The passage that led from the second trial was not as steep or as confined as the one before it. It felt less like a descent into darkness and more like a gentle slope leading toward an unseen horizon. The oppressive silence had lifted, replaced by a soft, rhythmic hum—like the distant pulse of the earth itself. No.1's new clarity felt like polished steel within him, cool and unyielding. The echoes of his fears lingered at the edges of his consciousness, but they no longer held power. They were reminders, not rulers.
He walked with purpose now, his steps sure. He was no longer merely enduring the trials; he was meeting them.
The passage opened not into another chamber but onto a wide, open ledge overlooking an abyss. There was no ceiling above, only a soft, pearlescent glow that seemed to emanate from some unseen source far above. Before him stretched a narrow bridge, wrought of the same dark, reflective stone as the plinth in the previous trial. It arched over a chasm so deep that looking into it was like staring into the void between stars.
But it was not the bridge that held his attention.
Lying at the threshold where stone met sky-bridge was a pair of boots.
They were simple in design, crafted of a supple, dark leather. The soles were thick, layered, and etched with faint, geometric patterns that reminded him of the sigil now permanently etched upon his chest. They looked worn, as though they had already walked a thousand miles, yet they radiated a sense of readiness, of unwavering stability.
He knew, without being told, that these were not a reward. They were the trial itself.
He had faced the desired lie and rejected it. He had heard the echoing fear and mastered it. Now, He had to learn to walk in the realization that he had claimed. For a realization that is not walked is merely a thought.
No.1 knelt. The boots felt warm to the touch, as though waiting for him. He removed his soft-soled boots—thin, worn things meant for silence, not for journeys—and pulled the new ones on. They fit perfectly, embracing his feet with a firm, steady certainty. As he laced them, he felt not a change in himself, but a change in the world around him. The hum in the air solidified into a vibration he could feel through the soles. The abyss before him seemed less a void and more a space—a place to be crossed.
He stepped onto the bridge.
It was then that everything changed.
The pearlescent glow above flickered and died, plunging the chasm into absolute darkness. The bridge beneath his feet vanished—not collapsed, but ceased to be. He stood on nothing, he was suspended over nothing. And from the darkness rose a sound—the grinding of stone, the clash of armies, the screams of the dying, the bitter arguments of princes, and the low, desperate weeping of those without hope. It was the sound of a broken world, a world without peace.
This was no illusion. It was the true state of the world beyond the confines of the Holy Order, the world he had sworn to serve, even without a name.
A voice, sharp and scornful, cut through the din. "What peace? There is no peace. Only struggle. Only chaos. Your 'gospel' is a fantasy for children. You walk a path that does not exist."
The darkness coalesced into shapes—figures of shadows and malice that clawed at his resolve.
"You bring nothing," another voice hissed. "You are a messenger with no message. A soldier with no army. You are alone on a bridge over nothing."
He felt the temptation to freeze. To look down into the nothingness and accept that there was, in fact, no path. That his duty was a fiction. That the peace he was to uphold was a fragile lie, shattered by the first sign of true conflict.
But the shoes on his feet grew warm. The etched patterns on the soles began to glow with a soft, silver light.
And with the light came a memory. Not his own. An older memory, imprinted on the very leather he wore.
He saw a figure, clad in simplicity, walking into a city torn by strife. He saw the figure kneel and wash the feet of traitors and friends alike. He saw the figure stand silent before accusers, offering no defense, yet radiating an unshakable calm. He saw the figure walk a road of sorrows, each step firm, deliberate, and drenched in a peace that did not come from the absence of pain, but from the presence of purpose.
The walk of peace was not a declaration that all was well.