No! I don't want to be a Super Necromancer!

Seven.

They stood as one, and the platform responded.

The golden step pulsed with light, and that light spread outward in a perfect circle, forming a halo that rose into the air and then descended upon them like a curtain of stars.

The moment it touched them, they stiffened.

The powerful golden aura sank deeply into their flesh, their bones and their very souls.

The staircase had tested their strength, their resolve and their ability to adapt, and had found them worthy.

And now, it rewarded them.

Each of them was pulled into a private space, a suspended moment carved from eternity itself.

There, the legacy offered them not just treasure and tools, but also transformation.

Nyxara found herself drifting in a void of glass and shadow, surrounded by reflections of herself, each one wearing a different mask, a different identity she had used to survive the brutal hierarchy of the drow.

In the center floated a single mask, blank and featureless. When she placed it on her face, her own shadow whispered back: "Only when you are unhidden will others dare to follow."

She was granted the Veil of Absolute Reversal, a forbidden technique that allowed her to convert enemy attacks into power, but only by stripping away her protective disguises and baring her core to the battlefield.

Sylea stood in a storm of wind and falling petals, each petal a memory of an opponent she had outmaneuvered. The storm asked her nothing. It simply flowed. She surrendered to it, and in doing so, became part of it. Her reward was the Gale Echo Talisman, an artifact that allowed her to mirror her opponents' techniques for one breath, replaying the intent and motion with perfect clarity.

Thalvia faced a hundred iron versions of herself, each one wielding a different shield, a different excuse. They fought her until only one remained, herself, barehanded, eyes hard and steady. She gained the Iron Sovereign Sigil, a defensive technique that made her body impervious for a single breath, but only if she stood absolutely still, trusting her resolve alone.

Vathrian stood in a corridor of broken crowns, each one forged from ambition and betrayal. A voice offered him power, but only if he shared it. He refused. It laughed and gave it to him anyway, with a curse. He was granted the Chain of Binding Shadows, a tool for mental domination and suppression, but each use required him to open his mind to the target, exposing his own fears.

The other two drow received gifts as well, one a refinement of spiritual sight, the other a hidden domain technique. They said nothing when the light faded from their eyes, but the subtle power around them told of the transformation.

Damien found himself on an infinite staircase again, surrounded by a thousand versions of himself, some broken, some radiant, some monstrous, some weeping. Each one asked him the same question:

"Why do you keep climbing?"

He never answered. He only walked.

At the end of the staircase, a mirror stood. It showed not his face, but everything he could become, devourer of fate, lord of silence, tyrant of time, savior of the ashes. When he reached out, the mirror shattered, and its shards embedded themselves in his chest.

He gained the Deathlight Mantle, a Sovereign Concept Seed: Temporal Annihilation, an evolution of his fused death-lightning-time-space core. His energy could now erase more than flesh. It could devour memories. Memories of their lives, their skills, and their spells, unmaking not just lives, but legacies.

"Yet another upgrade to my power." Damien said softly. "This time more utility than sheer attacking force. But… Good enough."

When Damien opened his eyes again, the platform felt different beneath his feet. Calmer. As if it recognized him now as something more than a traveler.

And beside him, Lyrisa stirred.

Her awakening had been quieter, but no less profound.

She had not faced a battlefield or a storm. She had stood in a forest of fallen scimitars, each one whispering a fragment of a forgotten song. She had danced through the memories of those who had fought before her, watching, learning, matching her rhythm to their regrets. When a spirit offered her its blade, she refused. She gave her own instead.

And so she was gifted the Scimitar Echo: Legacy of the Moonveil Dancer—a divine-path technique that allowed her every motion to echo through time, unleashing ghostly afterimages of previous strikes, summoning illusions of herself from past moments to fight beside her.

It was not duplication. It was memory turned weapon.

But she also gained something deeper, The Fox and the Rabbit Principle. A passive bond-imprint formed through her synchronized journey beside Damien. When near him, she could move in perfect harmony with his aura, gain his resistances, and even channel fragments of his death energy in critical moments.

As she returned to herself, still holding his arm, she smiled softly.

"The rewards are very customized." She remarked in an amused voice.

"I gather you've got some good stuff?" Damien replied.

"Very good indeed." Lyrisa smiled and snuggled closer to Damien.

At that moment, the golden step pulsed again.

A pillar of light descended from above, clean, warm, inevitable.

It touched all of the remaining drow, including those waiting below the 1000 steps, wrapping them in golden ribbons that tightened gently, lifting their feet from the ground. There was no struggle. No resistance. The light had made its choice.

They were being summoned.

Transported.

To the next trial.

The final one.

The light dissolved, replaced by void.

Then, the void spun, folding in on itself like paper burning inward. The platform beneath them vanished, and the chaos of the trial was replaced by something utterly different.

They now stood in a colossal expanse of golden clouds, floating beneath a night sky that pulsed with astral lines and slowly spinning celestial gears. The clouds themselves glowed with ethereal energy, dotted with colossal statues of faceless gods, each one crumbling but still majestic.

Pillars rose from the mists, holding up nothing, and a massive throne loomed in the distance, half-formed and cracked, its surface etched with shifting runes that refused to stay still.

The air thrummed with resonance, as if the entire place were alive and watching them.

Then a voice descended, not in sound, but directly into their minds.

"You who have reached the Final Convergence, hear the decree of JerAxle's Will."

"This is the Trial of Plundered Luck. Here, my ancient fate seeded across ten thousand worlds converges into one battlefield."

"You are not alone. Others have risen in other places, through other paths. You will now compete for my inheritance."

"The one who commands the most ancient luck shall receive JerAxle's full inheritance and become the Vessel of the Throne."

"The rules are simple. Seize. Withstand. Devour. Kill. Rise."

The voice fell silent.

And the golden clouds began to shift.

From every direction, lights emerged. Portals of violet flame. Golden beams. Cracks in space.

Others were coming.

And the final war for JerAxle's legacy had begun.