Chapter 13 – The Trial by Shadows
The tunnels wound like veins beneath Shinya, dripping with the sound of unseen water. Moro followed Herbet through the twisting dark, Kaya at his side, each torch they passed casting fleeting shadows across stone walls carved with marks—some ancient, some fresh scratches of rebellion.
They reached a cavern where fire pits burned low. Dozens of figures moved within the gloom—men and women with worn faces, scarred bodies, and eyes sharp with hunger. Some carried blades, others makeshift weapons. Rebels. Survivors. Outcasts.
All of them turned when Moro entered. Whispers rose like a tide: the foreigner, the wolf's bane, the blue glow. Their stares were not welcoming—they were measuring.
Herbet raised a hand. "This is Moro. He and his companion Kaya stand at a crossroads. Tonight, they will prove if they are with us—or against us."
The cavern quieted. A figure stepped forward, tossing a sack at Moro's feet. From within spilled scraps of armor, chains, and a single dagger.
"Your trial," Herbet said.
Moro bent, picking up the dagger. "What am I cutting?"
Herbet's lips curved faintly. "Chains. And blood. The Sanctuary keeps a supply depot in the lower quarter. Food, medicine—stolen from the poor, hoarded for their chosen. You'll strike it. Not to destroy, but to take. And to send a message."
Kaya narrowed her eyes. "You're sending us to rob the Highs?"
"Rob?" Herbet chuckled. "No. We're reclaiming what was stolen. If you can't bleed them and return alive, you're no use to this war."
Moro glanced at Kaya, then back at the rebels. None of them looked like dreamers. They looked like people with nothing left to lose. And that kind of fire burned hot.
He gripped the dagger. "Then let's cut."
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The night in Shinya smelled of smoke and prayer. Festival banners still fluttered overhead, disguising the rot of the streets. Preachers shouted blessings while beggars crawled at their feet. Gold and suffering mingled in every alleyway.
Moro and Kaya moved cloaked through the crowds, their steps silent until the depot loomed before them—an iron-walled fortress carved into a square of stone, guarded by soldiers in black and silver.
"Five at the gate," Kaya whispered, crouched on a rooftop. "At least twice that inside."
Moro tested the dagger's weight. "Then we cut fast."
Kaya leapt first. Her movements were precise, almost elegant, blades flashing like arcs of moonlight. Two guards fell before they realized she had landed. Moro dropped behind her, the dagger stabbing into a soldier's armor gap before his shout could rise.
The others turned. Too late.
The fight was silent but merciless. Kaya's strikes were clean; Moro's were brutal, fueled by instinct and raw strength. When one soldier raised an alarm, Moro's hand crushed his throat before the cry carried.
Inside, torches burned along stacked crates. Food. Medicine. Even weapons. The air smelled of dust and iron. But as Moro stepped deeper, a strange quiet settled.
Kaya froze. "It's too still."
The realization came too late. Arrows whistled from the shadows. Kaya spun, blade flashing, deflecting shafts that would have pierced her. Moro ducked low, rolling as steel clanged against stone.
Dozens of soldiers poured from hidden doors. It was a trap.
Steel clashed. Blood spilled. Moro charged forward, blue sparks flickering faintly across his skin—the Matrix stirring, not yet unleashed. He moved like a storm, smashing shields, breaking armor. Kaya danced beside him, her twin blades a whirl of steel, precise and devastating.
A spear caught Moro's shoulder, tearing cloth and skin. He roared, smashing the wielder against the wall with bone-cracking force. Kaya's blade slit the man's throat before he could scream.
They fought as one. A strange rhythm bound them—her precision and his raw force covering each other's flaws. Bodies fell, and the depot's stone floor darkened with blood.
When the last soldier dropped, silence returned. Moro stood breathing heavy, blue light fading slowly from his veins.
Kaya lowered her blades. "If this was a test, we passed."
But her eyes narrowed as footsteps echoed from the shadows.
Herbet emerged, flanked by rebels. His gaze swept the carnage, then lingered on Moro.
"You fight like fire," he said quietly. "But fire can consume as easily as it frees." He gestured to the crates. "Load them. Tonight, the people eat."
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Hours later, back in the tunnels, the cavern erupted with life. Bread passed from hand to hand. Medicine touched wounds long left to fester. Children laughed through mouths stuffed with food, their voices piercing the gloom with hope.
For the first time, Moro saw rebels smile.
Herbet raised his hand, addressing them all. His voice carried like a spark through dry kindling.
"The Sanctuary starves us because it fears us. Tonight, we've proven they should. With blades, with courage, with unity—we will burn their chains to ash!"
The cavern roared with cheers. But Moro stood apart, the firelight flickering in his eyes. He wasn't fighting for their cause. Not yet. He was fighting to carve a path to his father. And still, some quiet voice in him wondered if the two roads would soon become one.
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Far above, in the highest spire of Shinya's castle, silence reigned.
King Hanks sat alone in his chamber, vast and cold. His throne was carved from black stone, the walls lined with relics of old wars. Before him floated a massive crystal, glowing faintly, its surface rippling like water.
Within its depths flickered scenes of the night—Moro and Kaya storming the depot, Herbet's speech, rebels lifting bread with tears in their eyes. The King saw it all.
His hand rested on the arm of his throne, fingers tense, though his voice when it came was heavy with sorrow, not malice.
"So… the child of the Matrix moves at last."
The words echoed in the empty hall.
Hanks' jaw tightened beneath his crown. He was called the Saint of Wisdom, wielder of the Elemental Colossum, one of the few beings alive nearly on par with Scaro himself. Yet here he sat, shackled not by chains but by decree.
The Celtic High Council had bound his kingdom in doctrine and shadow. To defy them was to drown his people in blood. To obey was to watch them suffer.
His eyes closed briefly. He had sworn to protect Shinya, but protection now felt like betrayal.
Slowly, he opened them again. The crystal shimmered, showing Moro's face. Young. Defiant. Dangerous.
"May you be the spark we cannot light," Hanks whispered.
And with a weary hand, he covered the crystal, letting its glow die into darkness.
The King remained alone, a prisoner of power, watching rebellions rise in the city he could not save.
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