Extra To Protagonist
Chapter 111 - 111: Trial (3)

They moved at the same time.

Merlin kicked off the sand first, wind curling around his boots like a second set of tendons. He didn't leap. He redirected. Air bent, legs snapped forward, and momentum screamed sideways.

The other trialer followed. Fast. Knife flashing once, then again, angles precise, posture effortless.

Their blades met in the middle of the storm like punctuation. Not elegant. Just loud.

The impact cracked across the dune. Sand exploded.

Merlin shifted immediately, water condensed from the storm's breath to slide under the next strike, pushing off it mid-swing. He twisted past the second blow, pulled space tight near his ribs, and ducked into a sidestep that shouldn't have worked on shifting terrain.

It worked anyway.

Sovereign Chain mapped the motion for him.

The blade skimmed past his collarbone. Close.

Closer than he liked.

He didn't flinch.

Wind shoved upward. He launched.

Then twisted in midair and dropped low again, landing behind the man's right side. His foot hit soft sand, then hard dune beneath. He struck once, a short jab, no waste.

The trialer blocked it with his forearm. Didn't even blink.

Merlin exhaled through grit.

'Too fast. Too clean. This guy doesn't just fight—he reads.'

Then the system pinged again.

[The Messenger adjusts their grip on the unseen thread.]

[The Grin Beneath the Mask raises the stakes.]

[The Hollow Flame flickers brighter.]

[The Chainbreaker opens one eye.]

The other trialer smiled.

"You're not bad."

Merlin didn't answer.

Just stepped into time, barely. A half-second stretch. A breath caught sideways in the second layer of movement.

He vanished.

Reappeared beside him, low.

Blade snapped across the man's side. A shallow cut. First blood.

System ping.

[Trial Update: Advantage Shifted.]

[The Spear in the Moonlight inclines her head.]

The man hissed and twisted, reversed his grip, and lunged again.

Merlin blocked.

Felt the edge press into the air between them like a warning.

Used space, not to teleport, just to bend, shifted both of them ten feet apart.

It made the storm collapse inward for a heartbeat. Just long enough to see each other clearly again.

"You're using your gifts too early," the trialer said, breathing light. "Are you worried?"

"I'm annoyed."

Wind pulled tight behind Merlin's back. He let it push him forward again. Not into a charge.

Into a rhythm.

He hit once. Twice. Then folded low, let time hitch the edge of his dodge, and came back with a third strike before the last one finished.

Sovereign Chain linked it all, movement, reaction, pressure.

The trialer blocked two. Missed the third.

More blood.

The man fell back. Wiped his cheek. Smiled wider.

Then said, "Your scroll's shaking."

Merlin paused.

Felt it.

The scroll didn't want to be still anymore.

Not humming.

Buzzing.

'It's reacting to divine tension.'

System ping.

[Scroll Integrity: Unstable]

[Multiple deities now tracking outcome simultaneously.]

[The Thread-Tenders tighten their grip.]

Merlin didn't blink.

He just adjusted his stance.

And raised the blade again.

—

The scroll burned.

Not metaphorically.

Actually.

Its edges glowed faint gold, pressed against the inside of his coat like a divine warning wrapped in wax and arrogance. Every god watching? They felt it too.

So did his opponent.

The trialer didn't talk now. No more taunts. No more smiles. Just movement.

He blurred forward, faster than before. Pressure behind every step. Sand cracking under his boots, knife already mid-swing. It didn't arc. It pierced. Like a question made of steel.

Merlin didn't dodge.

He folded time sideways.

Just a slip.

Just enough to drag the second between them into the next breath.

The blade missed.

He responded with three steps, tight as gears. A burst of wind curved behind his shoulder and redirected his weight into a full-speed lunge.

He struck.

The trialer blocked, barely.

Then they both broke apart.

Sand rose again. Thick. Hot. Blinding.

Merlin lunged back in through the dust, kicked low with wind at his ankles, and cracked a thin arc of water across the ground.

The storm caught it and turned it into steam.

The heat exploded between them.

They both moved again.

This time, not like people.

Like problems trying to cancel each other out.

Sovereign Chain burned under Merlin's skin, limb, weapon, footwork, memory, they were all feeding forward. The rhythm stopped being a pattern. It became instinct.

The scroll pulsed harder.

System pinged.

[Scroll Status: Volatile]

[Deliver within time limit or suffer divine consequence.]

[The Messenger's interest intensifies.]

[The Grin Beneath the Mask prepares to intervene.]

[The Bound Flame is disappointed. Someone should've died by now.]

[The Mirror-Twin makes a silent note.]

He ducked another strike. Felt the knife skim his shoulder, shallow cut, but clean.

Merlin snapped space around him. Not a teleport.

A fold.

Bent the field of motion. Time hitching in the fold's edge.

The trialer struck again.

Merlin wasn't there.

He dropped behind him and dragged the flat of the blade across the man's back. Sparks.

