a meter of sideways reality to the left.

Their hand passed through where he was.

He was already past them.

Slide slowed.

Slope flattened.

They hit the base of the dune.

Dust cloud rose.

Both still upright.

The scroll, still intact.

The worm shrieked from above.

And the next dune shifted.

Merlin didn't speak.

Didn't taunt.

He just looked up at the trialer, who stared back from behind their mask.

Still poised.

Still hungry.

And this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

—

Merlin didn't feel it at first.

The fight had drained the noise from the world, just breath and heartbeat and pressure.

Then came the shift.

Not from behind.

From above.

He looked up.

And the sky was gone.

What replaced it wasn't a cloud. It was a wall.

A writhing curtain of sand miles wide, rolling forward like the atmosphere had decided visibility was overrated.

The masked trialer turned too.

Even they hesitated.

Merlin muttered, "Tell me that's not the weather."

The system pinged.

Late. As usual.

[Environmental Shift: Level 5 Sandstorm Detected]

[Visibility: Critical]

[Breathability: Hostile]

[Progress Delay: Likely]

[The Messenger thinks this will be fun.]

Of course he does.

The wind screamed first.

No slow buildup.

Just violence.

Merlin yanked his coat collar over his mouth, dropped to a crouch, and angled his body away from the incoming death.

The masked trialer vanished.

Not literally.

Just gone from view.

The dust hit like a wave of knives.

Air became razor-thick. Vision dropped to zero.

Breathing? Optional. And overrated.

Merlin ducked low, dropped into a half-run, and pulled wind tight around his shoulders. Not to fly. Just to push.

Push the storm's edge away from his face long enough to move.

The scroll pulsed against his chest.

Still warm.

Still whole.

'You'd better be worth this.'

Sand pelted his side. Particles moved like bullets.

Every step was a guess.

Sovereign Chain kicked in, movement prediction went dark.

Too much noise.

The storm was eating his patterns. No feedback. No clean motion. No rhythm.

He slowed.

Not stopped.

Just slowed.

Focus shifted.

'Use water. Humidity. Find pressure pockets.'

He exhaled.

Slid one palm into the grit.

Sensed the flow.

The dunes moved like lungs, breathing too fast, too wide.

He turned left.

Ran again.

Blind.

Somewhere behind him, the worm shrieked again. Closer. Then farther. Then… nothing.

Either it got buried.

Or it started swimming.

'Neither's good.'

[The Messenger offers a tip: "Try not to die."]

[Their tone is… playful.]

Merlin grit his teeth.

"Next time I see you," he growled, "I'm delivering your own scroll back into your smug mouth."

No reply.

Of course.

The wind rose again.

This time with shape.

Not sand.

Not a worm.

A figure.

Moving ahead.

No, toward him.

Fast.

No mask.

No cloak.

New.

Another trialer.

Fantastic.

—

He didn't see the man.

He heard him.

A voice, clean and clear through the chaos, like it didn't belong to this storm at all.

"Hey," it called out. "You're Merlin, right?"

That was the first red flag.

Not because of the name.

Because of the tone.

Calm. Friendly.

Like someone casually asking if you dropped your wallet while holding a knife behind their back.

Merlin didn't stop moving.

Didn't answer.

The storm was too thick to see far, but the man didn't care. He walked straight into view. Tall. Hood half-up. Smile easy. Clothes too clean for this much sand.

That was the second red flag.

"Hold up," the guy said, lifting one hand in a nonthreatening wave. "I'm not your enemy."

"Uh-huh."

Merlin kept his hand near his belt. No blade drawn. Not yet.

Wind wrapped around his wrist. Soft. Ready.

The guy stepped closer, slow, as if sand wasn't trying to flay them both alive.

"I'm from your faction," he said. "Hermes sent me."

Merlin blinked behind his makeshift scarf.

'Hermes sent me…huh.'

That was bold.

Not technically impossible.

Just… laughably stupid.

"Did he now," Merlin said, dry as bone.

"Yeah. Yeah. There's been a shift in the route. He wanted you to pass the scroll to me—said your odds would improve if you split off now."

Merlin stared at him through a wall of dust.

He even smiled a little.

"Cool. What's the name of the trial?"

The man's smile didn't waver.

He hesitated for half a second.

Then said, "Errant Courier."

Merlin's grin sharpened.

"Wrong."

The man blinked.

Merlin's hand moved.

Wind cracked sideways, slicing a burst of sand upward, right into the liar's face.

He stumbled.

Merlin lunged.

Boots dug into the dune. Left hand shot forward. Water condensed mid-air from the storm's breath, dense, sharp, needle-thin. He sent it at the man's thigh, forcing him to shift balance.

The guy dodged. Barely.

No panic.

Too smooth.

A blade flicked out from under his coat.

"So," the man said, blinking through grit, "you're not that easy."

[The Messenger is grinning.]

[They like when their apostle bites back.]

Merlin didn't respond.

He circled once, fast.

Then paused.

"You're not with Hermes," he said flatly.

"Obviously," the man replied. "He doesn't have taste."

That did it.

Merlin moved first.

—

The storm didn't fade.

It thickened.

Grains of sand ground against his coat, hissing in every seam, dragging heat and pressure through his lungs like punishment.

The trialer stood ten paces away.

Too clean.

Too still.

Still smiling like this wasn't a fight, like it was a ritual.

Merlin didn't move yet.

His fingers twitched near the edge of the scroll, where divine hum pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Then came the system.

Not his system.

Theirs.

[The Messenger crosses one leg over the other.]

[They hum a tune only ghosts remember.]

[They are watching you very closely.]

[The Spear in the Moonlight scowls.]

[She disapproves of games.]

[The Golden Flame scoffs.]

[The Thread-Tenders pause.]

[They do not cut. Yet.]

[The Shadow That Judges offers nothing. But their gaze is heavy.]

[The Tempest Father mutters.]

[The Twin Mask laughs.]

[The Whisper in the Depths leans in. Closer. Still closer.]

Merlin inhaled slowly through grit.

He didn't scream.

Didn't react.

Just muttered, "Great. Pantheon's here. Hope someone brought snacks."

The trialer stepped forward.

Sand shifted under his boot like it knew he didn't belong here.

"You're lucky," the man said, voice light. "Most don't get a full audience. You're entertaining for them."

Merlin tilted his head. "What's your god's title?"

The man smiled wider.

"The Grin Beneath the Mask."

Of course.

A trickster. Not the trickster. But close enough to smell of bad deals and prettier lies.

"I'm supposed to kill you," the man added, casual. "But if you just drop the scroll, we can call it a tie."

"Sure," Merlin said. "And then I'll walk into the sandstorm with a target on my back and a divine laugh track following me. Hard pass."

The air bent slightly.

Tension snapped into place like a drawn bow.

[The Messenger lifts an eyebrow.]

[They whisper to the wind. It does not carry your answer.]

[The Hollow Flame makes a small wager: "He will flinch first."]

[The Huntress does not wager. She just watches your stance.]

The trialer rolled his wrist. A thin blade flicked into his fingers, dark, curved, stained at the hilt.

"This is the part where we fight."

"No," Merlin said, "this is the part where you lose."

The storm answered.

The gods leaned in.

And both of them moved.