Chapter 4: The General of Despair and the Void of the Soul
The air atop the Forbidden Peaks had turned from freezing to ethereal. On the twelfth day of the penance, the snow surrounding the Pool of Purity did not melt; it levitated. The golden dome created by the Master pulsed with every breath Andrew took. He was now entering the Trial of the Spirit, the most dangerous phase of the transfiguration. This was no longer about physical pain or mental illusions; it was about the fundamental nature of his existence.
"You are shedding the weight of your ancestors, Seeker," the Master whispered, his voice echoing through the spiritual plane. "But the darkness does not like to lose its prey."
Deep within his trance, Andrew found himself in a vast, infinite gray void. There was no mountain, no water, no Master. There was only a mirror standing in the center of the nothingness. When Andrew looked into it, he didn't see a holy warrior. He saw a version of himself dressed in black, with eyes like glowing coals—a reflection of what he would become if he used the Light for revenge instead of salvation.
"You hate him, don't you?" the reflection whispered. "You hate Arthur for leaving you. You want to hurt him as much as he hurt Jammu."
Andrew felt the cold tendril of hatred coil around his heart. It was the "Inner Shadow," the seed of darkness that exists in every human soul. To gain the Angelic Power, he had to conquer himself before he could ever hope to conquer his brother.
The General of Despair
Back in the newly conquered city of Oakhaven, Arthur stood atop the highest tower, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon. The "Shadow Hawk" he had sent earlier had returned with a charred wing, a sign that the Master's sanctuary was protected by ancient, holy wards.
Arthur's lips curled into a snarl. "If the sky hides him, I will send the earth to find him."
He turned to a pool of liquefied shadow at his feet. "Rise, Malakor. Your King commands you."
From the black sludge, a monstrous figure emerged. Malakor, the General of Despair, was a creature of nightmare. He was ten feet tall, encased in armor made of the bones of fallen kings. He carried a flail where each iron ball was a trapped, screaming soul. Malakor was not just a soldier; he was a walking plague of hopelessness. Wherever he walked, the will to live simply vanished from those nearby.
"Find the mountain," Arthur commanded, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Destroy the Master. Bring me my brother's heart. I want to see if it still beats with that pathetic hope."
Malakor let out a sound like a thousand dying breaths and began his march. He didn't walk; he glided over the land, leaving a trail of dead grass and withered trees in his wake. An army of three thousand "Night-Stalkers"—monsters that moved through shadows—followed him. The siege of the Forbidden Peaks had begun.
The Breaking of the First Ward
The march of Malakor was swift. By the twentieth day of Andrew's penance, the base of the Forbidden Peaks was swarming with darkness. The mountain itself seemed to groan under the weight of the General's presence.
The Master of the Empyrean felt the first ward shatter. He stood at the edge of the plateau, his white robes billowing in a wind that now smelled of sulfur and decay. He looked at Andrew, who was still submerged in the pool, his skin now glowing with a blinding, incandescent white light. Andrew was at his most vulnerable state; if he were disturbed now, his soul would shatter like glass.
"Sleep now, little lamb," the Master muttered, raising his ancient wooden staff. "The Shepherd still has teeth."
As Malakor's Night-Stalkers began to scale the vertical cliffs with their clawed hands, the Master struck his staff against the stone.
"BY THE FIRST LIGHT, I COMMAND THEE: BEGONE!"
A wave of pure, concentrated solar energy erupted from the plateau. The Night-Stalkers caught in the blast didn't just die; they were erased from existence, turned into puffs of white steam. But Malakor was different. He raised his bone-armor shield, absorbing the holy fire. He began to climb, each strike of his heavy mace cracking the ancient stone of the mountain.
The Descent into the Inner Sun
Inside the void, Andrew was drowning. The reflection in the mirror had stepped out and was choking him. The weight of his own anger, his grief for his mother, and his jealousy of Arthur's strength were pulling him down into a black ocean.
"Give up," the Dark-Andrew hissed. "Arthur was right. The world belongs to the strong. Why suffer for a light that hides in caves?"
Andrew's lungs felt like they were filling with ink. But then, he remembered a single moment from their childhood. He remembered Arthur giving him his only pair of shoes during a frost, walking barefoot in the snow so Andrew's feet wouldn't freeze.
That wasn't the act of a King or a Blacksmith. It was the act of a brother.
"I don't seek the light to be strong," Andrew's soul whispered through the darkness. "I seek it to be a bridge."
Suddenly, the black ocean vanished. The mirror shattered. From the center of Andrew's chest, a sun erupted. It was the Heart of the Seraph. The fifty days were not over, but the most difficult hurdle—the conquest of the self—was complete.
Andrew opened his eyes within the trance. He saw the golden threads of the universe again, but this time, he could touch them. He reached out and grabbed a thread of "Pure Justice."
Outside, in the real world, the Master was being pushed back. Malakor had reached the plateau. The General of Despair raised his massive flail to crush the old man.
"Your Light is an antique, old man!" Malakor roared. "The Age of Shadow is eternal!"
Just as the flail began its descent, a hand—glowing with the intensity of a thousand stars—reached out from the Pool of Purity and caught the iron weapon.
The impact caused a shockwave that cleared the clouds for fifty miles. Andrew stood up, the water falling from his body like liquid diamonds. He was no longer the scrawny farmer. He was taller, his hair was like spun silver, and a faint, golden halo hummed behind his head.
"The dawn," Andrew said, his voice sounding like a choir of trumpets, "has just begun."
With a simple squeeze of his hand, Malakor's soul-trapped flail turned into white ash. The General of Despair, for the first time in his existence, felt a new emotion: Terror.