The bridge ended at a hall made of starlight frozen in motion.
Every beam of it quivered with equations, symbols burning like insects in amber.
At the far end stood a throne that wasn't a seat at all but a knot of orbiting matter, everything in perfect balance until he stepped into the room.
The gravity shifted. The universe seemed to hold its breath.
On the throne sat himself.
Not a reflection this time—no trick of glass—but an older, colder version, sculpted from white fire and black shadow, equal parts mercy and machine.
Its eyes held galaxies. Its hands were clasped as if in prayer.
"This is the sixth gate," God said, voice everywhere.
"The trial of will and law. Every seeker builds a ruler inside himself. Now face yours."
The double spoke, its voice metallic and gentle at once.
"I am what you wanted to become—clarity without doubt, order without need. I am the equation solved."
The scholar felt awe and revulsion braided together.
He lifted his sword-pen.
"Perfection stagnates. Even stars die of their own symmetry."
The double smiled.
"You mistake decay for growth. Entropy is not your enemy—it's proof that the computation completes."
The walls shimmered with diagrams of entropy, delta-S spirals spinning outward, the second law singing in chorus.
The scholar could taste heat, could hear the crackle of atoms surrendering to evenness.
It was beautiful and unbearable.
"You've worshipped motion," said the double.
"But stillness is the final truth. Sit, and you will be one with me. The wound will close."
For a heartbeat he almost obeyed.
The light was so clean, the silence so deep.
Then he remembered the earlier lessons—comfort as rot, truth surviving the cut.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
"Decide in motion. Clarity comes mid-swing."
He moved before thought could intervene.
The strike met the throne's center; sparks burst in slow time, scattering constellations across the hall.
The double rose, dividing into twin streams of light—one white, one gold—that spiraled around him like twin serpents.
"You've sundered symmetry," God said.
"Every law must bleed once to stay alive."
The white light—Logic—entered his left hand, cool and weightless.
The gold—Will—entered his right, hot as the birth of a star.
For a moment he held both, perfect equilibrium.
Then they fused, forming a wound that glowed through his chest like a second sun.
The throne collapsed into dust that drifted upward instead of down.
The hall folded itself into a single line of brightness leading forward.
"The final gate waits," God whispered.
"Fire without fuel, thought without rest. Step carefully; even gods falter there."
He exhaled, feeling the new light pulse inside his ribs.
It hummed like a forge cooling, like a prayer half-forgotten and half-remembered.
Ahead, the air shimmered crimson—the entrance to the seventh and last circle.
He walked toward it, each step echoing like a heartbeat learning its new rhythm.