The final word, "forged," hung in the air, not as a sound but as a tangible force, a command woven into the very fabric of the atmosphere. It was a dismissal and a summons all at once.
Without a word, without a single shared glance of encouragement or fear, the first row of Nameless stepped forward. The shimmering surface of the portal did not ripple like water as they passed through; it absorbed them, its gold light swallowing their forms whole and silent. They were simply… gone.
The boy with the silver white hair watched, his twilight eyes missing no detail. He saw the subtle shift in the sacred geometries as each Nameless acolyte crossed the threshold—a brief, almost imperceptible flare of golden light tracing the complex patterns before they settled back into their steady, humming glow. A confirmation signature, he deduced. The portal is not just a door; it's a key, attuned to our unique spiritual resonance. It verifies we are of the Holy Order before allowing passage.
He felt the presence of his companions beside him. No.2's breathing was measured and deep, a controlled rhythm honed for battle focus. To his other side, No.3's fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, as if she were already tracing the unknown she would soon encounter. No.5 was a statue of serene readiness, his energy so still it was like the calm at the eye of a storm.
The line advanced. Another row disappeared into the golden portal. Then another.
Soon, it was their turn. They stood at the precipice of the unknown, the hum of the portal a physical vibration in their bones. The golden knights flanking the entrance remained motionless, their helmed gazes fixed on some distant, unwavering point.
He took a final, centering breath. This was it. Sixteen years of relentless study, of physical and mental conditioning, all distilled into this single step. He wasn't afraid. Apprehension was a luxury for those who were unprepared. He felt only a profound and focused anticipation.
He stepped forward.
The world did not dissolve into darkness or light. For a heartbeat, there was a sensation of immense pressure, as if he were being plunged into the depths of a silent ocean. Then, it was gone.
He stood alone.
The portal with its knights and companions had vanished. He was in a vast, circular chamber. The air was cool and carried the faint, clean scent of ozone after a storm. In the center of the chamber, hovering a foot above the floor, was a single, perfect piece of armor—a gauntlet, crafted from a material that was neither metal nor stone. It glowed with a soft, internal silver light, and upon its surface, the same sacred geometries from the portal were etched, now pulsing with a slow, rhythmic energy.
Understanding flooded his mind – The Revelation. Trial of the Will. To bear the Armor, I must first understand its weight. I must hold it. Not with my hand but with myself. All those who fail the trial of will cannot be allowed to carry out the Seven trials of Awakening.
He smiled, so the real seven trials had not yet begun. This was merely a qualification test for the seven trials. It was a test of spiritual integrity.
He reached out, not with his arm, but with his spirit, extending his awareness towards the glowing gauntlet.
The moment his will touched it, the world exploded into pressure.
It was the weight of a mountain. It threatened to erase him, to prove that he was, as he was called, Nameless—an empty vessel with nothing inside strong enough to hold a divine purpose.
But he did not fight the pressure. He did not tense against it. He remembered his meditations, the placid lake of his mind. He let the immense weight flow through him, around the unshakable core of his being. He accepted the burden without being crushed by it. He was the lake, and the pressure was a stone sunk deep within him, but the water simply settled around it, accepting it, becoming one with it.
The sacred geometries on the gauntlet flared brightly, then its glow softened, becoming steady and warm. The crushing pressure receded, transforming into a gentle, humming connection, a thread of silver light now linking him to the artifact.
The gauntlet lifted from its place and floated toward him. It did not clamp onto his hand; it unfolded, like a flower made of light and purpose, and sheathed his hand and forearm in its cool, perfect embrace. A surge of pure, clean energy flowed up his arm, not a wild power, but a focused, intelligent force. It felt less like gaining something new and more like something within him, something that had always been dormant, had finally been allowed to wake up.
A voice spoke. It was the voice of the Keep, the voice of the trials. They had been made aware of its existence. That it was a guardian spirit of the Trials of Awakening. It spoke a single word that was his bestowal.
"Qualified."
No.1 bowed his head in respect. He then looked at the gauntlet, now a part of him, and knew that the first real trial awaited.