Echoes of the Abyssal Blade: Path to Free Will-Chapter 68: Whispers of Desire

As soon as Jonan’s foot hit the eighth step, he was startled. There was nothing to worry about. Looked like his limbs moved with no restrictions, the pressure on his body was nonexistent, as well as the invisible weight that followed behind his every step. Even reaching out with his senses in half-expectation of some presence lurking somewhere, waiting for the trap to spring, turned up no results—at least, none that revealed themselves.

Pondering about it as he scratched at his chin, Jonan mumbled under his breath, "This is weird. Why is this eighth step different from the others? No pressure... no illusions... maybe the next steps are also like this. Have I already cleared the trials? Could it really be this simple?"

There was a light chuckle in his voice. This was the first sign of relief he allowed himself since beginning this ascent. Cautiously, but with increasing confidence, he stepped onto the ninth.

And that is when everything changed.

Almost imperceptibly, the energy shifted with that moment when the ball of his foot touched the ninth step; but instead of the crushing weight of some spiritual pressure that had accompanied the previous seven, this was worse: more like something itching, almost like an intimate-but-alien feeling might be rippling through his very mind, something strange and foreign that clearly caressed his consciousness. He blinked, and everything around him began to shimmer.

He fell down.

There was a twist in the stone under his feet that made the whole environment feel illusive as it melted the initially barren corridor of prison.

And then he saw her or rather, them.

Misty forms came one after the other, stepping through the thick fog with slow, deliberate grace; he knew them to be women whose faces and bodies he had already seen before during his travels, in memories, in dreams-some-one, a few were friends, some were acquaintances, and yet some others were unknown.

The forms shimmered like mirages, clad in garments that concealed their curves imperfectly, and their eyes had that strange, unnatural allure, their dance movements were hypnotic, drawing his eyes, pulling at something primal within him.

Jonan’s breath caught in his throat, his heart raced, there was a sickeningly beautiful tempo to it all—like a performance staged specifically for him.

He tried to move, to summon his spiritual energy, to resist, but his body refused, nay his lower body refused.

It wasn’t paralyzed, but it was... captivated, every instinct of his screamed at him to look away, to retreat—but he couldn’t, their presence was overwhelming, the scent in the air sweet and cloying, laced with seduction and allure.

One of the women approached him, her face was one he knew all too well—Marla, a companion with whom he went to the front lines, and from what he remembered, he had never seen her with such an expression, nor could he imagine so.

She touched his cheek with a softness that felt too real, her lips parted, whispering his name like a breeze, .

"Jonan..."

She leaned in, her breath warm against his neck, her hands moved with confidence, with familiarity, caressing him not like a stranger but like someone who knew the exact places where he was most vulnerable.

He gasped.

Another figure stepped behind him, her fingers trailing along his spine, the gentle press of her body against his back sent a tremor through his legs. She whispered not words, but sighs—inviting, maddeningly intimate, her voice sounded like longing given form.

More women entered the illusion, dancing around him, they moved like ballerinas, but there was nothing dramatic in their movements. It was sensual, natural, a rhythm of feeling and implication. Their fingertips danced along his arms, his chest, his waist—leaving paths of heat that seared without fire.

Jonan’s breaths were faster, his heart beating in his ears. Shame engulfed him, he could never picture himself or thinking of such vile deeds, much less committing them.

The air was warmer, the curtains billowed with unperceived wind, laughter—soft, melodious—rang through the room, but it wasn’t derisive, it was indulgent, indulgent in his powerlessness.

All of the longing he had ever suppressed clawed its way to the surface, the yearning for love, for comprehension, for enjoyment, the pang of nights alone spent in quiet reflection, the shame of forbidden desire withheld, and the burning pain of a man who had starved himself too long.

A woman leaned in, her fingers gliding beneath the collar of his robe. Her touch was alive, she didn’t say a word—she didn’t need to, her eyes said welcome, abandon. Jonan’s knees wobbled.

He closed his eyes, attempting to drown it out, attempting to summon cold logic, spiritual awareness—but it was like trying to keep a flame in a tempest, his discipline was shattering, not by force, but by a thousand subtle wounds to the heart.

He felt his soul—his very being—being tempted, this wasn’t lust, this was submission. The delusions weren’t just echoing his needs—they were feeding them, growing them, blowing them out of proportion, and somewhere within the twist of seduction, he lost himself.

But then, within him, deep down, something was awake, a memory, not of a woman, but of quiet, of his pain, of why he was tracing these steps, the world flashed into nonexistence for one second, and in that second, he could barely see beyond the illusion.

He clenched his teeth, a growl escaped his throat.

Jonan pressed inward with every drop of strength he could muster, right to the burning center of his soul, letting it blow apart from within; a flash of white-hot illumination burst inside, shattering the very illusions that surrounded him.

The room heaved, and the women shrieked in pain with off-key, distorted voices as their bodies twisted, deformed, and turned monstrous.

He stepped one pace ahead—onto the tenth step.

And when his foot touched down.

The world broke.

Gone the chamber, gone the visions, when his foot rested on the tenth step, a blast of dark mist shot upwards, covering him completely, he gagged and was reeling about, and his vision was extinguished, and the air itself became lead.

Then it struck him.

A blow of spiritual force smote his chest. Not a push, nor a nudge—but a pure, unadulterated impact.

It threw him back, spinning, crashing him into the side of the stairway. His bones were screaming, pain coursed through his body.

He barely had a moment to recover when another blast followed.

This wasn’t an illusion.

It was a killing intent. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Invisible blades of force slashed at him from all sides, he rolled, dodging by instinct, each movement more desperate than the last.

Jonan’s form cracked under the pressure, and blood spattered from his lips.

There was something on this step—some presence or force that was alive and angry.

A monstrous shadow emerged from the mist, glowing red eyes peering out from a shape that didn’t follow natural geometry, it didn’t move like a creature, but like a force of nature given form. It hissed, then launched again.

Jonan threw up a barrier with his hands, barely catching the blow, and countered with a strike of his own, power surged from his palm and struck the shadow—but it only hissed louder, splitting into three smaller forms that closed in like wolves.

He fought like a cornered animal, instincts blazing, mind on fire.

By the time he rolled out, and retreated out of the mist and collapsed onto the first step—sobbing, gasping, bleeding—he realized his hands were trembling, his legs nearly gave out beneath him.

The tenth step was a pure killing field, it was not of crushing nature like before, but pure spiritual attacks, which were difficult to defend from, and Jonan was certainly not prepared to face it yet.

Jonan lay there for what felt like hours, and when he could finally move, he limped out of the prison, not minding the guards, and returned to his quarters in silence.

He was too exhausted to do anything else, his mind was thrown into chaos, he felt shame and disgust for himself, if not for that ninth step’s illusions which were too disgusting.

Then the other thoughts started to pur in.

The eighth step... it wasn’t so simple, the one that had seemed harmless, that had lulled him into a false sense of security, it hadn’t been kind, it had instead disarmed him, mentally, and emotionally, and it made him feel quite complacent.

And that was the real insidious trap.

He hadn’t seen it because there had been nothing to see.

And then he foolishly stepped on to the ninth—so suddenly and it was too intimately violating that it shattered his composure.

And finally the tenth, it was brutal, merciless, and designed to kill anyone.

Jonan clenched his fists, a quiet fury welled up inside him—not at the steps, not at the trials—but at himself, for letting his guard down, for thinking so naively.

These steps were not some simple steps, they were mirrors, each one reflecting a different fragment of his soul, which magnified his weaknesses, and exposed his fears.