Dawn broke, and with it came the end of Link's time as a student. There was no ceremony, no final word of advice. Korgon simply handed him a waterskin and a piece of roasted rock for the journey. A Goron's farewell. The path to the Temple of Courage was not long, but it was a climb into the very heart of the sun-scorched mountains, a path of crumbling ledges and ancient, wind-worn stairs carved into the sheer cliff faces.
They walked in a shared, solemn silence. Korgon was not a mentor offering last-minute encouragement. He was a sentinel, his duty to escort the candidate to the place of judgment. Link was not a nervous apprentice. He was calm, his mind a quiet, still pool. The frantic, desperate energy that had fueled his accelerated training had been hammered into a core of pure, focused intent. He was a weapon, honed and ready, walking toward the hand that was destined to wield him.
They arrived at a high, hidden plateau, a place the desert winds had scoured clean for centuries. Before them stood the temple. It was not a grand, shining edifice. It was a ruin, a ghost of a structure, its sandstone walls weathered and cracked, half-swallowed by the red earth. Faded, elegant carvings of ancient heroes and mythic beasts decorated a great stone archway, their stories all but erased by the relentless passage of time. It was a place of immense age, profound loneliness, and a deep, dormant power that made the very air hum.
The entrance was sealed by two massive stone doors, with no visible handle or lock. In the center, where they met, was a single, triangular indentation.
"This is as far as a Goron's feet may tread," Korgon rumbled, his voice low with reverence. "I am a guardian of this place, not its master. This path is for you to walk alone."
Link nodded. He stepped forward, the weight of the moment settling upon him. He knew what he had to do. He reached into his pouch and took out the Sheikah token. He pressed the hexagonal piece of wood into the triangular slot. It was a perfect fit.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the eye symbol on the token began to glow with a brilliant blue light. The light flowed from the token into ancient, invisible channels in the stone, illuminating them like veins of lightning. With a deep, groaning sound that seemed to come from the mountain's very core, the great stone doors slowly, ponderously, slid apart, revealing a dark, silent chamber within.
Link gave one last look to his master. Korgon's fiery eyes held a mixture of hope and grim acceptance. The Goron gave a single, deep nod. Go.
Link stepped across the threshold, and the great doors slid shut behind him, plunging him into a sacred darkness.
He was in a single, vast, circular chamber. Far above, a single oculus in the domed ceiling let in a solitary shaft of pure, white sunlight, illuminating the dancing dust motes of a thousand forgotten years. The air was cool, still, and utterly silent. The chamber was empty, devoid of any decoration or altar. All that stood in the center, on a raised stone dais directly in the beam of light, was a simple, triangular pedestal of milky-white stone.
And plunged deep into its heart was the Master Sword.
It was exactly as the legends had described, yet so much more. The hilt was a deep, royal purple, the crossguard shaped like a pair of graceful wings. The pommel gleamed with a golden light, and in the center of the blade, just above the hilt, was the sacred crest of the Triforce. It was not radiating an overwhelming power. It was simply… present. It was a thing of perfect balance and absolute purpose, and the sacred silence of the temple seemed to emanate from the blade itself.
Link walked forward, his footsteps the only sound in the ancient chamber. He stepped onto the dais and stood before the pedestal. He reached out and wrapped his small, calloused hands around the hilt.
The moment his fingers touched the cool, smooth grip, the trial began.
The world vanished. He was no longer in the temple, but in a void, the sword in his hands the only point of light. The blade was not a physical object anymore; it was a conduit, a judge, and it was demanding to see his soul.
First, it showed him his rage. The vision of Ordon's destruction flooded his mind, a wave of fire and agony. He saw his mother's face as the shadow consumed her. The sword offered him a path, a feeling of immense, satisfying power. It whispered of vengeance, of making his enemies suffer as his family had suffered. Take me, it seemed to say, and we will repay their pain a thousandfold. Link felt the pull of that dark, righteous fury. But he remembered Korgon's words, "A warrior does not fight with rage." He thought of his purpose. He was not an avenger. He was a protector. He let the rage flow through him and then past him, holding onto the quiet, fierce love for his home that lay beneath it. The vision of hate faded. He had passed the first test.
Next, the sword showed him his doubt. He was standing in a great hall filled with towering, spectral figures—the ancient heroes of legend who had wielded this blade before him. They were giants, kings, warriors of immense power and unwavering confidence. Then, he saw his own reflection: a small, silent, eleven-year-old boy. An imposter. A child playing a hero's game. Who are you to stand among us? the spirits seemed to ask. You are weak. You are unworthy. He felt the crushing weight of his own inadequacy, the feeling that had driven him from the Iris Sanctuary. But this time was different. He had been forged in Korgon's fire. He looked at the ghostly heroes and felt no jealousy, only respect. He did not have their strength, or their wisdom, or their experience. But he had his own. He had the quiet endurance of a shepherd. He had a stubborn, unbreakable will. He had a heart that refused to let the forest die in silence. He was not them. He was himself. And that was enough. The spirits of the past faded. He had passed the second test.
Finally, the sword showed him the price. It showed him not the past, but the future. A long, lonely road stretching into an uncertain twilight. He saw fleeting images of sacrifice: the sorrowful face of Princess Zelda as he was forced to leave her again, the pained goodbye of his friend Elwin, even the eventual, quiet fading of his own adoptive parents as his long life stretched beyond theirs. It showed him the burden of being a hero: to be forever set apart, to carry the sorrows of the world, to always walk a path others could not. This is the cost, the sword whispered. Is it a price you are willing to pay? Link thought of the Abernathys' abandoned farm, of the hope returning to the Dryads' eyes, of the warmth of the lights of Ordon from a distant hill. He knew that a world where such things could exist was worth any price. He accepted the sorrow. He accepted the sacrifice. He accepted the path.
With each trial he passed in his mind, he had pulled with his body. The sword resisted, its divine power a crushing, physical weight that threatened to break his bones. But the strength Korgon had hammered into him held true. His feet were rooted to the dais, his back was a pillar of steel, and his arms, forged in the fire of the Goron's will, did not fail.
He gave one final, great pull, a cry of pure, selfless resolve echoing not from his throat, but from his very soul.
With a sound like a single, perfect, celestial chime, the Master Sword slid free from the Pedestal of Time.
A wave of pure, blue-white sacred energy erupted from the blade, filling the chamber with a light so bright it was like standing in the heart of a star. The sword felt impossibly heavy, yet perfectly balanced. It was not just a weapon. It was a promise. A burden. A part of him.
He stumbled back, falling to one knee, the weight of the sword and the weight of his destiny almost too much to bear. He was exhausted, his spirit and body scoured clean by the trial. But he had done it. He was worthy.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, holding the Blade of Evil's Bane in his hand. He walked out of the temple and back into the harsh, bright light of the desert sun.
Korgon was there, waiting, his face an unreadable mask of stone. He looked at the boy. Then, he looked at the legendary blade, its divine light shimmering in the air. The Goron did not cheer. He did not smile. He simply stood, a silent, powerful witness, and gave a single, deep, and profoundly respectful nod. The student had passed the final test. The master's duty was done.
Link looked down at the Master Sword, its sacred edge gleaming. He then turned his gaze to the west, towards the home he had to save. The time for training, for tests, for preparation, was over.
The time for fighting had come.