To journey into the self is the most perilous quest a soul can undertake. There are no maps for the landscapes of memory, no shields against the wounds of the heart. As Link followed the Great Deku Tree's guidance, he turned his consciousness inward, not as a retreat from the world, but as a deliberate pilgrimage into the vast, uncharted wilderness of his own being. He let go of the physical world—the gentle lapping of the spring's water, the soft hum of the light-sprites, the solid feel of the earth beneath him—and fell into the silent, fathomless space within.
He drifted through a river of memories, its currents swirling with the laughter of his childhood and the screams of his last battle. He walked through a forest of thoughts, its trees tangled with questions of duty, destiny, and a grief so profound it had no name. He was a ghost in his own history, searching not for a place, but for a truth. He was guided by a single, pure resonance, a feeling of absolute calm at the center of his inner storm, a quiet hum of a presence he had felt once before in a dream.
He found it. The chaotic, sorrowful landscapes of his mind gave way, and he found himself standing once more on the serene, impossible plain that existed under the light of two suns. The air here was perfectly still, and the grass was a vibrant, living green. This was the core of him, the untainted garden of his soul.
And the Sage was there, standing by a stream whose waters flowed without a sound. He did not turn as Link approached. He simply watched the current as if he had been expecting him all along.
"You have come," the Sage said, his voice a calm melody that was the antithesis of the chaos in Link's heart. "The path inward is often harder to walk than any worldly road. Come. Walk with me."
They walked along the silent stream, the light of the golden and silver suns casting two distinct, long shadows beside them.
"You believe you are broken," the Sage stated, not as a question, but as a simple observation of fact. "You see yourself as a fractured thing. A shepherd boy who failed to protect his flock. A hero whose sword has abandoned him. A child of two worlds, belonging to neither."
He paused and bent down, picking up a smooth, grey stone from the streambed. He held it in his palm. "Is this stone the mountain it was born from? Is it the river that gave it its shape? It carries the memory of both, but it is neither. It is simply, and perfectly, a stone." He looked at Link, his dark, all-knowing eyes seeming to see every fractured piece of the boy's soul. "You are not your father's legacy. You are not your mother's secret. You are not the Goron's training or the forest's sorrow. These things have shaped you, but they are not the sum of you. You are the one who holds these memories. You are the stillness that contains the storm."
Link listened, his own inner storm raging against the Sage's impossible calm. A silent, angry question emanated from him: Then why? Why does the blade reject me if I am not broken?
The Sage, hearing the unspoken question, led him to a single, perfect tree that stood alone in the center of the plain. Its leaves were silver, its bark like polished obsidian. "You believe the Master Sword is a tool of your will," he said, gently touching the tree's smooth bark. "An instrument that should obey its master. But the sword is not a tool. It is a partner. It does not answer to your strength, nor your skill, nor even your courage. It answers only to your clarity."
He turned to face Link fully. "The blade sleeps because you have asked it to carry a burden it was not forged for. The Blade of Evil's Bane cannot be made a vessel for a mortal's personal hatred. It is a sword of divine, impersonal justice, not a cudgel for individual vengeance. To wield it is to act as the hand of the Goddess, to be a conduit for a power that is clean, absolute, and without malice. Your hatred for the demon, as justified as it may feel, is a poison. The sword rejects it not to punish you, but to protect you from the very darkness you carry within your own heart."
The words struck Link with the force of a physical blow. He saw it then. The black, coiling rage that had been his only fuel, the thing that felt so righteous, was the very thing holding him prisoner. But the thought of letting it go felt like a betrayal. It felt like forgiveness. It felt impossible.
"You stand at the edge of a great precipice, silent hero," the Sage said, his voice soft but his words carrying the weight of a final judgment. "And you must make a choice."
The serene landscape around them seemed to shimmer, and for a moment, Link saw two distinct paths stretching out before him. One was a straight, dark road, paved with charcoal and embers, leading to a single, burning point of light. "The path of vengeance," the Sage narrated. "It is a clear and simple path. You can leave this place, nurture the hatred in your soul, and forge yourself into a weapon of terrible, focused power. You may even succeed in destroying the demon who wronged you. But in doing so, you will become a mirror of his own singular, burning darkness. The fire you use to destroy him will first consume you."
Then, he gestured to the other path. It was a faint, winding trail that led not to a single point, but up a high, misty, and unforgiving mountain. "And this is the path of the protector. It is a harder path. A longer one. It asks you to accept the unbearable weight of your grief, not as a weapon, but as a testament to your love. It asks you to let the storm of your rage pass through you, leaving the sky clear, however scarred the land may be. It asks you to hold onto your sorrow, but to let go of your hatred."
The Sage looked at him, his gaze holding the wisdom of twin suns. "You cannot destroy the memory of what was done to you, Link. But you can choose what you build from its ashes. Will you build a monument to your pain, or a foundation for your purpose?"
This was the trial. Not of strength, or courage, but of will. Link stood in the silent garden of his mind, at the fork in the road of his own soul. He felt the pull of his hatred, a seductive, righteous fire that promised to burn away his pain with its intensity. He saw Asmodeus's face, and he wanted him to suffer.
But then, he thought of something else. He thought of the quiet pride in his father's eyes. He thought of the gentle warmth of his mother's hug. He thought of Korgon's final, booming laugh. He thought of Ilia's hand in his own. He thought of Zelda's determined, hopeful eyes.
Hatred would not honor their memory. It would only desecrate it. They had not died so that he could become a monster. They had died so that he could be a hero.
The choice was made.
He did not speak. He did not need to. He simply unclenched the fists he had been holding so tightly they had drawn blood in the real world. He let out a long, slow, shuddering breath, a breath he had been holding since he had first seen his village burn. It was a quiet, profound, and absolute act of surrender. Not to his enemy, but to himself. He was letting go.
The Sage smiled, a look of ancient, profound pride in his dark eyes. "Good."
The beautiful, impossible landscape began to fade, the light of the twin suns dissolving into a gentle, warm whiteness.
"The blade will know your choice," the Sage's voice whispered, a final, fading promise. "Now, wake up. They are waiting for you."