The man turned mid-pain. Stabbed back.

Merlin blocked with his forearm.

Blade cut leather.

Cut skin.

Didn't stop him.

He headbutted the trialer.

Hard.

They both stumbled.

Blood now. His. Theirs. Didn't matter.

His lungs dragged heat. His body screamed.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't.

Because the scroll was starting to fracture.

Not open.

Fracture.

A thin line of light spread down the side of the seal.

System pinged again.

[Warning: Divine Object Integrity 78%]

[Stability faltering under multi-deity observation.]

[Outcome required.]

'This ends now.'

Merlin didn't think.

He moved.

Time slipped again.

He angled into a flicker-step. Space bent in the motion. Wind kicked the sand into a curtain.

He blurred past the trialer.

One strike.

Precise.

Behind the knee.

The man dropped.

Merlin twisted.

Second strike. Across the ribs.

Wind-assisted.

The man gasped in pain, breath, failure.

Merlin spun once.

Last motion.

End.

Flat of the blade cracked against the man's skull.

He went down.

Hard.

Didn't get up.

The scroll pulsed once.

Strong.

Then steady.

System pinged.

[Enemy incapacitated.]

[Scroll status: Stable.]

[Advantage secured.]

[The Messenger exhales.]

[The Thread-Tenders loosen their grip.]

[The Grin Beneath the Mask says nothing.]

Merlin stood still.

Dust in his throat.

Blood down his sleeve.

But breathing.

Still holding the scroll.

Still walking.

And the gods?

They weren't bored anymore.

—

His legs hurt.

Not sharp pain.

The kind that seeped into the bone. Slow. Inevitable. The kind that whispered, he'll regret this if he survives.

Which he wasn't sure about yet.

The storm had calmed.

Not cleared.

Just… pulled back. Like a curtain being drawn by something that wanted to watch the final act more clearly.

The scroll pulsed quietly against his ribs.

Not urgent.

Just aware.

He didn't need the system to tell him he was close.

But it did anyway.

[Target Location: 2.3 km Ahead]

[Direction: Northeast]

[Stability of Divine Seal: 84%]

[The Messenger waits.]

He didn't say anything.

His throat was full of dust and dried blood, and there was no one to hear it anyway.

The sand dragged underfoot.

Too deep to walk easy.

Too shallow to fall through.

The wind didn't howl anymore.

It whispered.

Every so often, he caught it.

Voices.

Not clear.

Not his.

A dozen gods, breathing in the same desert heat, watching through his eyes.

No pressure, right?

The tower came into view slowly.

It wasn't grand.

It wasn't shining.

It looked like someone had stabbed a broken needle into the heart of the desert and walked away.

Stone. No door. No windows.

Just height. Sharp. Ancient.

And one slot in the center.

Scroll-sized.

Of course.

Merlin stopped ten paces from it.

Breathing shallow.

Hands shaking.

The trialer behind him hadn't moved.

Either unconscious or smart enough to play dead.

The system pinged.

[Deliver the scroll.]

[Touch only the seal.]

[Do not speak.]

He stepped forward.

Pulled the scroll from his coat.

It burned hotter now.

Not dangerously.

Just… final.

He held it in both hands.

Looked at it once.

The wax shimmered.

The sigil of The Messenger pulsed once, gold and silver. Then stilled.

He pressed it into the slot.

It clicked.

Stone pulled inward like it was breathing.

Then—

[Trial Complete.]

[The Messenger has received your message.]

[The other gods fall quiet.]

He stood there.

Not relieved.

Just…

Still.

Then came the final ping.

[You have earned the Favor of The Messenger.]

[New Skill Unlocked: Pathless Step.]

[Title Gained: Apostolic Courier (Dormant)]

[Achievement: Through Flame, Dust, and Teeth.]

Merlin didn't smile.

He couldn't.

But the pain in his legs felt a little lighter.

And the sky above him?

Just a little brighter.

—

The tower didn't move again.

No thunder. No flash. No congratulatory theme music.

Just silence.

Merlin exhaled once, slow and deep. His ribs ached. His coat stuck to his back with sweat and blood and divine judgment.

Then someone cleared their throat.

Behind him.

Casual.

Polite.

Like a barista asking for your name on a cup.

Merlin didn't turn.

He already knew.

"You're late," he said.

Hermes stepped into view anyway.

Not glowing. Not winged.

Just there.

Dark suit, open collar, no tie. Hair slicked back in that way that made it look like time avoided him out of respect.

His eyes were sharp. Gold, or silver, or neither, depending on how annoyed you were.

"You're alive," Hermes said, gesturing vaguely at the trail of chaos behind him. "So I'll call that punctual."

Merlin turned.

Only barely.

"You watched the whole thing."

"Of course. It's my trial."

"You dropped me in a sandbox with a death worm, a thief, and a melting scroll."

Hermes smiled, wide.

"You're welcome."

Merlin stared.

Then, "You're insufferable."

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