The Abyss of Memory

The Veil had changed. Silver and violet now twisted in sharper angles, jagged streaks resembling shattered glass. The air vibrated with latent magic, a tension that pressed against Lucen’s chest, making each breath a labor. Shadows writhed unnaturally at the edges of his vision, crawling across the floating platforms that stretched endlessly into the void. The very ground beneath his feet hummed with energy, responding to thought, fear, and memory alike.
Lucen’s hands were already trembling, threads of silver and violet weaving around his fingers with a life of their own. He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind into focus. Elarin’s voice echoed from somewhere above, calm but insistent: “The Veil is not just power—it is reflection. Every shadow, every whisper, every flicker of energy mirrors a part of you. To master it, you must face what you refuse to see.”
Lucen’s chest tightened. The memory of his brother’s death surged unbidden, raw and cruel. He could feel the weight of grief pressing on his spine, sinking into his bones. He had buried it, channeled it into power, yet the Veil did not allow forgetting. Instead, it drew the memory into reality, shaping it into the first trial of the day.
From the fractured mist emerged a figure, silver-eyed and faintly glowing, yet unmistakably human: a reflection of his brother. But this version moved with unnatural precision, void of warmth, whispering words he had never wanted to hear: You could have saved me… if only…
Lucen faltered, heart hammering, threads of magic faltering for the briefest moment. The figure smirked, stepping closer, and shadows began to coil around it like serpents of darkness. A flash of violet energy licked toward him, cutting across the platform. Lucen leapt, twisting the threads of Veil energy into a defensive lattice that pulsed with controlled force, deflecting the strike. Sparks of silver and violet flared into the void, painting fractured constellations across the misted expanse.
Elarin’s voice rang clear, precise, cutting through the chaos: “Do not let memory control you. Face it. Command it. Bend it into reality, or it will shatter you.”
The figure’s voice echoed inside Lucen’s mind now, a whisper and a scream all at once: You cannot save me. You will fail again… Each word twisted the threads in his hands, destabilizing the lattice, threatening collapse. Fear and grief surged—but Lucen clenched his jaw. He would not falter. Not now. Not ever.
He cast his hands outward, silver and violet threads coiling, forming a lattice that grew dense, intricate, alive. The figure lunged, but Lucen’s lattice flared, wrapping the apparition in fractal patterns of light and shadow. The Veil responded to his intent, amplifying his control. Yet even as he stabilized, a whisper of forbidden magic teased the edges of his mind: You could undo it… bring him back… all it costs is yourself…
Lucen’s stomach churned. His pulse hammered, yet he held firm, focusing on the lattice. Every strand vibrated with his will, bending the figure, not breaking it. The reflection of his brother snarled, shifting into forms that mimicked every failure, every regret, every forgotten fear. The Veil itself seemed to respond, twisting and reshaping, molding reality into his inner turmoil.
Sweat dripped down Lucen’s face, tears threatening to fall, but he pressed on. Threads of silver and violet wrapped around the platform, lifting fragments of fractured light and shadow, weaving them into a protective cage that resonated with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every pulse, every arc, every movement became a chant of control, a silent vow to endure.
Then, the Veil shivered violently. A shadow, larger, darker, emerged from the swirling mist—the older self, watching, patient, knowing. His eyes burned with molten violet, assessing every motion, every choice, every thread of forbidden energy. Lucen felt the weight of his presence, oppressive and absolute. The older self did not speak aloud, but thoughts pressed into Lucen’s mind: You are learning… but you cling to weakness. Fear of loss will bind you before strength frees you.
Lucen’s hands shook, the lattice wavered, yet he forced the threads to respond, shaping them into something more than defense—a bridge between memory and control, light and shadow intertwined in perfect, precarious harmony. The reflection of his brother shrieked, shattering into shards of violet light, yet none dissipated entirely—they hovered, suspended, waiting for a crack in Lucen’s resolve.
Pain lanced through his arms, spine, and chest. The Veil’s threads pressed against him, almost conscious, testing the limits of his body, mind, and soul. He could feel the forbidden magic pulsing, a silent predator coiled inside him, promising a path past this trial but at an unthinkable cost. Lucen clenched his fists, forcing the lattice to expand, folding shadows into silver threads, weaving grief into purpose.
“Good,” Elarin’s voice cut through, calm but commanding. “You are bending the Veil to will, not just force. Remember this feeling—the weight, the strain, the knowledge that you could break at any moment. This is the edge of mastery.”
Another wave of shards erupted, but Lucen anticipated them, threads snapping into complex patterns, wrapping the shards in controlled spirals, dissipating their destructive force into streams of light. The Veil responded, pulsing with silent applause, yet the shadow of the older self loomed closer, ever patient, observing, evaluating.
“You are growing,” it whispered in his mind, but growth is nothing without choice. One day, you will stand at the edge… and decide if memory or mastery defines you.
Lucen’s chest heaved. He felt the pulse of forbidden magic, whispering again: Undo it. Undo it all. He could live again… if you surrender yourself. His hands ached, but he refused. Not yet. I will not falter. I will not fail. I will endure.
From the shadows, another creature emerged—a serpentine amalgamation of light, crystal, and shadow, larger than any he had faced. Its eyes gleamed with intelligence, recognizing him, analyzing him. The platform quaked as it coiled, striking, and Lucen responded, weaving arcs of silver and violet, a dance of light and shadow that bent space itself. Each strike, block, and weave was instinct, training, and instinctual understanding fused into action.
Time stretched, the Veil bending around his intent. The lattice of magic flared, consuming shards, dispersing shadows, neutralizing every strike. The older self remained, silent, watching, and for the first time, Lucen felt a sense of recognition—not fear, not anger—but inevitable confrontation looming on the horizon.
Finally, the shards, the illusions, the creatures dissolved back into the mist, leaving Lucen alone, gasping, trembling. The orb on his wrist pulsed, steady, approving, a silent heartbeat in the chaos. The Veil shimmered softly around him, fractal and infinite, as if acknowledging his resilience.
Elarin knelt beside him, hand resting on his shoulder. “You have walked the Abyss of Memory and returned. But remember: mastery is never complete. The older self watches, the forbidden whispers, and the Veil waits. Every trial leaves a mark, and every mark will shape the man you are to become.”
Lucen nodded, chest heaving, resolve burning bright. He whispered softly, a vow to himself: “I will endure. I will rise. And I will not falter… not now, not ever.”
The Veil pulsed gently in reply, infinite, patient, and unforgiving. Somewhere deep within, the older self lingered. The forbidden magic waited. The path of trials stretched endlessly forward—and Lucen was ready to walk it, step by painful step, into the abyss that would define his destiny.

---
Author’s Note:
Chapter 20 pushes Lucen into his first personal and emotionally traumatizing trial, blending grief, memory, and Veil magic. Illusions, creatures, and the shadow of the older self make the stakes palpable, while forbidden magic teases the limits of his resolve. Pain, mastery, and endurance define the edge of his isekai journey..